Page 4 of The Last Inch Of Ice
He doesn’t.
“You know what everyone says, right?” Davis continues. “That you’re only here because Daddy owns half the fucking league. That you couldn’t make a roster on your own if your life depended on it.”
“They say a lot of things,” he replies. “To be honest, Davis, most of it’s more creative than that.”
“This is a joke to you.”
“No.” Callahan’s voice loses its casual edge. “But I’m not going to defend myself to you. You’ve already decided what you think.”
“Damn right I have.”
“Then we’re done here.”
There’s a pause. Nazar can picture Davis trying to decide if he wants to push it further.
“Just stay out of my way,” he finally says.
Nazar stays where he is, his hand tight around the water bottle. His mind goes back to six years ago. The scouting combine. The drills where scouts watched every move, timed every lap. He’d been projected top five. Top five meant bigguaranteed contracts, signing bonuses, security for him and his grandmother.
Then everything changed.
The list came out, and his name wasn’t on it.
And Kaisyn Callahan—who hadn’t been projected to go in the top five and was only added to the draft combine at the last minute—had taken the fifth spot.
His father Doyle Callahan owned the Toronto Wardens and had his hands in half a dozen other teams’ business. That’s what everyone said. That he’d pulled strings. Made calls. Ensured his youngest son got what he wanted.
Nazar’s jaw clenches. That one spot changed everything. Not getting into the top five meant a shorter contract, less money, playing for a team that didn’t want him. It meant one more year of fighting for ice time, of proving himself over and over while Callahan got handed opportunities.
But.
Nazar exhales slowly.
Callahan is fast. Not just fast—explosive. The kind of speed that turns a broken play into a breakaway before the defense can blink. And his precision, that surgical accuracy when he needs it, is something Nazar has watched on tape more times than he’d admit.
Callahan is good. Maybe not elite, not yet, but good enough that the question of whether he belongs is more complicated than Nazar wants it to be.
It pains him to think about it. Burns like acid in his throat.
Because it would be easier if Callahan was just a rich kid coasting on his name. Easier to hate him cleanly, without this gnawing doubt that maybe,maybe, the talent is real.
Nazar pushes off the wall and walks back toward the locker room.
The noise hits him again as he steps inside. Most of the team is halfway to the showers now. He heads for his stall, tossing the water bottle onto the bench.
He feels it before he sees it.
That prickle of attention.
Nazar looks up. Callahan is standing by his own stall, towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp and pushed back from his face. He’s staring directly at him.
For a second, neither of them moves.
Then Callahan’s mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “Enjoyed the show, Rykov?”
Nazar holds his gaze. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” His voice is light, almost amused, but his eyes are cold. Hard.
