Page 115 of The Last Inch Of Ice
“…and that’s why you have to keep your head up,” Kai is saying, his voice patient and clear. None of the sarcastic edge he usually employs. “You can’t see what’s coming if you’re staring at the puck.”
“But what if I lose it?” one kid asks, his voice worried.
“You will lose it sometimes. That’s okay. Better to lose the puck than to lose your teeth.” Kai grins. “Trust me on that one.”
The kids giggle.
“Can we play on a lake?” another kid asks. “Like, a real game? My dad says they used to do that.”
“For fun, sure,” Kai says. “But not for an official game. In professional hockey, the ice has to be three-quarters of an inch or an inch thick. Not more, not less.”
Nazar feels himself sway slightly, his edges catching on nothing. The rink tilts on its axis.He’s five years old again, standing on outdoor ice in the bitter cold, his brother’s voice a warm, familiar presence beside him.
Three-quarters of an inch or an inch, Nazar. Not more, not less.
“The puck is actually thicker than the ice itself,” Kai continues, and there’s something in his voice now. Somethingwarm and almost reverent. “That’s kind of crazy when you think about it. This whole sport, this whole thing we do—it exists on something thinner than the object we’re trying to move.”
“But why exactly three-quarters or an inch?” one of the boys asks. “Why not just more? That seems easier.”
“Because it really works,” Kai says. His eyes are shining now, reflecting the overhead lights. “And in hockey, just like in life, sometimes the smallest detail makes all the difference. The precision matters.”
He pauses, and something shifts in his expression. Something softer.
“Someone explained that to me once. A long time ago, when I was about your age.” His voice drops slightly. “The most worthy person I’ve ever met. He told me that paying attention to those small details — that’s what separates people who just show up from people who actually care about what they’re doing.”
The world goes quiet around Nazar. He can see Kai, can hear his voice, but it’s like looking through a tunnel. Everything else fades into static.
His heart is hammering against his ribs so hard he’s surprised it’s not audible.
“So the first inch of ice isn’t even a full inch!” the kid says, his voice full of indignant wonder. “That’s crazy!”
And as Kai laughs, he looks up. His eyes find Nazar’s across the ice. Hold them.
“So when it comes to hockey,” Kai says, “the first inch of ice is kind of the last inch. The thing everything else is built on.”
Nazar can’t breathe. Isn’t sure he’s ever going to breathe properly again.
The pieces click into place with devastating clarity.
No one told him explicitly that Derek fell out of favor with Doyle because of a younghockey player.
Nazar had figured it out himself from snippets of overheard conversations. His stepfather, drunk and grieving, saying “the boy” over and over. Derek had tried to protect “the boy.” Had lost everything for him.
And Nazar now knows which boy his brother had tried to protect.
His stepfather’s angry, grief-stricken ramblings after Derek died.That fucking kid. Derek threw away everything for that kid. Tried to protect him from Doyle Callahan and look what it cost him.
It wasn’t just any boy.
It was little Kaisyn Callahan.
Derek had known Kai when Kai was seven or eight years old. Had taught him about ice thickness. Had been the “worthy person” who’d shown him kindness when his own father was treating him like a liability.
And Doyle had destroyed Derek for it. For showing compassion to his own son. For trying to protect a child from his father’s manipulation.
The realization crashes over Nazar like a wave, making his vision narrow.
He turns, his blades cutting sharp, angry gashes in the ice. He needs to move. Needs to get away before he does something catastrophically stupid in front of a hundred people and two dozen cameras.
