Page 6 of The Last Inch Of Ice
“Never thought you’d overestimate yourself this much, Callahan.” Nazar’s jaw tightens. “You think your game matters that much? We were doing fine without you.”
“They wouldn’t have brought me here if they didn’t desperately need what I can do.” Callahan’s voice is flat now, matter-of-fact. “I’m a walking scandal, remember? Roven and Seniero hate scandals.”
The mention of the team owners hits like a jab. It’s true. The Vancouver Wolverines’ management is notoriously conservative, obsessed with image. If they took him anyway, they must have decided his skill outweighed the risk.
Nazar feels his control slipping. “I have news for you. Almost everyone hates scandals. You just love them so much you don’t even realize it.”
“You’ll never have news for me, Rykov.” Callahan’s voice drops, cold and dismissive. “Everything I need to know about you, I learn from the press.”
The words land like a punch.
Four years ago, Nazar made one comment to a reporter. One.
He’d been tired after a game, irritated by a loss, and when asked about facing Callahan on the ice, he’d said:“You always know when he’s on the ice. Mostly because you can hear him from the bench.”
It wasn’t even meant as an insult. Everyone knew Callahan talked constantly during games—to refs, to other players, to anyone who’d listen.
But Nazar almost never spoke to the media about such things. He avoided making comments about other players entirely. So when he did, it made headlines.
That’s when it started.
Callahan began leaving comments in interviews. Small ones. Passive-aggressive, double-edged remarks that most people didn’t catch were about Nazar specifically. But Nazar knew. He always knew.
“Some of the Vancouver Wolverines players are an absolute nightmare to play against… on a Tuesday night in November.”
That one had come just a month ago, during the off-season when most teams were on vacation. Nazar had been absent from a few playoff games due to injury. The implication was clear.
And before that:“I love playing against him. It’s a great way to get familiar with the ice in his end of the rink.”
Everyone had laughed at that one.
Callahan had more opportunities than most to talk to the press. Six years in the league, four teams already. Every time he transferred, the media circled like sharks, hungry for quotes. Meanwhile, Nazar had been with the Vancouver Wolverines for four years. Stable. Boring. No scandals, no drama.
No ammunition.
Callahan turns abruptly and walks down the corridor. Not toward the exit. The opposite direction.
Nazar wants to shout after him that he’s going the wrong way, that he can’t even find the damn exit. But he bites his tongue at the last second, the words dying in his throat.
He watches Callahan’s retreating back, his eyes catching on the line of his shoulders, the way his damp hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck.
That neck.
Nazar’s stomach twists.
The memory slams into him before he can stop it.
The draft combine weekend. Six years ago. One of the most shameful, unbelievable moments of his life. The kind of moment he’s spent years trying not to think about.
Never.
But every time he sees Callahan’s face, every time his gaze drops to that long column of throat, the memory comes back. Sharp and vivid and humiliating.
God, he fucking hates that neck.
Nazar turns and walks in the opposite direction, his hands curled into fists, his pulse pounding in his ears.
This season is going to be hell. Nazar knows it with a certainty that settles deep in his bones. And Kaisyn Callahan is the devil himself, looking like a fucking angel.
