Page 3 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Callahan keeps up. His edges are clean, his shot placement precise, but there’s a half-second hesitation before each move that tells Nazar he’s thinking too much. Trying to prove something.
“Rykov! Callahan!” Thompson barks. “Two-on-one drill. Callahan, you’re on defense.”
Nazar takes his position at center ice. Miller lines up beside him, grinning. “Make it hurt.”
“Always do,” he says.
The whistle blows.
Nazar surges forward, the puck on his stick. Callahan skates backward, his eyes tracking the play. Miller breaks left, creating space, but Nazar doesn’t pass. He charges straight at Callahan, closing the distance between them in seconds.
Callahan plants his feet, stick low. “That’s all you got, Rykov?”
Nazar feints right. Callahan bites, shifting his weight. Nazar cuts left and slams into him, shoulder to chest. The impact sends him stumbling back, his stick clattering to the ice. Nazar fires the puck into the net.
The sound of rubber hitting the mesh is satisfying.
Thompson’s whistle cuts through the air. “Clean hit. Reset.”
Nazar turns back. Callahan is already on his feet, picking up his stick. There’s no anger in his expression, just that same measured look. He skates closer, close enough that Nazar can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.
“You always this subtle?” Callahan asks, his voice low.
“You always this slow?” Nazar shoots back.
Callahan’s lips twitch. “Guess we’ll find out.”
They run the drill again. And again. Each time, Nazar hits harder. Each time, Callahan gets back up.
By the fifth round, Nazar’s breathing is ragged. Callahan’s jersey is dark with sweat, clinging to the lines of his chest and shoulders. Nazar’s eyes catch on the way the fabric molds to him, then jerks away.
“Rykov, you trying to kill him or just maim him?” Miller calls out, skating past.
“Depends on the day,” Nazar mutters.
Thompson finally blows the whistle for the last time. “Hit the showers. Team meeting in twenty.”
* * *
The locker room is loud with post-practice noise: the clang of gear hitting benches, the hiss of water from the showers, voices overlapping in tired conversation. Nazar strips off his pads methodically, his muscles protesting every movement. His jersey is soaked through, heavy with sweat.
He needs air.
Grabbing his water bottle, he pushes through the side door into the hallway. The facility is quieter here, just the hum of industrial HVAC and the distant sound of a Zamboni on another rink. He leans against the wall, taking a long drink.
That’s when he hears it.
“—don’t care who your daddy is, Callahan. You’re on my line, you better keep up.”
Nazar recognizes the voice. Davis. A fourth-liner with more attitude than skill.
“I’ll do my best not to embarrass you.” Callahan’s voice is smooth, almost bored.
“You think this is funny?”
“Not particularly. You’re the one who cornered me in a locker room.”
Nazar moves closer to the corner, staying out of sight. He shouldn’t listen. He should walk away.
