35. Cal
Cal
Sunlight hits my eyes and, for the first time in weeks, I don’t wake up with my jaw clenched.
Last night happened.
Iveline happened.
A grin edges onto my face before I can stop it, stretching muscles that are sore from more than just hockey. I roll over, reaching for the space beside me, but the sheets are cool. She left early, likely to beat the sun to the rink.
Then the first ping comes.
It is followed immediately by another. And another.
My phone vibrates against the nightstand with a frantic, rhythmic persistence that kills the afterglow instantly. I reach for it, squinting against the brightness of the screen.
Cash.
When isn’t it him?
8:14 AM
Cash: CALLIE.
Cash: Open Twitter. NOW.
Cash: Tell me you’re awake. Tell me you have a lawyer.
I groan, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and sitting up.
The room still smells faintly like her—that clean, sharp, restrained scent that unraveled so beautifully in my hands last night. I grab the phone, my thumb already feeling heavy with a sense of impending dread.
The flood hits me the moment I unlock the screen. Screenshots from sports blogs, mentions from accounts I’ve blocked, and news alerts stacked so tightly they blur into one another.
And then I see it.
It’s one photo. One frozen moment ripped from the context of a private conversation and fed to the hungry masses. It shows us leaving the gala, caught in the yellow glow of a streetlamp.
Her head is tipped toward mine, caught mid-laugh, her hand resting near my chest. My arm is angled near her waist; I’m not touching her, but the proximity is enough for the world to do the math.
The implication does the work that a hundred words couldn’t.
My stomach drops.
Not because I’m ashamed of what happened. I’d do it all again ten times over. It’s because I know exactly what they’ll do to her.
In this world, I’m the hero who fell for the coach.
She’s the woman who compromised the mission.
Scrolling through the feed feels like dragging my knuckles across broken glass. I land on the first major article, and my jaw locks so hard it hurts.
“New coach or a distraction? St. James’ Influence on the Boston Reign—And Callahan’s Private Life.”
The comments are even worse. Thousands of them from people who have never laced up a pair of skates, all of them loud, confident, and cruel in the way only strangers with anonymity can be when they think they’ve found a crack in someone’s armor.
The phone buzzes again.
I drop it on the bed, my breath coming in shallow bursts as the adrenaline starts to climb. The panic flares sharp and immediate.
I know Iveline.
I know her patterns of behavior when things get loud. She survives by making herself small, by retreating into the work until the storm passes.
But what if last night was too much? What if the exposure of that photo makes her decide that I’m a liability she can no longer afford?
The thought of her slipping away, even emotionally, makes my stomach turn. I’m terrified of losing the connection we just built before I even get a chance to hold onto it in the light of day.
I move through the morning on autopilot, shoving the fear down into the pit of my stomach where I keep my pre-game nerves. As I grab my keys and head for the door, a message from Brick flashes on my dash.
Brick: Team chat. Now.
I skim the chat at a long stoplight.
It is chaos, but it is a focused, protective kind of chaos.
Cash is in full guard-dog mode, swearing at anonymous accounts. Nico is stressing and defending Iveline’s coaching record to anyone who will listen. Brick is hovering, silent but clearly furious on her behalf.
And then there is Carter Hale. He has been her loudest critic all season, but his message is in all caps and carries no restraint.
Carter: IF ANYONE TOUCHES HER OR MAKES A COMMENT IN THE MEDIA SCRUM, I WILL END THEM.
I find myself laughing despite the weight in my chest.
Seeing the team close ranks without a second of debate is something I didn’t know I needed. They aren’t questioning the photo. They aren’t asking me for the details. They’ve decided that she belongs to us, and that means she is protected.
Whatever the media thinks they are doing, they have massively miscalculated the loyalty of this locker room.
***
By the time I pull into the rink parking lot, the atmosphere feels charged. There are news vans at the gates, cameras tilted toward every tinted window that passes. I floor it past them, my grip tight on the steering wheel.
When I finally step into the arena, the familiar chill of the ice greets me, but the air in the tunnel is heavy.
I find them near the bench.
Cash is posted at Ivy’s side like a sentry, his arms crossed over his chest. Nico is pacing tight circles nearby.
Leo is pretending to stretch, but his eyes are fixed on the tunnel entrance.
Hale is a few steps back, his jaw clenched and his eyes sharp, scanning the doors as if he’s waiting for a physical threat to materialize.
Something in my chest loosens at the sight, then tightens again when I finally meet her eyes. I see the exhaustion etched fine beneath her carefully maintained control.
“Callahan,” she says as I approach. Her voice is measured and contained—the voice of the assistant coach, not the woman from yesterday.
“Iveline.” I stop in front of her, keeping my voice low so the others can’t hear the raw edge in it. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says. That faint Finnish cadence slips through her words—a sure sign that the stress is bleeding through her polish. “It is… manageable.”
“They’re coming for you, Ivy,” I say quietly, stepping into her space, ignoring the way Hale shifts to give us a sliver of privacy. “That isn’t manageable. That is a targeted hit on your career.”
She exhales, her gaze sliding past me for half a second.
And there is the instinct I recognize so well. The retreat. I can almost hear the sound of her armor locking back into place, the metal plates sliding together to hide the vulnerable girl underneath.
“Callahan,” she says evenly, her eyes returning to mine with a glassy sort of focus. “It is noise. I’ve spent my entire life around the St. James name. I can handle noise.”
My chest tightens, because I’ve seen this film before. I know how she compartmentalizes. She survives by making herself emotionally invisible while standing her ground professionally. It’s a survival tactic, but it’s also a wall.
And suddenly, the fear from this morning is back, sharper than before.
She’s running.
She isn’t leaving the building, but she’s running from me.
“I’m not letting them turn you into a headline,” I say. “You aren’t a distraction. You’re the reason this team is in the finals. You’re the reason I’m even standing here.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” she says softly.
“I know,” I say, refusing to back down. “But I get to decide whether I stand with you. And I’m standing right here.”
Cash, unable to help himself and completely lacking a filter, blurts out, “Coach, please don’t emotionally repress right now. We all saw the photo. We’re all on your side. Just… don’t go back into the freezer.”
Nico groans, and Leo mutters something about Cash’s terrible timing, but the tension breaks. Iveline huffs a breath that might have been a laugh if she had the energy for it. That tiny crack in her facade is all I need to feel steady again.
“Ivy,” I say, my voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that usually only comes out when we’re alone.
“I was terrified. I was scared that you’d decide I’m not worth the professional suicide.
But I need you to know… last night wasn’t just a lapse in judgment or a moment of weakness.
It meant everything to me. It changed the air in my lungs, and if you leave now, you’re taking that with you.
If you walk away now, I won’t know how to put myself back together. ”
Her breath hitches.
“I’m still here, Cal,” she says, her voice losing that sharp, coaching edge and smoothing out into something raw and private. “I didn’t run. I came to work. I stood in front of this team and I faced them. I’m not pretending last night didn’t happen, and I’m sure as hell not regretting it.”
Relief hits me so hard it almost feels like a physical blow, a sudden rush of oxygen back into my lungs.
I want to reach out and touch her, to wrap my hand around the back of her neck and pull her into my space until the cameras and the ice and the noise all disappear, but I force my feet to stay planted.
“And,” she adds, her eyes darting toward the circle of players before dropping her voice to a whisper that vibrates right through my chest, “I’m not pretending it didn’t matter.
It mattered enough that I can still feel you every time I move.
I’m not letting that go just because some tabloid caught a glimpse of the truth. ”
The world seems to recalibrate around that one sentence. The noise from the media vans and the vitriol on Twitter suddenly feels like distant static.
Hale steps closer, breaking us out of the tension we were in.
“Anyone who thinks they get a say in her character or her place on this bench can take it up with me,” he says, his voice flat and terrifyingly calm. “I’ve got plenty of penalty minutes left in my season, and I’m looking for an excuse to use them.”
Cash nods, his usual manic energy sharpening into something protective and jagged. “And me. I’ll burn my media credentials and start a podcast just to scream about how full of shit they are if I have to. They want a show? I’ll give them one they can’t air.”
Iveline actually smiles then—a real, fleeting thing that crinkles the corners of her eyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen her look at the team and not see a tactical puzzle to solve, but a family to lean on.
***
Later—after the grueling practice, after the media scrum has been handled by Jenna’s aggressive PR phalanx, and after the rink has finally emptied—we stand side by side near the boards.
The ice is a vast, quiet mirror, the Zamboni having finished its final pass. We are close enough that the heat from our bodies bleeds through our layers, our shoulders nearly brushing, but neither of us pulls away.
There are no cameras here. No scripts. Just the hum of the cooling system and the smell of frozen water and old leather.
“You’re afraid,” she says, her gaze fixed on the retired jerseys hanging high in the rafters, their colors muted in the dim arena lights.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a jagged stone. “Yeah.”
“Of me leaving.”
“Yes.”
She nods once, a slow, deliberate movement that seems to cost her something.
“I’ve spent my entire life exiting rooms before things could break.
I watched my father after my mother died.
I saw what staying did to him—how it turned him into a monument to a grief that never ended.
I thought that if I never stayed, I’d never have to feel that kind of hollowed-out silence.
I thought surviving was the same thing as living. ”
She finally turns to look at me, and the mask is gone. Her expression is so open it’s almost painful to witness.
“But I’m tired, Cal. I’m so exhausted from pretending that my heart isn’t beating.
I’ve spent years mistaking fear for discipline, convincing myself that being a statue was the only way to stay unbroken, but it just left me hollow.
And the truth is, the thought of walking away from you feels like torture.
It feels like a loss so total that no win on the ice could ever make me whole again.
I’ve reached the point where I would rather burn with you than be safe and empty without you. ”
My chest aches with a pressure that has nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the fact that I would let this entire city burn if it meant she could keep that look in her eyes.
“Then let it burn,” I rasp, stepping into her space until the tips of our skates clink together. “I don’t need this to be easy, Ivy. I know the name you carry, and I know how ugly this league can get. I don’t need a guarantee. I just need the truth.”
She meets my gaze, her blue eyes steady and dark with a new kind of resolve. “I’m staying. And I want to try this with you properly. No more hiding in darkened video rooms or pretending this is just a ‘situation’ we’re managing to appease the board. I want the world to know I’m standing with you.”
The word “try” feels like the bravest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s a death sentence for her privacy and a target on her back, and she’s handing it to me like a gift.
“I’m yours,” I murmur, the words finally feeling like they belong to the air between us.
“I think I’ve been yours since the first time you yelled at me for my positioning.
If you’ll have me… I’m all in. Scandal, shoulder injury, and all.
I’ll take the hits, Ivy. I’ll take every single one of them if it means I get to go home to you. ”
Her smirk returns, but it’s softer now, threaded with a vulnerability that makes my heart feel like it’s being squeezed by a fist. “Good. Because I’m done pretending I don’t want you. I want all of it.”
I tilt my head down, my mouth grazing the shell of her ear as I let out a low whisper. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. You’re the only play I’m interested in making anymore.”
I feel her relax—a true, physical surrendering of the tension that has lived in her shoulders since she first stepped foot in Boston.
This is what trust feels like. It’s not just about making the right play on the ice; it’s about being willing to stay when the play goes to hell and the crowd starts to boo.
“We’re done hiding,” I murmur against her skin.
“Done,” she echoes, her breath hitching.
Her exhale settles against my neck, warm and steady. My own heartbeat slows, catching the rhythm of hers in the quiet, heavy intimacy of the empty rink.
I know what’s coming.
I know there will be league inquiries and ethics meetings. I know Rick will be a nightmare, and I know the cold, calculating fury of William St. James is waiting for us on the horizon.
I’ve spent my entire career chasing a feeling I couldn’t name, moving from city to city and game to game, but looking at her now, I realize I wasn’t running toward a trophy.
I was running toward this.
We aren’t just some scandalous headline for the press to chew on.
We’re a revolution.
And as the first game of the Finals looms over us like a mountain, the crushing weight I usually feel in my chest is gone. There is no pressure, only the sudden, blinding lightness of the truth.
We are done hiding.
And God help anyone who tries to stand in our way.