Page 12 of The Last Inch Of Ice
“No Nepotism in Hockey!”
“Earn Your Spot!”
He counts at least thirty people, maybe more. They’re loud, organized, holding professionally printed signs. A few reporters hover at the edges, cameras ready.
The bus doors hiss open. Thompson stands at the front. “Stay together. Ignore them. Straight to the lobby.”
Nazar grabs his bag and follows the team out. The noise hits him immediately—shouting, the click of camera shutters,someone blowing an air horn. Security guards form a corridor from the bus to the hotel entrance, their arms linked.
That’s when Nazar notices it.
There are more guards around Callahan than anyone else. Four of them, specifically positioned, creating a tighter circle. How the fuck did he not notice this before? They’ve been traveling for weeks now, and only now does it register that Callahan has his own security detail.
He feels foolish. Observant on the ice, blind off it.
They push through the doors into the lobby. The noise cuts off, replaced by the muted hum of air conditioning and quiet conversations. The team scatters toward the check-in desk, but Nazar’s eyes land on Callahan.
He’s standing near the windows with Alex Bachman and Sam Kowalski—the oldest player and the youngest. Bachman has a hand on Callahan’s shoulder, his expression serious. Sam nods along, saying something Nazar can’t hear.
Callahan’s face is carefully blank. Composed. But his jaw is tight, and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. He’s hiding it well, but Nazar can see the tension in the line of his shoulders.
Then Callahan’s eyes flick up. He catches Nazar watching.
For a second, neither of them looks away.
Then his mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. He says something to Bachman, claps Sam on the arm, and turns toward the doors.
“Where the hell is he going?” Miller mutters beside Nazar.
Nazar watches as Callahan pushes back through the hotel entrance, stepping into full view of the crowd and the cameras. A reporter shoves a microphone in his face almost immediately.
“Of course,” Nazar says under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He grabs his key card from the front desk and heads for the elevators.
* * *
Nazar’s room is on the fifth floor. He drops his bag on the bed, pulls out his phone, and scrolls through messages. One from his grandmother asking if he’s eating enough. One from his agent about an endorsement deal he doesn’t care about.
Then he hears it.
A low, guttural hiss from the hallway.
He freezes.
No.
Another hiss, followed by a sharp yowl.
Nazar closes his eyes and counts to ten.
When he opens the door, Callahan is three doors down, crouched in front of a pet carrier, trying to coaxsomethingout.
“Come on, Bonifazio,” Callahan says, his voice softer than Nazar has ever heard it. “We’ve been over this. Hotels aren’t scary.”
Aha, fucking Bonifazio is having a bad afternoonagain.
