Page 107 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Kai has a black eye. A nasty, vicious purple-and-blue bruise blooming under his left eye, spreading across his cheekbone. The kind of injury that comes from being hit—really hit, with force and intent.
In the next few photos, he’s wearing oversized sunglasses.
The headline makes Nazar want to put his fist through a wall:
IS KAISYN CALLAHAN A VICTIM OF DOMESTIC ABUSE? SOURCES CLOSE TO THE WARDENS FORWARD EXPRESS CONCERN OVER RELATIONSHIP WITH NEW PARTNER
Below it, smaller text:Or just another consequence of public attacks on LGBTQ athletes?
The article is pure speculation dressed up as concern. Unnamed sources. Carefully worded implications. The cowardly journalistic language of people stirring shit without committing to actual accusations.
But the photos don’t lie. Someone hit Kai. Hit him hard enough to leave that kind of mark.
The thought of someone’s fist connecting with Kai’s face—that pale skin that bruises like a peach—is a white-hot poker straight through Nazar’s skull. His vision actually goes red at the edges, his hands curling into fists without conscious decision.
The idea that this singer could have done this. Could have hurt Kai. Could have raised his hand.
No. It’s unthinkable. Unacceptable. Won’t be tolerated.
“Nazar?” Sam’s voice sounds far away. “You good, man?”
Nazar doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. His brain has already moved past speech into pure, focused action.
He shoves the phone back at Sam and turns on his heel, heading for the exit.
“Whoa, where are you—” Vyachovsky starts.
Nazar doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. He’s out of the gym in seconds, breaking into a run the moment he hits the sidewalk, his gym bag bouncing against his hip.
His apartment is four blocks away. He makes it in three minutes, his mind already a frantic, focused whirl of logistics even as his lungs burn.
Flights. Cars. Schedules. The Comets have a game in Boston Wednesday night, he’s supposed to be on the team plane at 2 PM. But Kai is in Toronto. The Wardens’ next game is tomorrow afternoon, which means Kai is probably home now. In his condo. Alone or—
The thought of him being alone with whoever did this makes Nazar’s hands shake as he unlocks his apartment door.
He grabs his laptop, pulls up flight search engines with fingers that refuse to cooperate properly. Direct flights to Toronto. Nothing until 6 AM tomorrow, and that won’t work, that’s too late, he needs to be therenow.
Private charter.
The thought crystalizes with sudden, perfect clarity. He’s never done it before, has always flown commercial like a normal person, even with his salary. The expense seems obscene, wasteful. The kind of thing Kai would do without thinking.
But this isn’t about money. This is about getting to Toronto in the next three hours.
He finds a charter service, books a flight leaving in ninety minutes.
He throws clothes into a bag without looking at what he’s packing. Jeans. Shirts. His passport because his brain supplies that automatically even though he doesn’t need it for domestic flights. His phone charger. Deodorant.
He’s moving on pure instinct now, the same way he plays hockey. His body makes decisions faster than his conscious brain can process. This is what he’s good at. Taking action. Solving problems through force of will and refusal to accept defeat.
He’s going to Kai. And he’s going to end this. Whatever is going o n— whatever abusive, toxic situation Kai has gotten himself into — Nazar will not allow him to remain in it.
He’ll burn it all to the ground if he has to. That singer’s career. His own reputation. His own career. Whatever it takes.
The Uber to the private terminal takes forty-five minutes through traffic that makes Nazar want to scream. He sits in the back seat, his knee bouncing, checking his phone every thirty seconds even though he knows Kai won’t have responded to any of his messages.
He types out texts he doesn’t send:
I’m coming
