Page 82 of The Last Inch Of Ice
They just know he’s a famous athlete, and in LA, that’s currency enough to get you invited to parties in mansions that cost more than some small countries.
The party is at some tech billionaire’s house in the Hollywood Hills and every view is meticulously engineered for Instagram.
Kai leans into his role as the exotic hockey player, making wry, self-deprecating jokes to hulking football players who treathim with the particular brand of respect athletes show each other across sports.
“Man, I cannot imagine playing on ice,” a cornerback whose arms are the size of Kai’s entire torso says, shaking his head. “Like, the balance alone. I’d be on my ass every thirty seconds.”
“You get used to it,” Kai says, taking a sip of champagne — his third glass, not that anyone’s counting. “Though I’d probably die if I had to take one of your hits without pads thick enough to stop a car.”
“Fair trade-off.” The cornerback grins. “Your sport’s colder though. How do you even breathe right in those arenas?”
“Poorly,” Kai admits. “Very poorly. Half the game is just remembering to inhale.”
Another player — a wide receiver Kai vaguely recognizes — leans in. “Yo, you guys get like five minutes to beat the shit out of each other and then just go sit in a penalty box? Like timeout for adults?”
“Five minutes for fighting, yeah. Two minutes if you’re just being an asshole.” Kai smiles. “Very civilized. We have rules about our violence.”
“That’s wild. In our sport you get ejected and probably fined six figures.”
“Well, rugby’s a gentleman’s game played by barbarians. Football’s a barbarian’s game played by gentlemen. And hockey’s just a barbarian game played by barbarians. Or something like that.”
The wide receiver laughs. “I like this guy. You’re funny for someone who voluntarily plays a sport where you can lose teeth.”
“Key word:can. I still have all mine. Mostly because I’m good at not getting hit.”
“The Mayweather approach. Respect.”
He’s expertly deflecting a question about salary cap structures from a quarterback when he needs air.
The house is crowded, the music too loud, and everyone is talking over each other in that LA way where nobody actually listens but everyone performs conversation.
He steps out onto the main terrace for a moment of peace.
And sees him.
Rykov.
He’s talking to a linebacker, looking impossibly, unfairly good in a dark button-down shirt that fits him like it was made by someone who understood exactly how fabric should drape over shoulders that size.
A wave of pure annoyance washes over Kai so intense it’s almost physical.
What the fuck is Rykov doing here? At a Super Bowl party. In Los Angeles. At the exact same party Kai is attending.
It’s a high-profile, famous party, but Rykov isn’t one for parties.
This can’t be a coincidence. The universe isn’t that cruel. Or maybe it is. Maybe this is Kai’s personal hell—doomed to run into Nazar Rykov at every event, in every city, for the rest of his life.
It feels like a targeted haunting.
Like Rykov has made it his personal mission to appear in every corner of Kai’s existence and systematically ruin it.
Kai retreats before Rykov can spot him. He navigates through the crowd with practiced efficiency, smiling and nodding at people whose names he doesn’t remember, until he finds a smaller, uncovered terrace on the opposite side of the sprawling mansion.
It’s colder here.
The city sprawls beneath him, a carpet of lights stretching to the dark horizon.
Kai pulls out a cigarette—a bad habit he only indulges in when he’s particularly stressed or particularly drunk. Currently he’s both.
