Page 34 of The Last Inch Of Ice
“I know where the second emergency exit is,” Rykov suddenly interjects from two rows away.
Kai’s entire body goes still.
Rykov sits with his usual mountain-man posture—shoulders broad, taking up more space than strictly necessary, wearing that god-awful baseball cap he seems to think is a personality. He never makes public comments like this. Never participates in team banter. Certainly never addresses anything Kai says directly.
Kai feels the urge to dramatically lower his sunglasses and give Rykov a withering look over the rims. It’s a move he’sperfected over years of dealing with tedious people at tedious events.
But he doesn’t.
Not with Rykov.
Not when the contents of his gaze—the anger and want and complicated mess of everything else—need to stay carefully hidden behind polarized lenses.
“And where is it, Rykov?” Kai asks, keeping his voice light and disinterested.
“Where I’ll cut one if the plane starts losing altitude,” Rykov says, deadpan.
The back of the plane erupts in laughter. Even Vyachovsky, who’s been napping with noise-canceling headphones on, cracks a smile.
Kai doesn’t laugh. He just raises one eyebrow and pulls out his phone, connecting to the jet’s private Wi-Fi network—the password for which he charmed out of the flight attendant earlier. He definitely won’t be sharing it with the team, or they’ll burn through the bandwidth streaming Love Island or whatever straight men watch when they think no one’s judging them.
He opens the book app and pulls up a book about sports psychology he’s been meaning to finish.
His phone buzzes with a text notification.
Unknown Number:i think you’re more afraid of flying than Armstrong
Kai’s stomach does something complicated.
He knows it’s Rykov. Somehow this blockhead has acquired his number, and the knowledge makes Kai feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the thin aluminum shell separating them from 35,000 feet of empty air.
He types back without looking up from his screen:I’m glad I stimulated your thinking so it doesn’t atrophy completely. Keep exercising those brain cells.
Unknown Number:god, you even talk like that in messages
How do I talk?
Unknown Number:like we’re in a TV series. Or like you’re accepting an award
Unknown Number:“I’m glad I stimulated your thinking” who tf talks like that?
Kai finds the earplugs in the seat pocket. He stands, making his way down the narrow aisle toward the bathroom, and tosses them at Rykov’s knees as he passes.
He doesn’t have to say anything. The message is clear:Here are earplugs so you don’t have to listen to me talk.
Rykov will understand perfectly.
In the cramped airplane bathroom—all stainless steel and that weird blue lighting that makes everyone look like a corpse—Kai carefully avoids looking at himself in the mirror.
Instead, he braces his hands on the tiny sink and focuses on his breathing.
Four counts in. Hold for seven. Eight counts out.
It’s one of the exercises Mrs. Butterly taught him when he was nine years old and having panic attacks so severe his mother thought he was having seizures. Dr. Patricia Butterly, PhD, with her office that smelled like lavender and her infinite patience with a child who couldn’t explain why everything felt like too much.
He knows the exercises by heart. Has done them in bathrooms and hotel rooms and locker rooms across North America. They work, mostly. Enough to get him through flights without visibly falling apart.
He really does hate flying. The loss of control, the vulnerability, the statistical improbability of survival if something goes wrong. But that’s not his worst fear.
