40. Cal
Cal
I stand at center ice during warm-ups, my stick tapping a steady, nervous rhythm against the frozen surface as I try to pull air into my lungs.
This is game four of the Stanley Cup Finals.
We’re one win away from a sweep, one win away from history, one win away from everything I’ve bled for since I was a kid. The pressure should crush me, but all I can think about is her voice this morning.
“Yes, Callahan. I’m staying. And yes—we’re going to win.”
I look toward the bench, my gaze cutting through the chaotic sea of purple jerseys, trainers, and equipment staff.
She’s there.
Iveline stands with her hair pulled back so tight it looks painful, her jaw set in that familiar, beautiful line of stubborn determination.
She catches me looking, her sharp, intelligent eyes locking onto mine across the ice, and she gives the smallest, almost imperceptible nod.
We’re doing this. Not just the team, but us.
We’re winning this.
The First Period
The puck drops and the entire world narrows down to a hundred-by-two-hundred-foot sheet of white ice. The periphery blurs into a frantic smear of black and gold. Skates cut deep into the surface with a sharp, rhythmic rasp.
I take the first shift hard, my forecheck aggressive, my stick active, and my eyes scanning for every opening. My legs are already burning, but the fire feels good.
It feels like being alive.
The other team is fast and desperate, playing with the jagged hunger of a predator that hasn’t eaten in weeks.
Good. So are we.
Brick lays a hit along the boards that rattles the glass and sends a physical shock wave through the front row.
Nico steals a puck clean in the neutral zone, moving with the quiet, deadly grace of a pickpocket.
Leo fires a heavy shot from the point that rings off the post so loudly the sound echoes through my very bones.
I skate past the bench during a line change, my chest heaving as I try to suck in enough frigid air to keep my lungs from bursting. The sweat is stinging my eyes, but as I glide by, Ivy leans forward just enough for me to hear her over the deafening roar.
“Good pace, Cal,” she says, her voice steady, devoid of the panic that usually fills a Finals bench. “Stay on them. Their transition is sluggish.”
Her voice steadies me more than the oxygen ever could. It’s the anchor I need in the middle of this hurricane.
The Second Period
Kovács handles a messy rebound in the crease, slamming the puck home so hard the net itself seems to recoil in shock.
The arena detonates.
I swear I feel the roof lift an inch off its foundations as twenty thousand people scream at the top of their lungs.
I look toward the bench as the team celebrates. Ivy is smiling. It’s a fierce, bright, and incredibly proud expression that makes her look younger.
Looking at her makes my legs feel ten pounds lighter.
But the other team is elite for a reason. They answer back quickly. A missed assignment leads to a breakaway, a snap shot that finds the top corner with surgical precision.
Tie game.
My heart slams against my ribs, my jaw tight enough to crack a tooth as the frustration boils up. I skate back to the bench, head down, ready to snap.
Ivy meets my eyes before I can spiral into that dark, familiar frustration.
“Breathe,” she says simply.
So I do.
I take a deep, shuddering breath of the cold air, and the world steadies itself. The panic recedes, replaced by the cold, hard focus she spent the whole season teaching me. The focus that makes me a captain instead of just a player.
The Third Period
This is the moment everything in my life has been leading toward.
Every shift feels like a lifetime, and every second feels like a heartbeat stretched thin until it’s about to snap. The score stays tied, the clock bleeding down with agonizing, mocking slowness.
Five minutes left.
I win a crucial face-off in our zone, the friction of the sticks sparking. Brick fires a shot that leads to a frantic scramble. The rival team’s center grabs the puck, spins, and shoots from the slot.
It’s a sure goal, a heartbreaker—except Cash catches it in his glove with a flash of leather. It’s the cleanest, most impossible save I’ve ever seen.
The arena goes absolutely insane.
Cash screams in triumph, skates to the bench, and slams his gloved hand into the glass right where Ivy is standing, his face a mask of pure joy.
“THAT WAS FOR YOU, COACH!” he bellows, his voice cracking.
She laughs and bangs the glass back with her fist, her rings clinking against the surface.
My chest feels too full, like it might actually burst with pride for this group of misfits she turned into a family.
But the game isn’t over.
The other team pulls their goalie. It’s a six-on-five storm. We block shots with our shins, we dive headfirst into the shooting lane, and we fight like hell.
Ten seconds. Nine. Eight.
The puck squirts loose and comes straight to my tape. I don’t think. I don’t aim. I just flip it high and long down the ice, watching it sail through the air in a perfect, slow-motion arc.
Seven. Six. Five.
It slides across the far blue line. It slides toward the crease and into the empty net.
The horn sounds—a long, beautiful, soul-piercing wail of victory. The arena erupts into a sound I can only describe as a physical explosion of joy.
I drop to my knees on the ice, the strength finally leaving my legs as the weight of the moment hits me.
We did it.
The team swarms me instantly.
Nico is screaming something I can’t understand, Brick is lifting me off the ice as if I weigh nothing, and Cash is crying openly, wiping his face on my jersey.
The crowd starts a chant that shakes the very rafters.
“REIGN! REIGN! REIGN!”
I look toward the bench. She’s standing there on the edge of the ice, her hands over her mouth and her eyes shining with tears that she isn’t trying to hide anymore.
I skate to her, my heart pounding harder than it did during the final minute of play. She steps onto the ice—careful and steady, but sure of her place among us. When I reach her, I don’t think about the cameras, the league, or the looming scandal.
I kiss her.
The arena roars so loudly I can feel it in my teeth. She laughs against my mouth, breathless and glowing.
“You’re insane, Captain,” she whispers, her hands clutching my shoulders.
“Only for you, Coach,” I murmur back, pulling her closer.
Cash barrels into us, hugging both of us at once, nearly knocking us over.
“WE DID IT! COACH, I LOVE YOU, BUT NOT LIKE HE DOES, DO NOT WORRY!”
Ivy laughs, shoving him lightly. “Cash, get off before you knock us over.”
“NEVER!” he shouts.
They all take turns hugging her, thanking her, telling her she earned this.
Carter stands just behind them, his arms crossed and his head nodding once—the Hale version of a total emotional breakdown.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, vibrating the floor.
“CAPTAIN MOORE—COME GET THE CUP!”
My legs are shaking as I skate forward toward the podium.
The Cup is heavier than I imagined—it’s cold metal and warm history, every dream I’ve ever had pressed into its silver surface. I lift it over my head, feeling the weight of the legends who came before me, and the world goes white with noise.
But I don’t skate my lap yet.
I turn and skate straight back to her.
Her eyes widen, her hands dropping to her sides. “Cal, what are you doing?”
“Help me,” I say simply, holding the silver base toward her.
She hesitates for one heartbeat, then she steps forward, her fingers trembling as they touch the metal. Together, we lift the Cup. Her hands are on the silver, and mine are over hers. Cash is yelling somewhere in the background about “Power Couples,” but I don’t hear him.
We skate our lap together—well, it’s more of a waddle because Iveline doesn’t have her skates on and she’s slipping on the chewed-up ice. I hold her steady, my arm around her waist.
The team follows behind us in a chaotic, shouting, laughing, crying line. Fans press against the glass, banging their hands and chanting her name.
“TALVI! TALVI! TALVI!”
She looks stunned, looking up at the rafters as if she can’t believe the sound is for her.
I squeeze her hand. “Told you. They love you.”
And then she looks at me. Not at the fans, not at the trophy, but at me.
Soft. Certain. Forever.
“I love you,” she says.
I grin, my heart pounding harder than any overtime period. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go.”
She smirks, that brilliant, sharp look returning to her eyes. “You couldn’t if you tried.”
We skate on, the ice beneath us and the world at our feet. And for the first time in my life, I know exactly what my future looks like.
***
The second the locker room doors swing open, it is chaos. Champagne explodes everywhere, the corks popping like gunfire. The room is a haze of white foam and frantic shouting.
Cash is already shirtless, dumping a bottle of Gatorade over someone’s head. Brick is yelling about destiny, and Leo is doing snow angels on the wet, champagne-soaked floor.
I barely get two steps inside before Cash tackles me again in a hug that smells like sweat and victory.
“CALLIE, YOU BEAUTIFUL LEGEND!” he shouts directly into my ear.
“Finn—air—” I choke out, laughing.
He ignores me completely, shaking me like a rag doll. “WE DID IT! I’M GONNA FRAME YOUR FACE!”
Ivy smacks him with a damp towel. “Let him breathe, you lunatic.”
Marcus hands me a bottle of champagne like it’s a sacred artifact. “You earned this, Cap.”
I pop it, the foam erupting over my hands and onto the floor.
The room erupts with it.
Brick pours champagne over his own head like a baptism. Nico is spraying the ceiling, and someone is blasting music loud enough to shake the walls.
Iveline stands just inside the doorway, watching the chaos with a stunned, soft smile. Her hair is damp from the ice, her cheeks flushed a deep pink, her eyes bright and watering.
Cash spots her and screams, “IVY! GET IN HERE!”