Page 8 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Except sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes there are situations where the scales tip with the usual bullshit of the privileged. Politics. Backroom deals. Whispered favors.
And people like Callahan know how to do that best.
“Rykov?” Davis prompts. “You see what I mean?”
Nazar tears his gaze away. “Just keep training,” he says abruptly, skating off.
Behind him, he feels Callahan’s eyes on his back. When Nazar glances over his shoulder, Callahan is still talking to Burke, but his gaze has shifted.
Moments later, he’s watching Nazar again, his chest still rising and falling hard, his hair a tangled mess of gold.
Nazar doesn’t understand why the hell Callahan is watching him.
No. That’s not true.
Nazar iscertainCallahan is up to something.
* * *
When the pre-season games begin—games that have no bearing on the team’s future reputation but are of utmost importance for how the roster will be assembled—Nazar becomes convinced that Kaisyn Callahan didn’t join this team by chance.
He intends to ruin it.
After all, the bloody bastard can afford to.
During the first game, Callahan skates up to him at a moment when he shouldn’t. Naturally.
“I know you’re almost mute, but you’re not deaf,” Callahan says, his voice tight. “Pass the puck to me, you bloody center.”
“I thought your job was to receive the puck,” Nazar shoots back. “If you don’t receive it, whose problem is it?”
“You pass it to Vyachovsky, and I—”
“Well, then catch it.Now.”
Nazar skates into the next shift and passes to Vyachovsky again. Not because he’s vindictive—though he is—but because Callahan is standing God knows where right now, completely out of position.
It was a brilliant idea by the coaching staff to make them a duo. Nazar, the playmaking center, the distributor. Callahan, the goal-scoring winger, the finisher. On paper, it’s perfect. The center carries the puck through the neutral zone, uses his vision to set up his wingers for scoring chances. The winger finds open space in the offensive zone and shoots the instant the puck touches his stick.
Forced dependency. The distributor needs the finisher to get assists. The finisher needs the distributor to get goals.
In practice, it’s a disaster.
Throughout the game, Nazar and Callahan try to break the scheme. Nazar plays both roles—distributor and finisher—carrying the puck himself, taking his own shots. Callahan does the same, trying to do everything solo. They’re disjointed, out of sync.
Nazar keeps telling himself it’s just pre-season. It won’t kill his career.
Then he sees Callahan after the game, pulling off his helmet, wiping the sweat from his hair. His head tilts back, exposing the long line of his throat, and something in Nazar’s chest tightens so hard he can’t breathe.
Thiswill kill his career.
Everything turns red. He can’t take his gaze off that bastard.
And weeks later, when he hears that voice—sarcastic, always a little curious, always a little warm despite the ice in his eyes—he knows he’s fucked. Nazar says just one short phrase to him during the game, and of course, Callahan can’t just reply and move on.
“Oh, he’s talking!” Callahan says, skating backward beside him. “Wait, I’m going to nominate you for the Nobel Prize in Public Speaking.”
“I’ll say it again,” Nazar growls. “Stay out of here.”
