39. Ivy
Ivy
Callahan shifts beside me, his arm draped across the space where I’d been pressed against him only moments ago. In the soft, unfiltered morning light, the sharp lines of his face are relaxed.
It hits me squarely in the ribs, not with a sharp pain, but with a warm, steady ache that makes it hard to breathe for a different reason.
This is real.
For so long, I operated under the assumption that love was a transaction. It was something you earned through a flawless performance or lost the moment you showed a single crack of failure.
My father’s love always felt conditional, something measured in wins and losses. The media’s attention felt like a trap waiting to spring. But Callahan’s love isn’t a test. It is a constant. It is the solid, dependable ice beneath my skates.
I used to think that choosing him would mean losing the hard-earned identity I’d built as a professional, but in this quiet room, I realize he’s the only person who has ever truly seen me.
That realization gives me the permission I’ve been denying myself for years—the permission to imagine a life that is actually mine.
I slide out of bed carefully, moving like a shadow so I don’t wake him. My bare feet pad softly across the floor as I walk into the living room.
I sit on the couch, tracing the patterns of sunlight on the cushions with my fingers. My hands tremble, not from the lingering tremors of fear, but from a sudden, blinding clarity.
I finally know what I want.
Not what the league expects of a woman in my position. Not what my father wants for the family brand. Not what the press will praise or tear apart depending on the weather.
I know what I want.
And for the first time, I let myself name it.
I want something that is mine from the dirt up. Something I build with my own hands, my own failures, and my own triumphs. I want to create something that actually matters beyond the final score of a hockey game.
My thumb hovers over my phone, and I find myself scrolling through the camera roll. Photos from the Kids’ Open Day fill the screen—wide, expectant eyes, gap-toothed laughter, and the pure, unadulterated joy echoing across the cold rink.
That day changed something fundamental in me. For those few hours, I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t proving my worth to a boardroom. I was just present.
I was alive.
I want that again. I want to create that feeling for others.
I see the vision forming in my mind: a foundation. Not a branch of my father’s empire, but the start of my own.
I want to build a bridge between the disciplined ice of Finland and the raw ambition of American hockey. A place where I am the one who decides who gets a chance, regardless of their last name or their connections.
My phone buzzes, a sudden vibration that pulls me back to the present. It is a flurry of messages from Cash, Dean, Scottie, and even Brick.
It is chaos and love in digital form.
They are my people. They are the family I chose when the one I was born into felt too small.
Then my eyes land on my father’s contact name.
My stomach tightens instinctively, a remnant of the old fear. But the clarity I found in the sunlight doesn’t waver.
I take a deep breath and dial the number.
“Hello?” His voice is cautious, sounding older and more tired than I remember from our confrontation in the arena.
“Hi, Dad,” I say softly, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart. “Can we talk? For a moment?”
“Of course, Iveline. Is everything okay? Is the press—?”
“Everything is fine,” I begin, cutting him off before he can spiral into optics. “I’ve been thinking. About my career. About the team, and about… everything. And I’ve realized that I need to build something of my own. My way. Without the St. James safety net.”
There is a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line.
I wait for the lecture. I wait for the explanation of why I’m being reckless or how I’m throwing away a golden opportunity with the Reign.
“I thought you’d say that one day,” he finally murmurs, his voice sounding uncharacteristically small. “Ivy… whatever it is you’re planning, I know you’ll be brilliant at it. And for what it’s worth… I’m proud of you. I’m proud of the way you stood your ground.”
The words hit harder than a checked hit into the boards. My eyes sting, and I have to swallow hard to keep my voice from failing.
“You… you really mean that?”
“Every word,” he says, and I can hear the sincerity in the roughness of his tone.
“You’ve always been capable of more than you let yourself see.
You don’t need to live in anyone’s shadow, especially not mine.
I’ve been trying to keep you in the shade to protect you, but I forgot that you’re the kind of person who needs the sun to grow. ”
My breath catches.
“I’m not leaving the Reign because I’m unhappy,” I clarify, a tear finally slipping down my cheek. “I’m leaving because I’m finally happy with myself. And that means I have to see what I can do when no one is holding the leash.”
“I know,” he says gently. “The Boston Reign were lucky to have you for as long as they did. But you were always meant for something bigger than a single bench. You’re a St. James—we don’t just join teams. We change the game. And you, Ivy… you’re already changing it.”
For the first time in my entire life, his voice doesn’t sound like pressure. It doesn’t sound like a list of expectations I’ll never meet. It sounds like genuine, quiet pride.
“You won’t disappoint anyone by following this path,” he adds. “The only disappointment would be not trying. Go build your thing. Show them what I’ve always known—that my Ivy is unstoppable.”
The word echoes in my mind long after I hang up the phone.
Unstoppable.
I lean back into the cushions, letting the weight of the conversation sink in.
For the first time, choosing myself doesn’t feel like a selfish act of rebellion.
It feels like the only right thing to do.
I hear the soft pad of footsteps behind me.
Callahan emerges from the bedroom, his hair mussed from sleep and his bare shoulders still holding the warmth of the bed. His eyes are soft when they land on me, searching my face for any sign of the midnight breakdown.
He crosses the room without a word and sits beside me, his hand finding mine.
“You okay?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
I nod, a wide, genuine smile breaking across my face. “Better than okay, Cal.”
He studies me for a second, his eyes narrowing as he reads the shift in my expression. “You figured it out. You’ve got that look in your eyes—the one you get right before you draw up a game-winning play.”
“I did,” I say, my breath finally feeling deep and full.
He shifts so his knee is touching mine, giving me his full attention. “Tell me everything.”
So I do.
I tell him about the kids on the ice. I tell him about the foundation, the scholarships, and the bridge I want to build between my two worlds.
I tell him about the psychology of the game and the opportunities I want to give to the kids who think they’ll never get a shot.
I tell him about the future I see for myself—one where I’m not just an assistant, but a founder.
He listens, truly listens, his eyes brightening with every detail I share. When I finally stop to catch my breath, he exhales slowly, looking at me with something bordering on awe.
“Iveline… that’s incredible. That is exactly who you are.”
“You think so? You don’t think I’m crazy for wanting to walk away from a potential head coaching track?”
“I know so,” he says, his voice firm and unwavering. “And you’re going to do it. You’re going to be the best damn founder this city has ever seen. And I am going to be obnoxiously proud. I’m talking custom t-shirts and annoying social media posts proud.”
I laugh, the sound bright and unburdened. “Obnoxiously?”
“Oh, yeah,” he smirks, pulling me into his side. “You’d better prepare yourself. I’m going to be your biggest donor and your most annoying volunteer.”
He leans in, brushing a soft kiss to my forehead. Then he glances at the clock on the wall and his expression shifts slightly.
“But first…”
I groan, leaning my head onto his shoulder. “Right. We have a morning skate.”
He grins, standing up and stretching. “I hope you’re planning on staying for the last game, Coach. We kinda need you behind the bench. Also, the guys and I really want that Cup, and we’re not sure we can do it if you’re too busy filing paperwork.”
I shove his shoulder lightly, laughing as I stand up with him. “Yes, Cal. I’m staying through the final whistle. And yes—we’re going to win.”
“Good,” he says, his expression turning serious for a moment as he offers me his hand. “Because I’m not lifting that trophy without you by my side. You’re part of the victory, Ivy.”
We get ready for the day together, moving through the small, intimate rituals of a shared morning. We brush our teeth side by side, stealing glances in the mirror and bumping hips as we move around the bathroom. We laugh softly at nothing, the lightness of the morning making everything feel new.
As we finally step out the door and head toward the elevator, he laces his fingers with mine, his grip firm.
“Ready?” he asks.
I squeeze his hand, looking at our joined shadows on the hallway floor.
“More than ever.”
As we walk toward the car, my phone buzzes.
9:12 AM
Jenna: Heard you’re building something.
Me: Thinking about it.
Jenna: You’ll change lives.
Me: I hope so.
Jenna: You will. You already changed ours.
I slide into the passenger seat, watching the city blur past as Callahan pulls onto the main road.
For the first time in my life, I feel it in every fiber of my being.
I am Iveline Talvi St. James.
I am a builder, a leader, and a woman who is finally loved for exactly who she is.
I am unstoppable.
And today, we have a game to win.