Page 21 of The Last Inch Of Ice
The cat purrs, which Kai has learned is not necessarily a sign of contentment. Sometimes Bonifazio purrs right before he bites someone.
“You’re a terrible comfort animal,” Kai tells him, scratching behind his ears. “You know that, right? When people have emotional support animals, those animals are supposed to be, like, supportive. You’re more of an emotional terrorism animal.”
Bonifazio closes his eyes and pushes his head harder against Kai’s hand.
“You’re also the only one who doesn’t care that my last name is Callahan,” Kai continues quietly. “Which is probably why I keep you around.”
Bonifazio opens one eye and gives him a look that clearly says,You keep me around because Iallowit.
“Right. Of course. My mistake.”
The cat settles down on Kai’s chest, still purring, his claws kneading gently through the fabric of Kai’s shirt. Kai runs his hand down Bonifazio’s spine, feeling the knobs of his vertebrae, the warmth of him.
“Dad called,” he says to the cat. “He thinks I’m on thin ice. Which is funny, because I’m literally always on thin ice. That’s where I live. It’s my natural habitat.”
Bonifazio’s purring intensifies.
“You agree with him, don’t you? You think I should get my shit together.”
Bonifazio bites his thumb. Not hard. Just enough to make a point.
“Message received.”
* * *
They fly back to Vancouver the next morning. The team is in high spirits—three wins in a row, playoff positioning looking better every week. Even Thompson seems marginally less homicidal than usual.
Kai sits near the back of the plane, headphones in, pretending to sleep. Across the aisle, Rykov is doing the same. Or maybe he’s actually asleep. It’s impossible to tell with him.
Kai risks a glance from under his eyelashes.
Rykov’s head is tilted back against the seat, his jaw relaxed for once. He looks younger like this. Less severe. Almost peaceful.
Kai looks away quickly.
When they land, his phone buzzes with a text.
GM wants to see you. Office. 2pm.
Mid-season meetings with the general manager are rarely good news. Usually they’re precursors to trades or demotions or very serious conversations about “team chemistry.”
He glances around. Players are busy stretching, laughing at dumb jokes—but Rykov isn’t paying attention.
He watches Rykov reach for his phone a beat later, his fingers stiff, eyes narrowing as he reads. Kai smirks faintly. Interesting. Rykov’s expression tightens. He nudges Miller.
“No,” Miller says, shaking his head. “Nobody called me.” A few other guys glance over.
Kai leans back in his seat, letting himself enjoy the quiet satisfaction of knowing something Rykov hasn’t quite realized yet. Only two of them got the message.
That idiot finally looks up, scanning the plane, and Kai catches that flash of awareness—sharp, hot, and immediate. His gaze lands on Kai’s, and Kai tilts his head, calm, but with a spark of amusement flickering in the corner of his eye.
This is worse than he thought.
At 1:55pm, Kai stands outside the general manager’s office. Rykov is already there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, staring at nothing.
They don’t look at each other.
They don’t speak.
