Page 22 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Kai counts the seconds. Watches the minute hand on his phone tick closer to two. Tries to prepare himself for whatever’s coming.
At exactly 2:00pm, the door opens.
Marcus Roven stands in the doorway. He’s in his fifties, graying at the temples, with the kind of face that suggests he’s been dealing with hockey players’ bullshit for longer than either of them have been alive. His expression is completely neutral.
“Callahan. Rykov.” He steps aside. “Come in.”
He gestures to the two chairs across from him.
“Sit.”
They sit.
Kai keeps his spine straight, his expression carefully blank. Beside him, Rykov is doing the same.
Roven settles into his chair. He doesn’t speak immediately. Just studies them both with that penetrating gaze that probably made him excellent at poker.
The silence stretches. Thirty seconds. A minute.
Finally, he speaks.
6
Chapter 6 Nazar
“My uncle gave me this watch,” Marcus says, holding up his wrist like he’s presenting evidence in court. “He wore it when he was fighting in the war. Shrapnel hit it, right where the brand name was engraved.”
Nazar can barely see the watch from where he’s sitting.
Marcus’s desk is massive—probably Italian, definitely overpriced—and to actually examine the watch, he would have to stand up and lean across like a schoolboy being shown a prize.
He stays exactly where he is, motionless. Beside him, Callahan does the same.
“When they repaired it,” Marcus continues, turning his wrist in the light, “they left the brand name off. But it works perfectly. Never missed a second. Overtime, it only became more valuable.” He pauses, waiting for them to absorb his wisdom. “This taught me an important lesson. And lessons, gentlemen,add up to a philosophy of life. My philosophy is simple: I don’t believe in brands.”
Nazar is already familiar with Marcus Roven’s personality. The man is in love with the sound of his own voice. He’d deliver the same grandiose speeches even if he were selling meat at a corner butcher shop instead of managing a hockey team.
Marcus rises from his chair and begins pacing the length of his office, hands clasped behind his back like a general surveying troops.
“They put you on magazine covers. Your agents get advertising firms involved. You cash checks—big checks, little checks, checks upon checks. And it’s all because of your name. Each of you walks around believing you’re a brand.” He stops near the window. “And that’s fine, honestly. You need to believe that. But here’s the truth: there’s only one brand in this building, and it’s called the Vancouver Wolverines. That name will outlive all of us. It’ll be here when you’re six feet under. When I’m six feet under.”
“And because of our legs,” Callahan interjects, his voice lazy, almost bored. A sharp blond curl falls across his forehead.
“Excuse me?” Marcus turns, squinting.
“You said the checks come because of our name. But we’re paid for our legs. Our ability to skate. To score. That’s what generates revenue, not our surnames.”
“You’re absolutely right, Kaisyn.” Marcus walks closer, and there’s something predatory in the movement. “Because without legs, there’s no personal game for you. But the team? The team still plays. The franchise continues.”
NazarknowsCallahan is rolling his eyes internally. He’s losing patience himself, his fingers drumming once against his thigh before he forces them still.
“Yes, we’re replaceable,” Nazar says, his voice flat and deliberate. “Is there a specific problem you want to address?”
“You tell me, Nazar.” Marcus plants both hands on the desk and leans forward. “Carolina reports to me daily about how many publications are covering your personal war with Callahan on the ice. Middle of the goddamn season. And we’re not talking about the Chicago Tribune’s sports section. We’re talking ESPN think pieces. Twitter insiders with two hundred thousand followers. Reddit has already made a statistical breakdown chart with color coding. So I’ll ask again: do the Wolverines have a problem?”
“Let me check our stats,” Callahan says, pulling out his phone with deliberate slowness. The mockery in his voice is unmistakable. “Oh, wait. Look at that. Best results in four seasons. Funny how that works.”
The manager moves around the desk. Callahan shifts one leg slightly to the side, a polite gesture—making room in case Marcus wants to walk past.
