38. Cal
Cal
The aftermath of the team’s chaotic visit lingers in the air—the faint, roasted scent of coffee, the smell of something burnt, and a hint of flour that still clings stubbornly to the granite counter despite how hard Dean scrubbed at it.
There is a stray sock on the lamp and a half-finished mug of tea abandoned on the windowsill. Cash’s jacket is draped over a chair as if it lost a fight with gravity.
It looks like a mess, but to me, it looks like evidence.
It’s proof of a loyalty that doesn’t care about optics or headlines.
It’s comfort disguised as chaos.
I’m stretched out on the deep cushions of the couch, and Ivy’s back is pressed firmly against my chest. Her legs are tucked between mine, her heels resting against my shins, and she fits there as if she were built for this exact space.
She exhales, a long and soft sound that vibrates against my chest.
God, that sound alone could undo me.
“You’re staring, Callahan,” she murmurs. She doesn’t even turn her head to look at me, but I can hear the amusement in her voice.
I huff a quiet laugh. “Hard not to. You’re a very distracting view.”
She tilts her head back slightly, just enough so I can see the corner of her mouth curve into a real smile. “At least pretend you’re being subtle. You’re supposed to be a professional athlete; work on your poker face.”
“Subtlety has never been my strong suit, Ivy. You of all people should know that by now.”
She shifts against me, a small and deliberate movement that presses her even closer. I feel the contact everywhere—the warmth of her skin, the steady, rhythmic pull of her breathing, and the quiet trust in the way she leans back into me without a single hesitation.
It hits me then, sharp and sudden, how incredibly easy this feels.
I’m not just talking about the physical attraction, though that is a constant hum in my blood.
It’s the being here part.
There is a softness to her that I don’t see at the rink or in the film rooms. I don’t see it when she’s facing down the media or standing her ground against her father with her chin lifted and her jaw set.
She lets herself melt into me as if she trusts that I’ll hold her together, and I realize in that moment that I want to be the place she lands every time the world tries to knock her down.
I dip my head, brushing my lips against her temple. “You okay? Truly?”
“Yeah. I am. I really am.”
She turns in my arms then, fully facing me on the narrow cushions. Her knee slides over my thigh, and her hand comes up to rest against my chest, her palm flat over my heart.
“You’ve been… dangerously quiet today,” she says softly.
“I’m just being observant,” I reply, trying to keep the mood light even as my heart starts to pick up speed.
She rolls her eyes, but her thumb starts tracing slow, agonizing circles over my collarbone. It wrecks my concentration instantly.
“That isn’t an answer, Cal.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting until you stop distracting me with your hands.”
She freezes for a heartbeat. “I’m not—”
I know I should joke. I should tease her or deflect with some comment about the game. But the truth is pushing up against my throat so hard that I can’t stop it.
“I love you.”
The words land between us, soft but incredibly heavy, vibrating in the narrow space of the dim apartment. Her breath catches, a small, uneven hitch in her throat that makes my pulse spike.
For half a second, a cold flash of fear flickers through me. I’ve given her the one truth she could use to dismantle me, to turn the Captain of the Reign into nothing more than a ghost in the executive wing.
Then she smiles.
It’s not the sharp, professional curve of her lips I see behind the bench. It’s a slow bloom that reaches her eyes, softening the rigid lines of her face until she looks entirely new.
It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
“You beat me to it,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
She nods, her eyes shimmering. “Yeah. I love you. Probably since the third time you argued with me about a power play drill and I realized you were the only person in this building who wasn’t afraid to look me in the eye.”
The words settle into me like heat spreading through frozen limbs.
I’ve imagined this a hundred different ways, usually in the quiet dark of a hotel room on the road, but none of those fantasies came close to the sheer, grounding weight of her looking at me like I’m her home.
I don’t even remember moving.
My hands frame her face, my fingers tangling deep in the hair she usually keeps pinned in such a tight, perfect knot. I’m kissing her with a hunger that is less about lust and more about a lifetime of searching for a place to land.
She kisses me back just as hard, her hands sliding into my hair and tugging, pulling me closer until our teeth clash in a frantic, messy rhythm. The sound of her laughter is muffled against my lips—a wild, breathless sound that tells me the Ice Queen has melted.
“Oh,” she breathes, breaking away just enough to press her forehead to mine. Her chest heaves against my own, her skin already radiating a feverish warmth. “That felt… overdue.”
“You have no idea,” I mutter.
I trail my mouth along her jawline, pressing my lips to the sensitive, pulsing cord of her neck. My stubble grazes her skin, and she lets out a low, shaky moan that vibrates through my bones.
“I’ve been restraining myself like a damn saint, Iveline. You have been driving me out of my mind since you arrived.”
She lets out a husky laugh, her fingers tracing the line of my shoulders. “You? A saint? I’ve seen your penalty minute totals, Callahan. You’re a lot of things, but a saint isn’t one of them.”
“Well, you make it impossible to keep my head in the game,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend, my hands sliding down to her waist. “Standing there in those suits, looking so composed while all I can think about is what you’d look like with your hair down and your back against my headboard.”
“Good,” she says, her voice dropping into that dark, velvety register. “I’d hate to make anything easy for you.”
That’s the spark to the fuse.
I lift her, her legs snapping around my waist. Her heels dig into my back, pulling me into her as if she’s trying to merge our heartbeats. I carry her toward the bedroom, my mouth never leaving hers.
I try to pull her down, to bring that friction flush against me, but Ivy plants her palms against my collarbones. She forces me back until the backs of my thighs hit the edge of the mattress and I’m anchored there, captive to her sudden shift in momentum.
“My turn,” she whispers.
I watch, mesmerized, as the woman who commands the sidelines with a terrifying, brilliant iron will sinks slowly to her knees between my legs.
The sight of the Coach of the Reign—the woman who never bows, who never yields—kneeling in front of me makes my pulse thrum a heavy rhythm against my ribs.
She doesn’t rush.
She treats the denim like an obstacle she intends to enjoy dismantling. Her eyes remain locked on mine, dark and predatory through the sweep of her lashes, as she slowly eases the heavy fabric down my hips.
The first touch of her lips is a revelation of silk and heat, a searing contrast to the cool air of the room. When she finally takes me into her mouth, the world outside the four corners of this bed ceases to exist, dissolving into a hazy blur of sensation.
I lose the ability to form a coherent thought, let alone speak, as her throat begins to work on me with a rhythmic, agonizingly slow slide.
She keeps her gaze locked on mine, making sure I see the absolute devotion in every deliberate stroke.
Her tongue swirls around the sensitive head.
She uses her hand to wrap firmly around the base, anchoring me to her as she draws me deeper, the suction creating a heat that makes my vision go dark at the edges.
Every time she slides back down, the slick glide of her saliva and the heat of her breath against my inner thighs send fresh jolts of electricity straight to my spine.
“Fuck, Ivy,” I hiss, my hips stuttering upward, seeking the feel of her mouth.
She looks up at me, her eyes hooded and dark with a predatory satisfaction.
She reaches up, her thumb tracing the vein along my dick before she takes me back in, deeper this time, her throat tightening around me until the air leaves my lungs in a sharp hiss.
My breath hitches, turning into a raw, guttural groan that vibrates through my entire frame and echoes off the quiet walls. My fingers instinctively tangle into the dark silk of her hair, my knuckles white as I grip the strands to keep my balance.
“Ivy—stop,” I choke out, the words breaking over a sharp, ragged exhale. “I’m not going to last…”
She pulls back just enough, the wet, glistening evidence of her work catching the low light and making her lips shine.
A small, triumphant smirk plays on her face—the look of a strategist who has seen the weakness in the line and moved in for the kill. She doesn’t break eye contact as she reaches up, slowly licking a stray drop of moisture from her thumb with a deliberate, feline grace.
“Then don’t last, Captain,” she murmurs, her voice a low, vibrating rasp that carries the weight of a sideline command.
She doesn’t give me a chance to argue. She goes back for more, her mouth hot and desperate, taking me deep enough to make her choke—a small, involuntary sound that tells me exactly how much she’s willing to give.
She’s being rougher now, her hand pumping at my base while her tongue lashes against the underside of the head.
Just as the edge crumbles, just as I’m about to spill for her, I reach down and sink my hands into her hair. I pull her up, dragging her body up the length of mine while my own is still humming and twitching from the near miss.
I flip her onto her back in one fluid, desperate motion, the bed creaking and the mattress dipping under the sudden shift of weight. I’m over her in an instant, pinning her into the bedding with the heavy, crushing pressure of my body.