Page 14 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Nazar’s stomach drops.
“Uh, that wasn’t—” Sam starts.
“Doesn’t matter,” Davis says, grinning. “Still looked great.”
Nazar’s hands go still. Davis wasn’t talking about Callahan. He was talking about some other play, some other hit. But the wordneckechoes in Nazar’s mind, and suddenly he’s not in the locker room anymore.
He’s back on the ice six years ago. Draft combine. The first day he ever met Callahan.
They were running drills, testing speed and contact. Nazar went in for a check, harder than necessary, and knocked Callahan down. He fell on top of him, the weight of his body pinning Callahan to the ice.
He should have gotten up immediately.
He didn’t.
His face was buried in Callahan’s neck. He could feel the heat of his skin, the rapid pulse beneath it. His lips brushed against that long column of throat, and he exhaled, his breath warm and unsteady.
He should have moved. Should have pulled back. Should have stopped it.
But Nazar’s mouth stayed where it was.
And for one terrifying second, he was afraid to move. Not because he needed to get up. But because he was afraid his mouth would do something else.
Callahan didn’t push him away. He had every opportunity. But instead, he froze beneath Nazar, his breathing strange and shallow.
When Nazar finally forced himself to stand, he skated away as fast as possible, glaring at Callahan like it was his fault.
Callahan had smirked and made some sarcastic comment about contact sports.
Nazar prefers not to think about that moment. But in his mind, it’s clear: that was the moment Callahan decided to ruin him. That was when he felt contempt for Nazar, saw him as weak.
And Nazar felt contempt for himself.
“Rykov?”
He blinks. Miller is standing in front of him, frowning.
“You good, man?”
“Fine,” Nazar says.
He grabs his towel and heads for the showers, refusing to look at Callahan on the way out.
4
Chapter 4 Kai
Kai hates the league’s charity galas.
He attends every single one.
Tonight’s event is at the Carlisle Hotel, all marble floors and crystal chandeliers, the kind of place that screamsold moneyso loudly it echoes. The league hosts these things quarterly, and most players find excuses to skip. Kai never does.
Partly because his father hates them.
Doyle Callahan despises being strong-armed into organizing and financing charitable organizations. It cuts into profit margins, forces him to smile for cameras, and worst of all, it makes him look like he cares about something other than winning.
So naturally, Kai makes it his mission to attend. To stand in front of photographers with his name—thatname—pinned to his chest, a walking reminder that the Callahans can’t escape their obligations.
