Page 31 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Six years ago, at the draft combine, Rykov fell on him during drills. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, but that wasn’t what stopped his breathing. It was Rykov’s mouth—right there on Kai’s neck—and the heat of him, the weight of him, the sudden intensity of everything.
Kai froze instantly. His body reacted before his brain could catch up. He got hard. Was pinned beneath Rykov with an obvious erection he couldn’t hide.
Rykov probably didn’t feel it through the hockey gear.Probably.
But somehow, Rykov understood everything about Kai.
And when Rykov got up and skated away—so fast, like he’d been burned—he looked at Kai with such contempt. Such disgust.
It was worse than anything he had ever experienced. Worse than a few years of his father’s neglect combined.
Kai had prepared himself for so much: for his father to hate that he played hockey, for obstacles and setbacks, for the hockey world to reject him or dismiss him. His mother had encouraged him before she died. His older brother had fought for him. Kai had built walls to protect himself against the world’s judgment.
But for someone from the hockey world—someone Kai was already drawn to—to look at him with that level of contemptbecause of what his body was doing, because of what that moment revealed about him…
It broke something inside him. But it also made him harder, colder, more determined to never let anyone see that reaction again.
He’d learned to weaponize his weaknesses. To make it offensive rather than defensive. To ensure that if anyone was going to judge him for being attracted to men, he’d give them plenty of other reasons to judge him first.
Kai had been surprised when Rykov didn’t make the top five. Genuinely surprised.
But he wasn’t surprised that he blamed him.
Because Rykov despises Kai so much because of that moment—because Kai’s body reacted to his closeness—that it was convenient to blame Kai for his own hockey failure. Easier than examining what actually happened at that combine.
Damn hypocrite.
Now, as Kai takes the ice, he relies more on speed—his natural gift—than on smart play. His head’s not in it. His focus is fractured.
He’s tracking Rykov instead of tracking the play.
And that’s how he ends up in the wrong position when the puck comes loose.
He doesn’t see it coming until it’s too late. He crashes hard into another player—one of their own defensemen—and the impact sends him sprawling into the boards.
His shoulder takes most of the hit.
The pain is sharp, immediate, but manageable. What’s not manageable is the way Rykov’s head whips around on the ice, finding him instantly. The way Rykov’s expression shifts into something Kai can’t read from this distance.
The team loses the game, but they play well. The stats are good. It’s the kind of loss that feels like it could’ve gone either way.
Kai doesn’t care about any of it.
* * *
An hour later, Kai walks out of the medical office, sunglasses on despite the dim lighting of the hallway. His shoulder is wrapped, his arm restricted. The injury gave him the perfect excuse to skip the post-game press conference. Today is not a day he could handle reporters.
He freezes mid-step.
Rykov is leaning against the wall near the exit, still in his team-issued cap and hoodie, like he’s been waiting.
“If you’re going to give me that lecture-growl about my lack of concentration, make it quick,” Kai says to the wall in front of him. “Bonifazio and pistachio ice cream await. One of us is getting fed, and if it isn’t him, guess who’s on the menu? You.”
“I’m not going to lecture you about the game,” he says.
Kai keeps walking. “Then what are you doing here?”
“You’ll eventually get tired of pretending I’m some schoolboy who thinks games are won or lost because of one person.”
