Page 30 of Unmanageable

“You can freeze me out all you want,” I say, my voice barely audible over the swelling hum of the wedding reception. “You can tell yourself whatever fairy tale helps you sleep at night. You can pretend I’m just some bored hockey player looking for an off-season distraction. But you’re wrong, Scottie.”

She still doesn’t look at me, but her breathing hitches.

“I’m not playing a game here,” I press on, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “I do know you. I know enough to know that I’m not going anywhere. And the second we get into that van, you’re going to realize that. This isn’t just a crush, Scottie. It never has been.”

She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t throw a clever jab or tell me to get lost. She just sets her empty glass down on the counter with a soft click, turns on her heel, and glides back toward the head table.

I watch her go, the silk of her dress catching the dim amber lights of the tent.

I take a slow breath, letting the adrenaline settle, before following her back to the main staging area.

I take my own seat next to Callahan, who looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe. I give his shoulder a solid shove—a silent get it together, man—and settle in as the first chair scrapes harshly against the floor.

William, Ivy’s father, stands up.

He clears his throat, the sound echoing sharply against the canvas of the tent.

“I’m not a man of many words,” he begins, his voice stiff. He looks at Ivy, who is sitting very still, her hand tightly clasped in Cal’s. “My daughter and I… we haven’t always seen eye to eye. After we lost her mother, I became a version of myself that was hard to live with.”

He pauses, looking down at his hands, which are gripping the edges of the table, before turning his gaze toward Callahan. A faint, genuine smile touches his lips.

“Most of you don’t know this, but a few years ago, when Ivy started coaching for the Reign, Callahan came to my office. He just walked in, didn’t even knock, and proceeded to call me an arrogant prick and a bad father.”

A nervous, collective gasp ripples through the room. A few people—mostly the younger crowd—let out a sharp, awkward laugh.

William raises a hand, a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle slipping out. “No, no. You can laugh. Because Callahan was right. He was absolutely right.”

He turns his head, his gaze settling on his daughter, and the unyielding posture he’s held for years finally cracks. His eyes soften into something fiercely human.

“It took a man who loves her enough to risk my wrath to make me realize I was losing the only thing that mattered. Iveline, you are the strongest person I know. And Callahan…” He pauses, clearing his throat, the emotion clearly rising in his chest. “…thank you for being the bridge back to my daughter. I’m proud to call you my son.”

Cal’s jaw is tight, his eyes shining as he nods, a silent, profound understanding passing between the two men. It’s a moment that feels less like a wedding toast and more like a reconciliation.

William sets his microphone down on the linen-draped table and steps forward. He wraps Ivy into a long, fierce hug that speaks volumes of unsaid apologies, before pulling Callahan into a brief, heavy-handed embrace.

When he pulls back, looking lighter than he has all weekend, he takes his seat next to his wife, quietly checking out of the spotlight.

The room is a wash of emotional sniffles and polite, scattered applause, the tension in the air entirely dissipated.

Before the emotional weight of William’s speech can fully turn the tent into a sob fest, a familiar voice booms through the speakers, cutting right through the heavy atmosphere.

Rick stands up from the front table, already holding a wireless microphone in one hand and a half-empty glass of scotch in the other. He grins, the deep lines around his eyes crinkling as he looks directly at the bride.

“I know I’m not officially on the program,” Rick begins, his Boston accent carrying easily over the room, “but as the General Manager of the Reign—and the guy who actually had to manage the absolute circus this couple called a career—I’m invoking executive privilege.”

A wave of appreciative laughter breaks out from the tables where the hockey guys are seated.

“I’ve known Ivy since long before she was coaching, back when she was just the smartest person in any room she walked into,” Rick says, his tone softening with genuine affection. “And when I hired her as my assistant coach, people told me I was crazy. A woman in that locker room? They said it wouldn’t work. But she didn’t just survive that environment—she ruled it. Which brings me to my official wedding toast and a public plea.”

He turns his gaze toward Callahan, shaking his head with a tired, fond grin.

“I love you both, which is why I can say this with total honesty: Ivy, I don’t care that you left the job, you need to come back to the Reign. I am begging you. And Callahan, I know you’re happily retired, but you need to come back too, just to handle your friends. Because ever since you two walked away from the rink, Nico and Cash are absolutely killing me. You two were the only human beings on God’s green earth who knew how to control those idiots.”

Rick points the microphone directly at me, his eyes narrowing.

“Cash spent twenty minutes in my office yesterday trying to convince me that a chocolate fountain counts as a post-game recovery tool, and Nico literally forgot how to skate backward last Tuesday. The franchise is crumbling without you.”

The tent absolutely erupts.