Page 37 of The Last Inch Of Ice
He leaves Rykov standing there, looking like he’s torn between murder and actual physical combustion.
It’s possibly the best five minutes of Kai’s season.
11
Chapter 11 Kai
After the game, the locker room has the tense, ugly energy of a team that knows they fucked up.
They played poorly. Against the Coyotes, a team that’s rebuilding and shouldn’t have given them any real trouble. But the West Coast trip has worn everyone down—three games in four nights, time zone changes, too many nights in hotels that all look the same.
It’s not an excuse. It’s just a fact.
Davis is the first to voice what everyone’s thinking, and his irritation lands mostly on Kai.
“You were invisible out there, Callahan. Completely invisible.”
Kai’s jaw tightens. He’s still in his gear, sweaty and exhausted and not in the mood for this. “I had three assists.”
“You should’ve had five. Maybe six.” Davis is pulling off his skates with aggressive motions. “You were hesitating. Second-guessing. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing’s going on with me.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been off all week.”
Rykov speaks up from across the locker room, his voice low and even. “Harley played us too conservative in the second period. We should’ve been forechecking harder.”
Davis whips around. “I’m not asking you, Rykov.”
“I’m not asking for your permission to have an opinion about the game we just played,” Rykov says flatly.
Kai and Rykov exchange a look across the room. Just for a second.
“We all played like shit,” Kai says, breaking eye contact first. “It happens. Long season. We’ll be better next game.”
“Not to us it doesn’t happen,” Davis shoots back. “Not on this team. We have standards.”
Nobody says anything else. They’re all acutely aware that they’re having this conversation without the captain present.
When Bachman arrives, the argument stops immediately. Everyone disperses like smoke, suddenly very busy with their gear.
Kai showers quickly, changes into his post-game outfit, and escapes to his hotel room before anyone can corner him for a “talk.”
* * *
Bonifazio is exactly where Kai left him that morning—curled up on the hotel bed in a patch of afternoon sunlight, looking like a small, judgmental shadow.
“Hey, buddy,” Kai says softly, running a hand down the cat’sspine. Bonifazio opens one green eye, assesses him, and goes back to sleep.
Kai refills the food bowl—the fancy organic stuff Bonifazio will only sometimes deign to eat—and checks the water. The cat hasn’t moved. Good. At least someone in Kai’s life is content.
He’s just settling onto the bed himself, contemplating whether to order room service or just drink his feelings, when there’s a knock at the door.
Loud. Insistent.
He opens it to find Rykov standing there, still in his post-game clothes, his dark eyes blazing with something Kai can’t quite identify. Anger, maybe. Or determination. Or something more dangerous.
Kai immediately slams the door.
