Page 10 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Nazar’s Ukrainian grandmother, Halina, opens the door before he can knock. She takes one look at him and launches into rapid-fire Ukrainian, her hands flying up in horror.
“Look at you! Skin and bones!”
“Ba,” Nazar says, stepping inside and kissing her cheek. “I’m fine.”
“Fine?” She pinches his arm, hard. “This is fine? I’ve seen better meat on a chicken carcass at the market.”
Nazar, easily over two hundred pounds and six feet three inches tall, follows her into the cramped kitchen. The table is loaded with food:varenyky, holubtsi, kovbasa, salo,pickled vegetables, fresh bread, and what looks like an entire roast chicken. The smell makes his stomach growl despite himself.
He’s tried multiple times to buy her a more spacious home. Each time, she’s refused with the same line: “I raised three children in this house. Why do I need a palace now?”
Since his mother and brother died, he makes a point of visiting her before every season. It’s the only ritual that feels like home.
“Sit,” Halina commands, pointing at the chair. “Eat before you collapse.”
“I eat plenty,ba.”
“You eat garbage.” She waves a hand dismissively, already piling food onto his plate. “Protein shakes and chicken breast.That’s not food, that’s punishment. No wonder you look miserable all the time.”
“I don’t look miserable.”
“You look like someone stole your favorite toy and set it on fire.” She sits across from him, pouring tea into two mismatched cups. “Now eat. And tell me why you’re scowling like your brother used to when the Dynamo lost.”
Nazar picks up his fork. The first bite of varenyky is perfect—potato and cheese, the dough thin and tender. He closes his eyes for a second.
She watches him with sharp eyes, the kind that see through every lie, every omission. Then she picks up the remote and turns on the television. A hockey highlights reel plays, and she leans forward, her focus absolute.
“Terrible defense,” she mutters as a goal is scored. “What is the goalie doing? Sleeping?”
Nazar hides a smile. She watches every Wolverines game, records the ones she misses, and critiques his performance with brutal honesty.
“That was a lazy pass,” she says, pointing at the screen. “See? He didn’t even look. You do that sometimes, Nazar. You get impatient.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“You better.” She takes a sip of tea, her gaze never leaving the screen. “You’re good, but you’re not patient. Patience wins games. Your brother knew that.”
Nazar’s grip tightens on his fork. She doesn’t say Derek’s name often, but when she does, it’s like a knife sliding between his ribs.
Then they show Callahan.
The camera zooms in on him after a goal, his helmet off, hair damp and wild, that stupid scar on his cheek catching thelight. He’s grinning at someone off-camera, and even through the screen, Nazar can see the charisma rolling off him in waves.
“Ah, that boy,” Halina says, her voice full of admiration. “Such a little sparrow. Look at him go.”
Nazar grits his teeth.
“He’s fast,” she continues, leaning back in her chair. “And smart. You see how he reads the ice? That’s instinct. You can’t teach that.”
“He’s reckless,” Nazar says flatly.
Halina raises an eyebrow. “Reckless? Or brave?”
“There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” She gives him a knowing look, the kind that makes him feel like he’s twelve again and she’s just caught him lying about breaking the neighbor’s window. “You don’t like him?”
“I don’t know him.”
