Page 25 of The Last Inch Of Ice
The taste of Callahan’s skin on his lips that day at the draft combine. The sound of his breath catching. The sight of him in the shower, naked and hard and unflinching.
It’s driving Nazar slowly insane.
Fuck.
He isn’t gay. He’s thought about men before—fleeting thoughts, passing curiosity—but it was never like this. Never this consuming.
And even if he is gay, that would be manageable. That would be something he could work through.
But this? All his desire, all his rage, all his intensity focused on one person—on the one person he’s supposed to hate?
That’s not manageable at all.
* * *
Two days later, they’re in Boston for an away game.
The evening before the match, Nazar is in his hotel room watching game footage when his phone rings.
Oksana.
They went on one date at the beginning of the season—his grandmother’s doing—and somehow stayed friends afterward. She works for a sports publication, knows hockey inside and out, and doesn’t expect anything from him beyond occasional conversations. It’s easy. Comfortable.
“Nazar, hey.” Her voice is tight. “Sorry to call so late.”
“It’s fine. What’s up?”
“Okay, so—remember when we talked about the Callahan family? About Doyle and all his bullshit?”
He sits up straighter. They’d had that conversation after their first date, when she had asked about playing with “the owner’s son.” Nazar had said more than he intended, and Oksana had listened with the focused intensity of someone who understood exactly what it meant to be crushed by people with money and power.
“I remember,” he says carefully.
“Right. So, my publication just got some information. Kaisyn Callahan was spotted about an hour ago at Club Inferno.”
His grip tightens on the phone. “That stupid secret goth club downtown?”
“Yeah. But here’s the thing—his father’s PR firm killed the story within minutes. And I mean minutes, Nazar. Someone called our editor directly. Threats of legal action, the whole nine yards.”
“Hmm.”
“I know.” Oksana’s voice is sharp with anger now. “And you know what? Fuck Doyle Callahan. I’m tired of watching him control narratives and bury stories just because he has money. So I’m telling you. Do with it what you want.”
His mind is already racing. “I was invited to Club Inferno. A few days ago. By Stahl—he plays for the Bruins. Some of our team got invites too. But our PR department told us not to go.”
“Really? They specifically said to avoid it?”
“Yeah. Direct order.”
“That’s weird.” She pauses. “I mean, it’s just a club. What’s so provocative about it that they’d ban you from going?”
“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “But I’m going to find out.”
“Nazar—wait. Think about this. If your PR department told you not to go, and you go anyway—”
“Thanks for calling.”
He hangs up before she can talk him out of it.
