Page 13 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Nazar watches for a moment—watches Callahan’s careful patience, the way his voice gentles—then steps back into his room and closes the door.
And then that cat hisses again.
After one flight on a plane with Almighty Bonifazio, Nazar can now recognize that cat from among a hundred just by his hissing.
He’s going to lose his mind this season.
* * *
The game against Ottawa is brutal.
The Senators are fast, aggressive, and hungry for a win on home ice. The crowd is deafening, every hit and shot met with roars or boos depending on which side makes the play.
Nazar and Callahan are still fighting the scheme. Nazar carries the puck too long, takes shots he should pass. Callahan hovers in the wrong positions, trying to do everything himself. But somehow—somehow—the team is showing its best results in years.
They’re up 3-2 going into the final minutes.
Thompson leans over the boards during a stoppage. “Rykov! Callahan! Stop fucking around and play the system!”
“Yes, Coach,” they say in unison.
The puck drops. Nazar wins the faceoff, sending it back to the defense. They cycle it around, building pressure. Callahan breaks toward the net, but Nazar doesn’t pass. He shoots instead, and the goalie makes the save.
“Rykov!” Callahan snaps.
“You weren’t open!”
“I was right fucking there!”
The whistle blows. They reset. This time, when Nazar gets the puck, he sees Callahan streaking down the wing. He should pass. It’s the right play.
He doesn’t.
He tries to carry it himself, cutting toward the boards. There’s a Senators defenseman closing in. Nazar sees him too late.
The collision sends Nazar into the boards with a sickeningthud.
The arena erupts. For a second, everything goes white, pain radiating through his shoulder. He pushes himself up slowly, shaking his head to clear it.
When he skates back to the bench, Callahan is staring at him. Their eyes meet for a split second before Nazar looks away.
They win the game 4-2.
The locker room is loud with celebration. Miller is shouting about the win, Vyachovsky is laughing at something Sam said, and Bachman is giving a speech about momentum.
Nazar strips off his gear in silence. His muscles ache, his knuckles are bruised, and all he wants is a shower and sleep.
But he can’t leave.
Not while Callahan is sitting three stalls down, pulling off his pads and sighing like Nazar is the one who created all their problems.
Nazar’s jaw clenches. He yanks off his jersey and tosses it into his bag with more force than necessary.
“Nice hit tonight, Rykov,” Davis says, walking past. “Really got him good.”
Nazar looks up. “What?”
“That check in the second period. Right on the neck. Beautiful.”
