Page 67 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Now, standing in the arena’s main corridor, he scans the bustling halls. Clusters of athletes in expensive athleisure. Agents in suits that cost more than most people’s monthly rent. Camera crews looking for content.
No flash of golden hair. No sharp blue eyes tracking him across a room.
The Skills Competition begins—a garish blur of timed shooting drills and passing competitions designed to look impressive on social media.
Nazar executes his events with robotic precision, hitting every mark, nailing every shot. The crowd cheers. Someone from ESPN wants a quote about his technique.
He goes through the motions and sees nothing.
“Where’s Callahan?” he asks Miller between events, catching him as he’s strapping on his helmet for the accuracy shooting.
Miller shrugs. “He’s not coming, man. Family thing. You didn’t hear?”
“What family thing?”
“I don’t know, some emergency or whatever. His agent put out a statement this morning.”
Nearby, a small knot of player s—two Bruins defensemen and a Rangers forward— exchange looks and low chuckles.
“Family thing,” one of them repeats, making air quotes. “Sure. Daddy probably needed him for some corporate photo op.”
“Or didn’t want him embarrassing the family name on national television,” another adds.
They’re not being particularly quiet about it. The casual cruelty of locker room culture, where Kai’s reputation is still a punchline.
A knot of icy panic tightens in Nazar’s stomach, completely disproportionate to the situation. He’d been living for this weekend. Had convinced himself, with increasing desperation, that he’d see Kai here. That he’d be able to corner him somewhere and make him look at him. Make him listen. Break this pattern and move forward.
He finds a quiet corner by the tunnels and pulls out his phone. His thumb hovers over Kai’s name in his contacts for a full thirty seconds before he presses it.
It goes straight to voicemail. That automated voice means Kai has either turned off his phone entirely or blocked his number.
Nazar’s panic congeals into something heavier—a sinking feeling that drags at his energy like he’s skating through mud.
He forces himself to finish his obligations. Smiles for one mandatory photo.
Gives one monosyllabic interview where the reporter looks increasingly uncomfortable.
His agent, David, finally corners him after the last drill, practically dragging him into an empty press room.
“Nazar, listen. I’ve been trying to get a moment with you all weekend.” David looks wound up, rubbing his hands together in that way he does when he’s about to pitch something he thinks Nazar really likes. “The mid-season discussions are already underway, and trust me, there are serious conversations happening about moving you. Toronto’s interested. Montreal’s interested. Very interested. They’re talking numbers that would make your current contract look like—”
David’s words dissolve into muffled static.
Nazar is suddenly floating in fog, untethered from the conversation. The panic of nights ago—the bathroom, Kai’s voice, the monumental effort it took to say no. The ache of what he’d refused. And now the crushing reality of Kai’s absence, the unanswered text, the blocked call.
It all conspires to dull his senses, to make him feel like he’s hearing David from underwater.
Moving you to…What? Where? He can’t process it. He’s usually hyper-aware, able to cut through bullshit and focus on essential facts with surgical precision. This inability to concentrate is highly irregular. Foreign.
“We’ll talk later,” he manages to say, his voice coming from somewhere far away. “Before the game.”
“But Nazar, this is—”
“Later.”
He walks away, leaving David staring after him.
Nazar is consumed by the gnawing problem of Callahan, and nothing else seems to penetrate. He’s used to acting, to pushing through obstacles with discipline and focus. But this time, the internal logic loop is unbreakable:I need to fix this with Kaibefore I can think straight. I can only talk to Kai if I can find him. I can’t find him because he’s not here and won’t answer. So I am stuck.
