Page 66 of The Last Inch Of Ice
He’s aching and furious and utterly fucking lost.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. A text from Miller:Where’d you disappear to? Bachman’s about to give his speech.
Nazar stares at the message for a long moment, then types back:Be there in 5.
He straightens his clothes, runs water over his hands and face, tries to make himself look like someone who hasn’t just made the worst decision of his life.
When he returns to the ballroom, Kai is standing with his brother again, laughing at something Marcus is saying. His mask is perfect—not a crack showing. No one would ever know that five minutes ago he was falling apart in Nazar’s arms.
20
Chapter 20 Nazar
For Nazar, All-Star Weekend always felt like a sensory overload, designed by someone who’d never actually experienced joy—only a corporate approximation of what fun was supposed to look like. LED screens flashed sponsor logos. Manufactured cheers blared through speakers. And players, who spent the rest of the season trying to tear each other apart on the ice, were forced into awkward displays of camaraderie.
Nazar moves through the various skills competitions and press junkets like he’s wading through concrete, utterly unable to match the manic energy everyone else seems to be performing.
He can see the way other players give him a wider berth than usual.
He’s never been known for his sunshine personality—Alex once described him as “a storm cloud that learned to skate”—but today he’s radiating pure exhaustion and something darker. Even Miller, who’s usually too oblivious to notice emotional weather patterns, approaches him with visible caution in the players’ lounge.
“Hey, man.” Miller sits down next to him, holding a protein shake that’s an alarming shade of green. “Everything okay? You look like you’re about to commit a felony.”
“Fine,” Nazar grunts, not looking up from his phone. “Just tired of this circus.”
“Right.” Miller doesn’t sound convinced. “Because you normally love media circuses. Big fan of clowns and performative bullshit.”
Nazar finally looks at him. “Did you need something specific, or are you just here to practice your therapy voice?”
“Jesus. Okay.” Miller holds up his hands in surrender. “Forget I asked. But for the record, you’re scaring the rookies.”
He knows he needs to focus. This isn’t just a meaningless spectacle—though it mostly is.
His performance here, after such a dominant first half of the season, could be career-defining. The kind of thing that ends up in highlight reels and gets dissected during contract negotiations—especially if he’s hoping for a spot with the Toronto Wardens.
But the practical voice of discipline that usually governs his entire existence is muffled, shoved aside by the constant, agonizing noise of one person.
Kai.
Nazar has forbidden himself from thinking about that night in detail. Has literally made it a rule:Do not replay the awards ceremony. Do not examine what happened. Move forward.
But the images flash anyway, intrusive and brutal: the cold, slick tiles of the men’s bathroom.
The desperate heat of their bodies pressed against porcelain and chrome. And Kai’s voice—that ragged, heartbreaking sound that Nazar will apparently carry with him until he dies.
“Nazar, please. Take me. Now.”
He feels like he’s aged a decade since he forced himself to say no. The restraint in that moment — the adult maturity it required — cost him something he can’t quite name.
Kai’s broken whisper seems to have taken up permanent residence beneath his skin, resonating with every heartbeat.
He desperately needs to talk to Kai. Two days after the awards, Nazar had texted him. Something stupid and transparent. Enough trivial that both of them would recognize as an excuse.
Kai didn’t reply.
Nazar had stared at his phone for an hour, watching the “delivered” notification like it might spontaneously change to “read.” He’d debated calling. Typed out three different follow-up messages and deleted them all.
He hadn’t called.
