Page 43 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Kai has turned his back to the door now, laser-focused on Miller, who is crouched near the coffee table holding what appears to be a Lay’s potato chip the size of his palm. That monstrous, fluffy cat with a squashed-in face is in the process of accepting the offering.
“Miller, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Kai asks coldly, eyes narrowed.
Miller snatches his hand back like he’s been burned, but it’s too late.
The cat lunges forward and crunches down on the chip with a sound that’s disturbingly human—like someone biting into an apple in a silent library.
“Dude, he was looking at me,” Miller says defensively, his voice pitched higher than usual. “Like, really staring. Withintensity. I thought he was gonna murder me if I didn’t give him something.”
“He has chronic indigestion.” Kai’s voice is dangerously quiet as he crosses the room and scoops the cat into his arms with practiced ease. “Specifically on the left side of his digestive tract. He is not allowed to eat processed human garbage, and he is especially not supposed to eat while lying on his back because it exacerbates the reflux.”
The cat—who seems entirely unbothered by being picked up—settles against Kai’s chest like a furry emperor being carried by a particularly devoted servant.
“Sorry, man,” Miller says, genuinely contrite now. “I didn’t know. He just looked so… demanding.”
“Yes, he’s very demanding. It’s his defining characteristic,” Kai says, his tone softening slightly as he strokes the cat’s head.
Sam and Vyachovsky having an intense, hushed conversation in the corner near the windows. They’re leaning close together, and Vyachovsky keeps gesturing with his wrist in a way that makes his watch catch the light.
“They just said no,” Sam is saying, sounding genuinely baffled and slightly hurt. “I walked into the boutique on Michigan Avenue, pointed at the display model, and the sales guy told me it wasn’t available for purchase. Just flat-out no. I have the money! I showed him my bank app!”
Vyachovsky scoffs, a sound that’s equal parts amusement and superiority. He holds up his own wrist to flash what Nazar now recognizes as a Rolex Submariner. “You can’t just walk into an AD and buy a Sub, Sammy. That’s not how it works. You have to build a relationship with the brand first. Buy some of their less popular models. The watches nobody wants. Then, maybe—maybe—after a year or two, they’ll offer you the good stuff. It’s a whole system.”
Bachman, who’s been quietly scrolling through his phone on the other end of the couch, looks up with an expression of complete disbelief. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would you pay thousands of dollars for a watch you don’t want just to be allowed to buy a different watch?”
“Because that’s how luxury brands work,” Vyachovsky says, like he’s explaining basic arithmetic. “It’s about exclusivity. Scarcity. You can’t just—”
“I’ll get it for you, Sam,” Kai interrupts. He says it as casually as if he’s offering to pick up someone’s dry cleaning. “Don’t worry about it. I know someone.”
Sam’s eyes widen. “Really? You can do that?”
“One of the few benefits of the family name. I’ll make a call tomorrow.” Kai says with a shrug. He gestures toward the massive television mounted on the wall. “Now, can we please continue? The ‘88 Oilers are about to demonstrate a zone entry that’s pure poetry. Gretzky’s positioning here is…” He trails off, reaching for the remote.
Nazar finally moves.
A few heads turn briefly—Bachman nods in acknowledgment, Armstrong raises his beer in greeting—but no one looks particularly surprised to see him.
Only Kai seems to willfully ignore his presence, his entire being focused on the grainy hockey footage now playing on the screen.
Nazar finds himself standing awkwardly, unsure where to sit or what to do with his hands. He should leave. Should make an excuse about remembering something he forgot to do and get out before this becomes even more uncomfortable.
Instead, he watches.
Kai is analyzing the Oilers game with the kind of focused intensity most people reserve for things like surgery or defusing bombs. He points out tiny details that Nazar would never havenoticed—a defenseman’s hip rotation opening up a passing lane, a winger’s subtle stick lift before receiving a pass, the way Gretzky positions himself to draw two defenders and create space for his linemate.
“See that?” Kai pauses the footage and rewinds fifteen seconds. “Watch Messier here. He’s not looking at the puck. He’s watching Gretzky’s eyes. That’s how he knows exactly when to break for the slot.”
Sam leans forward, completely absorbed. “I never would’ve caught that.”
“Most people don’t,” Kai says, rewinding again. “But it’s the difference between a good play and a great one. Hockey’s happening off the puck just as much as on it.”
He’s not performing. Not putting on a show or trying to impress anyone. He’s teaching, and the others are listening with complete attention.
And that’s when Nazar sees it. Really sees it.
Kai is wearing pajamas.
Dark blue silk, clearly expensive—probably something Italian with a designer name Nazar wouldn’t recognize. But the pattern. The pattern is small, cheerful-lookingotters. Holding hands. In repeating rows across the fabric.
