Page 5 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Nazar’s mind races. Callahan thinks he’s enjoying this. Thinks Nazar gets some kind of sick satisfaction from watching the team tear into him. Like he’s sitting back, gleeful, letting everyone else do the dirty work.
Something sharp and cutting forms on Nazar’s tongue. Something about how Callahan wouldn’t know real scrutiny if it hit him in his pretty face. Something about earned versus bought.
But the seconds stretch.
Callahan’s eyes stay on him, full of fierce challenge despite the almost-amused curve of his mouth. Waiting.
Nazar’s jaw clenches. His teeth grind together. The words won’t come.
They’restucksomewhere between his brain and his mouth, tangled up with anger and something else he doesn’t want to name.
He turns away without a word.
“That’s what I thought,” Callahan says softly behind him.
Then he’s gone, disappearing into the steam of the showers.
Nazar stands there, fists clenched at his sides. The anger in his chest unfurls, darker and hotter than before.
Miller drops onto the bench beside him. “Man, this is exhausting to watch.”
“Shut up,” Nazar says.
* * *
The team meeting is nothing new. Thompson goes over schedules, travel plans, PR obligations.
Nazar only half-listens.
He’s too aware of Callahan sitting three seats down, his posture relaxed, his attention seemingly elsewhere. But every so often, Nazar catches him glancing over. Just a flicker of movement, gone before Nazar can decide if it’s real or imagined.
When the meeting ends, Bachman stands. “One more thing,” he says. His voice is steady, commanding. “I don’t care what happened before today. I don’t care what team you came from or what beef you’re carrying. We’re all Vancouver Wolverines now. We win together or we lose together. No exceptions.”
His gaze sweeps the room, landing on Nazar, then Callahan. “That clear?”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the team.
“Good,” he says. “Now get out of here. Rest up. Tomorrow we work harder.”
The room empties quickly. Nazar lingers, shoving gear into his bag with more force than necessary.
When he finally looks up, Callahan is still there, leaning against the doorframe.
Nazar knows what he needs to do. Just walk past. There’s enough room in the doorway to get through without touching.He’s twenty-three years old, he plays in the league for one of the best teams, and he’s a fucking adult who understands that the smart move is to ignore Callahan.
Ignore himandthe idiotic impulses that surface every time they’re in the same room.
He slings his bag over his shoulder and crosses the locker room. Three feet. Two feet. A few inches to the threshold.
Callahan doesn’t move.
“Move,” Nazar says, voice low.
He has the audacity to frown, all mock innocence. “You heard the coach. We’re one team now. We have to behave ourselves.”
“Only you have to behave yourself.”
“And the righteous Nazar Rykov will make sure I do, right?” Callahan’s expression shifts fast, from mockery to something sharper. His eyes burn. “Just make sure your righteousness doesn’t ruin the team’s game.”
