Page 2 of The Last Inch Of Ice
“Callahan. A word.” He nods toward the hallway.
Callahan follows him without arguing.
They step just outside the locker room door, and Nazar watches through the gap as the older player talks in a low, even tone. The conversation is over in less than a minute. Bachman even squeezes Callahan’s shoulder, as if supporting him.
Nazar’s head jerks up. He never expected to see them have such a respectful relationship. The younger player listens attentively to the older man, his posture different — less defensive, more open.
When they return, Callahan’s easygoing mask is back in place.
A coach appears in the doorway behind them. “Callahan. You’re late. Checkups ended half an hour ago.”
“Traffic,” he says without missing a beat.
“We’re in the facility, kid. There’s no traffic.”
“Fair point.” He starts pulling gear from his bag. “Won’t happen again, Coach.”
Thompson grunts. “Five minutes. Everyone on the ice.”
The room noise resumes, but it’s muted now, cautious.
Nazar finishes with his skates and stands, testing his weight on the blades. Across the locker area, Callahan strips off his jacket and pulls his practice jersey over his head. The fabric catches for a moment on his shoulders before sliding down.
Nazar grabs his stick and helmet, heading for the tunnel that leads to the ice.
The rest of the team files out behind him. Callahan is last, skating onto the ice with an easy grace that makes Nazar’s jaw tighten. His edges are clean, his stride efficient. He looks like he belongs here.
That’s the worst part.
Coach Thompson’s whistle pierces the air. “Bring it in! Hustle!”
They form a half-circle around him. Nazar ends up directly across from Callahan, close enough to smell the soap on his skin. It’s a clean, sharp scent that makes something in Nazar’s chest tighten uncomfortably.
“Welcome back,” the coach starts, his voice booming across the ice. “We got new faces, but the goal’s the same. The Cup. Nothing less.” He looks around the circle. “You know the tradition. We need a captain. Management has made its choice.”
He lets the silence hang for a beat. “This year, the ‘C’ goes to Alex Bachman.”
A quiet but collective sigh of relief moves through the players. No surprises. No bullshit politics. Just the right choice.
“As is tradition,” Thompson says, “Bachman needs the full support of his team. Show of faith. Sticks on the ice.”
The sound starts a moment later. A heavythumpas Miller taps his stick. Then another, and another, until the ice echoes with the deep, rhythmic drumming of unified agreement.Thump-thump-thump.
Nazar slams his stick down hard, his eyes pinned on Callahan.
Callahan doesn’t move. He just stands there, holding his stick, watching the rest of the team. His gaze slides from other players to Nazar, and that little smirk touches his lips again.
Slowly he lowers his stick to the ice and taps it once.
A single, quietthump.
The drumming dies out. Thompson claps Bachman on the shoulder, and players start moving off for drills. Nazar doesn’t move. He watches Callahan turn away, feeling the weight of that one, solitary tap settle in his chest like a stone.
Callahan glances back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised just enough to be a question.
Practice is brutal.
Thompson runs them through every drill twice, then adds a third round for good measure. Nazar’s lungs burn, his thighs scream, but he pushes harder. He’s always been good at pushing. It’s what got him here when everyone said he’d wash out.
