Page 7 of The Last Inch Of Ice
2
Chapter 2 Nazar
“Holy moly,” Miller says.
Nazar glances over.
Miller’s face has gone pale, and he’s not the only one. Half the team stands frozen, staring at the whiteboard where Thompson has just sketched out the practice drill.
Bag skating.
Not just bag skating—the kind of bag skating that makes grown men want to cry. The patterns Thompson has drawn look like a sadist’s fever dream: tight figure-eights, suicide sprints from blue line to blue line, and something that might be a star pattern or might just be Thompson’s way of sayingI hate all of you.
Bag skating is hockey’s version of punishment disguised as conditioning. No puck. No plays. Just skating until your lungs burn and your legs turn to jelly. It’s meant to break you down, remind you that talent means nothing without stamina, andseparate the players who want it from the ones who just like the idea of wanting it.
“This is insane,” Davis mutters.
“Coach, you trying to kill us before the season even starts?” someone else calls out.
Thompson doesn’t even look up from his clipboard. “On the line. Now.”
Nazar moves without complaint. He’s always been good at this part—the silent obedience, the willingness to do what needs to be done. While the rest of the team shuffles into position, still grumbling, he sets his blades on the goal line and waits for the whistle.
It comes sharp and sudden.
He pushes off hard, his muscles screaming in protest from yesterday’s drills but responding anyway. First sprint to the near blue line. Stop. Back. Stop. Far blue line. Stop. Back. The pattern repeats, shifts, twists into something uglier.
By the fifth minute, sweat is pouring down his face. His breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhale burning his throat. But he doesn’t slow down.
That’s when he notices Callahan.
He’s good. Not just keeping up—good. His edges are sharp, his turns tight and efficient. While Miller stumbles through the star pattern and Davis looks ready to vomit, Callahan skates like the drill was designed for him. His chest heaves, his face is flushed red, but his form doesn’t break.
Nazar thinks back to their conversation yesterday.They wouldn’t have brought me here if they didn’t desperately need what I can do.
He understands now. The owners and coaching staff wouldn’t put the team through the toughest version of bag skating unless they were serious about changing something. Unless they needed to weed out weakness fast.
And Callahan isn’t weak.
When Thompson finally blows the whistle, Nazar’s legs are shaking. He bends over, hands on his knees, gulping air. Around him, players collapse onto the ice or lean against the boards. Someone might be crying. Nazar can’t tell and doesn’t care.
He straightens up, wiping sweat from his face with his jersey.
That’s when he sees Callahan talking to one of the assistant coaches—Burke, the one who handles special teams. Callahan’s hair is plastered to his forehead, his skin flushed and damp. He’s gesturing with one hand, his expression serious.
Nazar stands a little farther away, catching his breath. Davis and Vyachovsky skate over.
“Look at that,” Davis says, nodding toward Callahan. “Already found a reason to complain to management.”
Vyachovsky snorts. “What’d you expect? Guy’s used to getting what he wants.”
Nazar watches Callahan’s mouth move, the way Burke nods and responds. He hates that he wants to know what they’re saying. Hates that part of him wouldn’t be surprised if Callahan found a way to spin this, to ruin Nazar’s career with a few well-placed words to the right people.
People like Callahan and his family are used to resolving issues with conversations. With money. With influence. They’ve been doing it since childhood, moving through the world like it’s a chessboard and everyone else is just a piece to be repositioned.
And Nazar hates Callahan for the simple, infuriating fact that he can still get away with it—even here. In hockey. This sport is supposed to be untouchable. Pure. It’s about hard plays, real blood, and skill you can’t fake or buy with a famous last name, money, or daddy’s connections.
Nazar chose hockey because of that. Because on the ice, what matters is what you can do —not who you are.
