36. Ivy
Ivy
Last night was electric—there is no other word for it.
Every whispered “I’m yours” felt like a reclamation of my own heart. It felt as if we’d both been holding our breaths since the first day of training camp and could finally, mercifully, exhale.
In the quiet dark of Callahan’s room, the world felt small, manageable, and soft.
Then my phone buzzed against the nightstand, shattering the peace of the dawn with the mechanical violence of a heart monitor flatlining.
My father didn’t say hello or ask how I’m feeling. He didn’t acknowledge that we are seventy-two hours away from the biggest game of our collective lives. He just wrote three words that feel like a summons to an execution: My office. Now.
I dress in the gray light of five a.m., my movements robotic and cold. I look at Cal, still asleep, his face stripped of the “Captain” mask, looking younger and more vulnerable than the world ever allows him to be.
I want to crawl back in, to hide in the heat of his skin and pretend my last name doesn’t come with a leash.
Instead, I slip out.
When I get to the arena, the walk to the executive wing feels like a march to the gallows. The carpeted halls are silent, the smell of stale coffee and expensive leather growing stronger as I approach the heavy oak doors of the GM’s office.
William is already standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the empty seats of the arena. He doesn’t turn when I enter. He stays in that rigid, military posture he adopts when he’s about to deliver a verdict.
“Iveline,” he begins, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through glass. “This… this is unacceptable. The optics are disastrous.”
I stand my ground, my hands clasped tightly behind my back to hide their trembling. “I understand it looks complicated, William. But the work I’ve put in hasn’t changed. The record speaks for itself.”
“No, you don’t understand,” he snaps, finally turning around.
His jaw is tight, and his eyes lock onto mine with a cold, piercing intensity.
“The record is a footnote when the lead story is my assistant coach caught in a streetlamp glow with the franchise player. Do you have any idea what this looks like? To the league? To—”
“To me?” I cut in. “Or are you just worried about how it looks to you?”
The words hang between us, heavy and sharp.
He hesitates, a flicker of wounded pride crossing his face. “Both. It reflects on the organization. It calls into question every tactical decision, every line change, every minute of ice time you’ve given him.”
“I did my job, William,” I say. “I coached this team when everyone said I couldn’t.
And now there’s noise. There will always be noise when a woman is in this position.
I can’t control the tabloids, and I won’t apologize for finally having a life that doesn’t involve staring at game film until three in the morning. ”
He shakes his head, his hands clenching into fists on top of his desk. “It’s a breach of professional conduct. It’s a scandal that calls into question your authority. They think you’re playing games, Iveline. Manipulating the Captain. Using your position to get what you want.”
“Playing games?” I take a step into his space, the air thick with decades of unspoken resentment. “Is that what you think? That I’ve spent fifteen hours a day in a windowless film room and analyzed ten thousand minutes of tape just to ‘manipulate’ a player? You think I’m that small?”
“Yes!” His voice cracks with fury, echoing off the high ceilings as he finally loses his grip.
“Exactly that!’’ William’s hands fly up in a sharp, jagged motion, a physical punctuation mark to his frustration before he turns his back on me to pace the small strip of carpet behind his desk.
‘‘It doesn’t matter what I think or what you’ve done!
They think you’re a distraction, Iveline!
And in this league, perception is the only truth that sticks! ”
I stare at him, feeling a hollow ache in my stomach.
Weeks ago, when I was sick, he called me for the first time in years just to ask if I’d eaten dinner.
For a fleeting moment, I thought he’d finally become the version of himself my mother loved—the man who was kind, who saw me as more than a legacy.
But the second the “optics” shifted, he traded that man in for the GM.
He went back to the only language he knows: power and perception.
“You’re doing it again,” I say, my voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and fury. “You’re looking at me and seeing a liability. You’re not even listening because you’re too busy calculating the cost of damage control.”
“I’m trying to save your career,” he spits. “If you can’t see that, you’re more blinded by this situation than I feared.”
“Save it?” I let out a sharp, hollow laugh. “You’re not saving my career, William. You’re saving your ego. You’re saving the St. James name from having a pulse. God forbid one of us actually feels something that isn’t related to a league standing.”
I step closer, my shadow falling over his desk.
“Mom would be so disappointed in you right now. She didn’t love the GM. She loved the man who knew that some things are worth the mess. You’ve spent so much time trying to honor her memory by being perfect that you’ve forgotten how to be the person she actually cared about.”
He flinches as if I’ve physically struck him. His face pales, the anger draining out to leave something gray and hollow behind.
For a second, the GM vanishes, and I see the widower—the man who is terrified that if he stops controlling the world, it will take everything else away from him too.
“I’m trying to keep you safe, Iveline,” he says, his voice suddenly thick and strained. “The world out there… they’ll tear you apart for this. They won’t care about your talent. They’ll just see the girl who broke the rules.”
“I was never safe, William,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I was just lonely. And I’d rather be torn apart for something real than stay safe and empty in this office with you.”
I swallow hard, my hands trembling. “I can’t keep doing this if you’re going to punish me for being effective. For doing the job I was hired to do. If you think I can’t handle this—if you think my presence here is a liability—then I’ll resign.”
The words leave my mouth like a physical weight falling.
William freezes. “You wouldn’t walk away from the Finals.”
“I’m serious,” I say, my voice quiet and deadly calm. “I cannot stay in a situation where I’m constantly undermined. If you can’t separate your pride from the reality of my success, then I can’t work for you.”
“You will not quit!” he snaps, slamming his hand on the desk. “Not over this! Not over me!”
The silence following his outburst is suffocating.
William looks at me, his chest heaving, his hand still pressed flat against the desk. He looks like he’s trying to hold the entire room together by sheer force of will, but the cracks are widening.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t look at it, but the heat of it against my leg is the only thing keeping me upright.
“I won’t let you throw it away,” William says, his voice losing its thunder and settling into something far more dangerous: a desperate, quiet plea.
“Iveline, please. You have worked too hard. I have watched you bleed for this game. Do you really want the headline of your career to be about a romance instead of a Cup? Because once you leave this office, that’s all you’ll be to them.
Not a St. James. Not a coach. Just a distraction. ”
“Then let me be a distraction,” I whisper. “I’d rather be a distraction with a soul than a coach with an empty house.”
William sinks into his leather chair, the fight suddenly leaking out of him.
He looks older than I’ve ever seen him.
His eyes drift to the silver-framed photo of my mother on the corner of his desk.
“She used to tell me I was too rigid,” he murmurs, more to the photograph than to me. “She told me that if I kept trying to freeze time, I’d eventually break. I thought she was wrong. I thought structure was the only thing that kept the sky from falling after she left.”
“The sky already fell, Dad,” I say, my voice softening.
The heavy oak doors suddenly fly open, the sound echoing through the quiet executive wing and making us both jump. I spin around, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Callahan is there. He’s in a simple black hoodie, his eyes dark and fixed entirely on me, scanning my face for signs of damage. But he isn’t alone.
The Reign are behind him.
Cash, Hale, Nico, defensemen, and rookies file in, their presence instantly making the expansive office feel cramped and small.
“What is the meaning of this?” William snaps, though he doesn’t rise from his chair. The executive mask is back, but it’s slipping at the edges.
Cash steps forward first, his jaw set but his eyes dancing with that familiar, reckless fire.
He doesn’t look at the GM; he looks at me. “Sorry for the intrusion, Coach. We were just heading to the training room and realized the locker room felt a little… structurally unsound. We figured the foundation was up here.”
He turns his gaze to William, his voice dropping into a tone that is far too polite to be friendly.
“Morning, sir. Just a heads-up: if anyone tries to force our coach out, I’ve already drafted a tweet.
It’s got a lot of emojis and a very detailed account of how you tried to ruin the best season we’ve ever had.
It’s currently in my ‘Drafts’ folder. My thumb is twitching, sir. It’s a real nervous tic.”
“She isn’t going anywhere,” Hale adds. He stands behind me, his arms crossed over his chest, his shadow overlapping mine. “We don’t take the ice without her. You want her resignation? You’ll have to take the whole roster’s.”
I look at them, stunned. The air in the room shifts from the stale cold of an executive meeting to the suffocating heat of a huddle.
Callahan finally moves, sliding to my side.