Page 23 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Marcus doesn’t walk past.
He pushes Callahan’s knee with his own. Hard. Deliberate. Forcing Callahan’s legs wider apart, then stepping between them, blocking any movement.
Callahan goes completely still. He doesn’t look at Marcus. Doesn’t move. Just stares straight ahead, his jaw locked tight, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
Every nerve ending in Nazar’s spine freezes.
He’s staring openly now—at Callahan’s legs, at the way Marcus is standing between them, too close, invasive, wrong. At the way Callahan’s hands have gone very still on the armrests of his chair.
What the fuck?
Why the hell isn’t Marcus moving away from him?
And why isn’t Callahan telling him to fuck off?
“Listen, boys.” His voice is almost jovial now, conversational. “I have exactly one problem in my life right now. My wife Dianadoesn’t like her new Ferrari. Says the color’s wrong. And we can’t get the new model for six months. She’s very impatient about it.” He rocks slightly on his heels, still standing between Callahan’s legs. “And she has to wait for me constantly because I’m here, reading reports about you two. Making decisions. Weighing risks. All because of your unnecessary drama. Unnecessary. You understand that word? Unnecessary.”
He finally steps back, and Callahan’s shoulders drop fractionally.
“My new wife,” Marcus continues, returning to his desk, “has areolas the size of fucking pucks. Can you even imagine that? And instead of, you know, giving them the attention they deserve, I’m stuck untangling whatever bullshit war you two are having out there during power plays. Got it?”
“Crystal clear,” Callahan says. His voice is completely flat, scraped clean of inflection.
Nazar nods once. Marcus waits, clearly expecting him to speak too. When he doesn’t, Marcus’s expression tightens.
“Good. Then we’re done here. Check with Carolina about the charity event schedule. And Rykov, I think you have that interview with Sports Illustrated on Thursday. Don’t forget.”
They stand. Walk to the door.
“Gentlemen,” he calls after them. “Play nice.”
* * *
They walk down the corridor in silence. Not side by side—Callahan is a half-step ahead, moving fast, his shoulders rigid.
The chill in Nazar’s spine hasn’t left. It’s spreading through his chest now, cold and furious.
“What the hell was—”
“You seem to have decided I’m taking the fall for both of us,” Callahan interrupts without looking back. His voice is sharp, mocking, but there’s an edge underneath that Nazar recognizes. “Both with the press and with these fucking suits—”
Nazar grabs Callahan by the arm and hauls him toward a corner near the service staircase.
Callahan is so shocked by the sudden movement—by Nazar’s hand on him, by the force of it—that Nazar manages to pull him several feet before he recovers enough to resist.
“What the fuck, Rykov?” he yanks his arm back, but Nazar doesn’t let go. They’re in the stairwell now, out of sight of the main corridor, surrounded by concrete and fluorescent lighting.
“Is this the first time he’s touched you like that?”
His face changes. The mask drops for half a second, and Nazar sees pure rage, before it’s covered again by that familiar sneer.
“So according to you, I got my roster spot by letting management fuck me?” His voice is shaking now, though whether from anger or something else, Nazar can’t tell. “Is that your new theory? That I’m whoring my way through the league? You’re fucking unbeliev—”
Nazar shakes him. Not hard. Just enough to cut through the spiral of words. “Did he touch you before or not? Just answer the fucking question.”
“No.” He hisses it through clenched teeth. “No, he didn’t. Happy? It’s obvious I got a place on this team because Daddy made a phone call. Just like always. Just like you think.”
“It’s not about the roster spot.”
