Page 1 of The Last Inch Of Ice
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Chapter 1 Nazar
Nazar Rykov laces his skates with practiced efficiency, pulling each crossover tight enough to feel the pressure through the padding.
A new arrival always shifts the air in the room, but this one feels different.
The name alone is enough to sour his stomach.Kaisyn Callahan.
The prodigal son. His father, Doyle Callahan, has ownership stakes spanning half the damn league.
“Heard his flight was delayed,” Miller says, yanking his helmet on.
“More like his manicurist ran late,” someone else adds.
Laughter ripples through space. Nazar doesn’t join in. He doesn’t look up.
He focuses on the knot in his laces, pulling until his fingers ache. Actions are what matter.
And every action he wants to take regarding Callahan would get him suspended for the entire season.
The locker room door swings open. The casual chatter cuts out.
Nazar slows, turning.
And there he is.
Callahan stands in the doorway, gear bag slung over one shoulder, his skates hooked through his fingers.
He’s wearing sunglasses indoors, like he walked straight off a press conference instead of into a locker room. His gear looks untouched.
“Princess has arrived,” Miller mutters.
Callahan’s eyes—bright, captivating blue—sweep the room. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just looks.
There’s something unnervingly deliberate about the way he takes them all in, like he’s already cataloging weaknesses.
He carries himself with a languid, unbothered grace that makes Nazar’s teeth ache. He’s tall, but leaner than Nazar, built for speed and agility rather than collision.
The infamous blond hair is a mess of gold under the fluorescent lights, almost glowing. The magazines call himangelic, and they’re not wrong.
If you ignore the scar.
A light-red slash across his cheekbone, just sharp enough to ruin the perfection of his face.
Nazar’s eyes follow the line of the scar, then drop to the long column of Callahan’s throat. A pulse beats under the skin. Steady. Nazar’s hand tightens on his stick until the wood creaks.
He forces his gaze back up, and Callahan is staring right at him. There’s no smirk. Not yet. Just a quiet, assessing look that’s gone in a second.
Callahan’s mouth curves. “Miss me already, boys?”
The silence stretches.
“Don’t worry,” he adds, his voice smooth as he drops his bag on an empty bench. “I brought enough of daddy’s money for everyone.”
The tension in the air ratchets up, so thick Nazar can taste it. A few guys shift uncomfortably. Miller looks like he might spit.
Before anyone can retort, a solid presence moves past them. Alex Bachman. Solid, dependable Bachman, everyone’s unspoken pick for captain.
