33. Callahan
Callahan
Cash: I’m at the gala already. There’s a chocolate fountain. I’m scared.
Me: Why are you scared?
Cash: Because I WILL touch it and they WILL kick me out.
* * *
This is damage control.
At least that’s what they called it in the group text from the front office.
We have three days before the Cup series begins, and the brass decided that a charity gala was the best way to distract the hungry media.
The city lights glitter through the towering windows of the ballroom.
They fracture across polished marble and gold trim, splintered reflections caught in crystal chandeliers and mirrored columns.
The room hums with money and influence: low laughter, practiced charm, and the soft swell of a live orchestra threading elegance through the air.
I’ve survived worse rooms than this. I’ve survived locker rooms after heartbreaking losses and press scrums after season-ending suspensions. But this one makes my chest tighten anyway.
Because she’s here.
And after everything that happened on the ice—after the headlines and the slow-motion replays and the way the world tried to turn her concern into a scandal—pretending this is just another professional obligation feels like a lie I’m not equipped to sell.
I see the way the older men—the donors, the former executives, and the silent partners—watch her. They look for a crack in her composure or a sign that she’s overwhelmed by the opulence.
They don’t realize she was born in rooms like this.
She isn’t here to be approved of by them. She’s here to endure, to dominate quietly, and to leave without giving them a single piece of herself they didn’t earn.
And God help anyone who mistakes her composure for weakness.
I step into the grand hall, adjusting my cuff links out of habit.
Her back is to me at first.
The deep green satin of her gown skims her body, clinging just enough to suggest confidence rather than invitation. My chest tightens before I can stop it, my breath catching against my ribs like my body has already recognized the threat she poses to my pulse.
She laughs softly at something one of the board members says. The sound lands low in my chest, intimate and dangerous.
Her hair is pinned up loosely, not formal enough to be armor, but not casual enough to be accidental.
A few dark strands curl against the nape of her neck.
I shouldn’t notice that.
I notice everything.
Then she turns.
Her eyes find mine across the room. There is no surprise in her expression—just that faint, knowing smirk, like she clocked my presence the moment I entered the building and decided to let me think I had the upper hand.
The ballroom seems to contract around her. The lights dim everywhere else, the orchestra becomes background noise, and the people around us blur into a smear of expensive fabric.
I brace myself to see the usual on her: the control, the precision, the distance she’s maintained since that video room.
Except she doesn’t look away.
That alone makes the world tilt. My hands itch, and my body reacts before my mind can issue a command to stay put.
She tilts her head slightly as I approach, assessing me with an amused, dangerously composed look.
“Callahan,” she says softly. Her voice threads through the polite chatter of the donors and lands squarely in my chest.
“Iveline.” I keep my tone neutral, though it feels like a monumental effort. “You look… nice.”
It’s a pathetic understatement, and we both know it. Her smirk deepens, her eyes dancing with a light I haven’t seen before.
“Flattery,” she says lightly. “Are you planning to keep that up all night, Captain?”
“I—” I stop myself, then I don’t. “Yes. Probably.”
The words slip out before my brain can intercept them. She laughs, a warm and genuine sound, and something in my chest pulls tight in response.
The orchestra shifts behind us. A slow waltz begins to build, drawing couples toward the floor with the inevitability of gravity. I see her glance at the dancers, her expression unreadable for a split second, then her gaze returns to mine.
The nod she gives is subtle. It is almost nothing, a mere invitation written in the tilt of her chin.
I don’t hesitate.
My hand hovers at her back for half a second—just long enough to acknowledge the professional line I’m about to cross—then it settles at the small of her waist. She leans into the touch without comment or hesitation.
I feel the warmth beneath my palm, the faint scent of citrus and something darker in her perfume, and the exhale against my chest as she steps into my space.
In the locker room, there are rules and protocols. There are a dozen layers of padding and heavy jerseys between us.
Here, there is only a thin slip of satin and even that feels like too much.
I can feel the movement of her muscles as she pivots, and the slight arch of her back as she follows my lead.
We are moving in a circle, but it feels like we’re descending into something deeper.
Every rotation takes us further away from the “captain” and the “coach” and closer to the two people who nearly lost their minds in that darkened video room weeks ago.
We move together easily. Too easily. The rhythm is slow and deliberate. My hand presses lightly at her back, guiding her and she follows instinctively, matching my steps with a quiet, lethal precision.
She’s good at this. Not just dancing; reading me, adjusting to the slight stiffness in my injured shoulder, and trusting me when it counts.
If anyone is watching closely—and in this city, someone always is—this already looks like too much. It’s too familiar. It’s too intimate.
I can almost hear the analysis forming in the minds of the gossip columnists. They’ll have commentators pretending this is about “team chemistry” instead of raw proximity.
One wrong move, one look that lingers a second too long, and everything she fought for in that locker room becomes negotiable again.
The thought sobers me for a moment. It should make me pull away. It should make me find a reason to go get a drink.
It doesn’t.
“Careful,” she murmurs, amusement threading her voice as she looks up at me. “I don’t usually let people lead me, Callahan.”
“I’m not just anyone,” I reply, my voice dropping an octave as I lean in closer than I should.
She tilts her head, her eyes dark and intent. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” My throat tightens. “And you’re… impossible.”
Her smile is slow and dangerous.
“Flattery again,” she whispers. Her lips brush close enough to my ear to make my grip on her waist tighten involuntarily.
Every step, every turn, and every shared breath magnifies the tension coiled between us.
The room ceases to exist.
There is no more gold trim or crystal chandeliers. There is only the curve of her waist beneath my hand, the graceful tilt of her neck, and the heat pooling in the narrow space between our bodies.
I slide my hand from the small of her back until my palm rests flat against the heat of her skin just above her hip. My thumb hooks into the dip of her waist, a possessive, grounding weight that pulls her inches closer, until the friction of her thighs against mine is the only thing I can feel.
My gaze drops to her mouth, lingering there with a heavy, unvarnished hunger that has nothing to do with the music and everything to do with how easy it would be to ruin us both right here on the marble floor.
Her gaze lifts fully to mine, and for one suspended heartbeat, everything condenses to that single look—want, restraint, challenge, and something much deeper and more dangerous beneath it all.
“Iveline—”
“I’m done avoiding this.”
The confession hits me like a punch of adrenaline straight to my chest.
My hand convulses at her waist, dragging her that final, impossible fraction of an inch closer until there isn’t room for a ghost to stand between us.
Her lips part, a sharp, broken hitch in her breath betraying her as she stays pinned to me, not retreating, not advancing—just waiting for the spark to hit the gasoline.
Then reality intrudes.
The orchestra shifts tempo, moving into a more upbeat number. Someone stumbles near the edge of the dance floor, causing a small ripple of laughter. A voice from the sidelines calls her name—one of the primary donors wanting a word.
The spell fractures just enough for me to step back, my jaw clenched, forcing distance between us before I do something irreversible in front of a thousand witnesses.
She laughs softly, her eyes bright with a mischief that makes my heart race. “You’re blushing, Callahan.”
“I’m not,” I mutter, feeling a staggering sense of déjà vu from the very first time we danced months ago.
“Sure,” she says, clearly unconvinced as she adjusts the silk of her dress.
She steps away gracefully, her fingertips brushing mine as she turns.
***
I find myself leaning against the far end of the mahogany bar, the weight of the night pressing into my shoulders. The ice in my glass has long since melted into a lukewarm amber puddle, but I don’t care.
I’m watching her.
She is standing at the other end of the marble island, her emerald gown catching the low light like a warning sign.
She’s alone for the first time all night, her fingers tracing the rim of a martini glass with a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
I set my drink down and bridge the distance, sliding into the space beside her.
“You look like you’re plotting a massacre.”
She doesn’t look at me, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “I’m calculating how long I have to pretend I’m enjoying myself before I set this place on fire. So far, arson is winning.”
“Then drop the match,” I say, leaning in until my mouth is inches from the dark strands of hair at her temple. “The donors have had their fill of the Ice Queen tonight. You’ve done your time.”
She finally lifts her gaze. “And what about you, Callahan? Have you had your fill?”
“Not even close,” I rasp.
I let my hand find the edge of the bar, my knuckles grazing the emerald silk of her gown. I don’t stop there. I hook my thumb deep into the dip of her waist, my palm coming to rest flat against her hip.
“I’ve spent three hours watching you pretend I’m just a name on your roster,” I say, my voice dropping to a low, predatory crawl.
I sink into her space, my thigh lacing between hers under the cover of the marble overhang—forcing her to lean back into me.
“I’ve seen you handle every man in this room like they’re a nuisance. But mostly, I’ve seen the way you haven’t looked at me once—not because you didn’t want to, but because you knew if you did, we’d be exactly where we are right now.”
Her breath hitches, a sharp, broken sound that she tries to swallow, but I feel it vibrate against my own chest.
She leans into the pressure of my hand, her fingers curling around the stem of her glass so hard the crystal groans.
“The finals start in three days,” she whispers. “If we leave this room together, there is no professional distance left to hide behind.”
“Good,” I grate out, my fingers splaying wide against her side, my grip turning firm and demanding.
I trace the curve of her lower lip with my gaze, my hunger so unvarnished it’s a scandal in its own right.
“Because I’m done hiding. Tell me you want to go, Iveline.
Tell me right now, or I’m going to ruin both of our reputations in front of everyone. ”
She sets her glass down with a definitive, ringing clink and looks at me with a lethal, dark challenge. “If you can get us to the curb before my father notices I’m gone, I’m yours.”
“Done.”
I keep my hand low on her back as I guide her toward the side exit.
The city of Boston watches us from a distance as we step into the cool night air—a million witnesses who have no idea that the fate of their team is currently hanging by a thread of green satin.
We’re halfway to the curb when a shadow detaches itself from the stone pillars near the valet.
It’s Mark Delaney. His tuxedo jacket is unbuttoned, his tie askew, and the smell of expensive scotch precedes him by five feet.
“Leaving early, Captain?” Delaney sneers, his eyes darting between my hand on her waist and the defiant set of her shoulders.
“Found a better way to secure your ice time, have you? I told the board—this whole thing is a circus. They’ll see.
Once we drop next game, they’ll realize a pretty face doesn’t win Cups. ”
I feel the groan building in my chest, my fingers tightening on her side as I prepare to step in front of her, but Iveline doesn’t flinch. She stops exactly three feet in front of him.
She doesn’t even look angry; she looks bored.
“Mark,” she says. “I assumed you’d be halfway to the parking garage by now. Didn’t the GM’s assistant find you at the bar?”
Delaney’s smug expression falters. “What are you talking about?”
“The email went out ten minutes ago. Mass BCC to the entire organization.” She reaches into the small clutch at her side, pulls out her phone, and tilts the screen just enough for him to see the header.
Personnel Update: Restructuring of Coaching Staff.
“I spent four hours with the front office yesterday reviewing the power play metrics and the locker room feedback. Turns out, the ‘De-Lamey’ effect is a luxury the budget no longer supports.”
My breath hitches. I look from her to the phone, then back to her.
“You… you can’t,” Delaney stammers, his face turning a shade of purple that matches his silk pocket square. “I’ve been with this franchise since before you could skate.”
“And that’s exactly why you’re being relieved of your duties, effective immediately,” she says, her tone clipped and professional. “You’re a relic, Mark. And tonight, you’re just a trespasser. I’d walk away before I have to ask the valet to call the police for harassment.”
Delaney looks at me, searching for some kind of “guy to guy” solidarity, but I just stare back at him, stunned and more than a little impressed.
With a strangled sound of pure, helpless fury, he turns and stumbles toward the shadows of the street, his career ending not with a whistle, but with the pathetic scuff of his dress shoes on the concrete.
I look down at Iveline. She’s already putting her phone away, her expression shifting back to that dangerous, amused smirk.
“You fired him?” I manage to rasp. “Just now? In a gown?”
“William asked for my recommendation on how to streamline the bench for the finals,” she says. “I just told him the truth. He’s dead weight, Callahan.”
She looks up at me, her eyes dark and triumphant, and the sheer power of her makes my head spin.
“Now,” she whispers. “Get me in that car before I decide you’re a distraction too.”