37. Ivy
Ivy
The apartment is dark.
The blinds are half-closed, allowing thin, slanted lines of city light to slice across the furniture like cold prison bars.
Shadows crawl across the walls and the floor, seeping into every quiet corner I try to claim for myself.
They feel alive, as if they’re waiting for the exact moment I finally crack.
The tears burn hot trails down my cheeks, dripping onto my knees and soaking into the fabric of my leggings. My shoulders begin to shake with the force of everything I’ve been suppressing.
The weight of the last few weeks—the invasive paparazzi, the cruel rumors, the pressure of the team’s expectations, and the suffocating shadow of my father—crashes down on me all at once. It feels like being crushed from the inside out by my own ribs.
I try to muffle the sound, burying my face deeper into my hands because I don’t want Callahan to wake up and see me like this.
But he stirs anyway.
The mattress creaks softly as he sits up, and a moment later, I hear the floorboards groan under his weight. His voice reaches me, low and rough with sleep, carrying a gentleness that hurts more than a reprimand.
“You’re still looking at it.”
I flinch, realizing I still have my phone clutched in my hand. The screen is glowing with the same headlines I saw after the press conference—the ones Jenna’s team tried to bury.
I swipe at my face uselessly, trying to hide the dampness on my skin.
“I… I have to,” I whisper, my voice cracking and small. “I have to know what they’re saying, Cal. I have to know what the world thinks of me.”
He moves closer, his steps slow and careful.
He lets his presence press gently against mine, grounding me without demanding I fix myself.
He sinks onto the floor beside me, not caring about the cold or the hardness of the wood. Gently, he pries the phone from my white-knuckled grip and sets it face down on the floor. The light vanishes, leaving us in the dark of the room.
“Look at me, Ivy,” he murmurs.
I shake my head, burying my face in my knees. “I’m a mess. I’m not… I’m not supposed to be this.”
“You’re supposed to be human,” he says, and the sheer kindness in his voice makes a fresh wave of sobs break over me.
He reaches out, his large hands cupping my face. He tilts my head up, forcing me to meet his gaze. Even in the shadows, his eyes are filled with a heartbreaking level of devotion.
Slowly, he leans in. He doesn’t kiss my lips; instead, he presses his mouth to my cheeks, one by one, literally kissing the tears away.
It’s so tender it feels like he’s trying to stitch my soul back together with nothing but his touch.
“You spend so much time worrying about what the world thinks,” he whispers, his forehead resting against mine.
“But the world doesn’t see you when the cameras are off.
They don’t see the woman who stays up until dawn perfecting a power play just so her boys don’t get hurt on the ice.
They don’t see the heart you try so hard to hide. ”
He pulls me into him, my face tucked into the crook of his neck, his arms wrapping around me like a fortress.
“Ivy,” he says, his voice vibrating through my bones.
“If you ever lost everything—the job, the name, the arena—you’d still be the most incredible person I’ve ever known.
I’d follow you into the dark if that’s where you wanted to go.
I don’t need the coach. I need you. And God, I’m so sorry you ever felt like you had to be anything else for me. ”
He holds me tighter as I finally let it all go, my fingers clutching the back of his t-shirt.
I let his heartbeat become my rhythm, finally finding the peace that has eluded me for a lifetime.
***
I wake up to the steady, rhythmic thrum of Callahan’s heart beneath my ear.
His arm is a heavy, warm anchor across my waist, his fingers splayed against my hip as if he’d spent the entire night holding me down so I wouldn’t drift away in the dark.
I shift, my skin dragging softly against the cotton of his t-shirt, and his grip tightens instinctively.
“Don’t,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. “Stay.”
“I have things to do, Cal,” I whisper, though I’m already melting back into the mattress.
“The only thing you have to do is exist,” he mutters, pulling the duvet higher around us until we’re encased in a cocoon of heat and the scent of him. “Preferably next to me.”
But the silence of the apartment is shattered by a sharp, rhythmic pounding on the front door. I jolt, my heart leaping, but Cal just groans into my shoulder.
“Ignore it. If we don’t move, they’ll think we’re dead.”
The knocking continues, followed by the muffled, unmistakable sound of Cash’s voice echoing through the wood. “I know you’re in there, Callie! I can smell the brooding from the hallway!”
Cal sighs. He tosses the covers back, the cold air hitting my skin as he stalks toward the living room in nothing but gray sweatpants. I wrap a heavy wool cardigan around myself and follow him, squinting against the brightness of the hallway.
Cal swings the door open, and Cash practically falls inside, holding a tray like a proud raccoon who has discovered something precious in the trash.
“Morning, sunshine!” Cash beams, dodging Cal’s reaching hand to set the tray on the counter with a flourish. “I’ve got matzo ball soup, three types of electrolytes, and a very detailed plan for a movie marathon.”
“Cash, it’s barely eight,” I say, leaning against the door frame.
“Exactly. Prime soup hour,” he says, already popping the lid off a container.
The door, which he hadn’t bothered to latch, swings open again.
Scottie and Dean march in, looking less like guests and more like a tactical unit. Scottie is lugging two massive bags of groceries, while Dean is draped in what looks like five different weighted blankets.
“Out of the way, O’Connell,” Scottie says, nudging Cash with her elbow as she heads straight for the kitchen.
She stops in front of me, her fierce eyes softening for just a fraction of a second as she takes in my messy hair and tired eyes. She doesn’t say anything sentimental—that isn’t her way—but she reaches out and gives my arm a firm, grounding squeeze.
“We’re making pancakes. Real ones. Not the cardboard Callahan probably keeps in the pantry.”
Dean approaches me with the solemnity of a monk, shaking out a thick, plush blanket.
“This one is the high-density fleece,” he says quietly, draping it over my shoulders with careful precision. “Optimal for low-stress environments.”
I look over at Cal, who is leaning against the kitchen island, watching them with a faint, knowing smirk. He doesn’t say a word, but the way he catches my eye tells me everything.
He did this.
He knew I needed my people before I even realized I had people. He knew that the only way to drown out the noise of the world was to fill my home with the people who actually belong in it.
The next hour is a blur of domestic chaos.
The kitchen becomes a battlefield. Cash tries to flip a pancake with an unnecessary behind-the-back move, sending a glob of batter flying onto the ceiling.
“Calculated!” he shouts, pointing at the dripping mess. “I definitely meant to do that!”
Scottie swats him with a spatula, her auburn ponytail whipping as she spins around. “You’re a menace to society, O’Connell.”
“I’m a creative, Scottie! You can’t stifle the process!”
I find myself sinking into the sofa between Cal and Dean, the weight of the blankets and the steam from a mug of tea warming my palms.
Dean nudges my shoulder, handing me a plate of lopsided pancakes.
“You don’t have to be the coach today, Ivy,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the kitchen noise. “You don’t even have to be a St. James. Just eat your breakfast.”
I look at the flour dusted across the floor, the way Cash is trying to teach Scottie a ‘secret’ handshake he clearly just made up, and the way Cal’s hand finds mine under the heavy fleece of the blanket.
For the first time in a lifetime, I don’t feel like I’m holding the sky up.
I’m just a woman in a crowded living room, letting the world hold me for a change.
***
The next day, I’m stretched out on the sofa, sinking into the cushions while Callahan lounges beside me.
He’s propped up on one elbow, his rough palm tracing slow, mindless patterns over the back of my hand.
He just watches me, his expression so uncharacteristically soft it’s almost heavy to look back at.
The peace lasts exactly two minutes until the doorbell rings.
Then it rings again.
And again, followed by a rhythmic thumping that suggests a heavy boot is being used as a knocker.
“Your circus is here,” Cal groans, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
“My circus?” I huff, though I’m already smiling. “They’re your teammates.”
“You’re the coach,” he mutters against my skin, his voice thick with a sleepy grin. “Your circus, your monkeys. Tell them the show is canceled.”
I don’t get the chance. The lock clicks—apparently Cal’s “secret” spare key location is common knowledge to the locker room—and the front door hits the stopper with a bang.
Nico leads the charge, balancing three stacked boxes of pastries on one palm like a seasoned waiter. Behind him, Brick and Kovács are arguing loudly about the best route through morning traffic.
But then the apartment truly overflows.
Cash, Scottie, and Dean barrel back in, looking like they never actually left. Cash is still wearing the same ridiculous “culinary domination” energy, carrying a fresh gallon of orange juice like a trophy.
“Morning, lovebirds!” Cash bellows, his voice echoing off the hardwood. “Don’t mind us, we’re just here to provide a protective perimeter and make sure you eat your carbs. Scottie brought the high-protein flour this time because she says the Captain looks ‘catabolic.’”
Scottie rolls her eyes, already heading for the kitchen to reclaim her position at the stove. “He looks like he’s been living on adrenaline and coffee.”
Jenna slips in behind them, looking effortlessly polished in a pink trench coat. Noah is right on her heels, clutching his tablet to his chest like a shield. He looks around the living room, his eyes widening as they land on me, tucked firmly into the curve of Callahan’s side.
“Oh,” Jenna says, her voice a low, dangerous purr. She stops dead, a slow, smug grin spreading across her face. “Oh, I see. The ‘he’s just my player’ defense has officially crumbled into dust. It’s a tragedy for the PR department, but a win for my soul.”
I narrow my eyes at her, even as I sink deeper into Cal’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare, Jenna.”
She points a manicured finger between us, her eyes sparkling. “Remember November? When I said he looked at you like you were the last drop of water in the desert and you told me—and I quote—‘He looks at everyone that way, Jenna’?”
Noah clears his throat, his face turning a light shade of pink as he taps his tablet.
“Actually, Iveline, statistically speaking, the probability of this outcome reached a 94.2% certainty after the road trip to Vancouver. The lingering glances alone accounted for a significant margin of the data. I had to create a separate spreadsheet for the non-verbal cues.”
“Even Noah knew?” I groan, burying my face in the fabric of Cal’s hoodie.
“I didn’t know,” Noah adds quickly, his voice jumping an octave. “I just… the data was very insistent. There was a notable correlation between your proximity to the Captain and a 12% increase in your vocal pitch. It was an anomaly I couldn’t ignore.”
Cal lets out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrates through my entire body. “You’re surrounded by traitors, Ivy. Very observant, statistically-minded, pancake-flipping traitors.”
The room is a mess of noise and motion.
Nico is tossing a beer to Brick, who catches it one-handed without even looking. Cash is already in the kitchen, judging the quality of Scottie’s batter. But the atmosphere shifts instantly when a sharp, melodic ping erupts from my laptop on the coffee table.
Cal reaches for it, his expression sharpening into the Captain’s mask.
“Ivy,” he says, his voice losing its playfulness and turning hard as ice. “Look.”
I lean over, my breath catching. It’s an encrypted email from the league’s medical review board. My eyes skip over the legal disclaimers until they hit the bolded text at the bottom.
Subject: Clearance Status—Moore, C. Result: PASSED. Status: Active.
“You’re cleared,” I breathe, the words coming out as a shocked, jagged exhale. “Cal, you passed.”
The room goes silent for exactly one heartbeat before it absolutely erupts.
Kovács lets out a warrior’s bellow, nearly taking out a floor lamp as he pumps his fists. Nico and Cash start a rhythmic pounding on the walls that probably has the neighbors calling the police.
But Callahan doesn’t move. He doesn’t cheer. He just looks at me, a fierce, hungry light igniting in his eyes.
“Game three,” he rasps, his hand tightening on mine until the grip is almost bruising. “I’m back.”
“You’re back,” I agree.
As the boys start a celebratory wrestling match in the middle of the rug, Noah wanders over, looking uncharacteristically soft.
“Iveline?” he says quietly. “Statistically, the team’s morale increases by 40% when the Captain is on the ice.
But… for what it’s worth, my personal observation is that the team’s heart rate only stabilizes when you are behind the bench.
You’re the constant variable. We’ve got this if you’re with us. ”
I swallow hard, the kindness of it hitting me square in the chest. I nod, unable to find the words.
Jenna sinks onto the arm of the couch, nudging my knee with the toe of her heel.
“For the record,” she whispers, “I only pushed you because I wanted you to be happy. Not just because I wanted to be right. Though, being right feels nice.”
I look around the room—at the flour on the floor, the empty pastry boxes, and the loud, loyal group of misfits who have turned Callahan’s apartment into a bunker.
I am Iveline Talvi St. James, and for the first time, the name doesn’t feel like a weight.
I lean back into Cal’s warmth, letting the roar of my circus drown out the rest of the world.
The final game is coming, and the spotlight will be blinding, but I’m not afraid of it anymore.
I’m ready.