Page 96 of The Last Inch Of Ice
“You are not alone.” Nazar’s voice is fierce. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”
Kai freezes at the words. His whole body goes rigid. A fresh wave of tears spills from his eyes and he turns his face away, pulling out of Nazar’s grasp.
“It’s time for you to go.”
“No. Kai, no—”
“You promised.” His voice is shaking but determined. “You swore you’d leave.”
“Fuck the promise. I’m not—”
“I’m asking you to leave.” Kai still won’t look at him. “As you promised. Please.”
Thepleasebreaks him.
Nazar steps out of the shower, his waterlogged clothes weighing him down, clinging to his skin. Water pools around his feet on the marble floor. He should grab a towel. Should at least take off the ruined jacket.
He doesn’t.
He just walks to the door, each step requiring more willpower than climbing the building did.
Every nerve screams to turn back, but he can’t break the promise. Taking that last step out of the room feels like the hardest thing he’s ever done.
29
Chapter 29 Kai
Months pass and life shrinks down to something manageable. Something he can control. A series of tightly contained, repetitive actions: wake up, skate, practice, protein shake that tastes like chalk, game, hotel room, cat, sleep. Repeat.
The crushing weight of grief is constant—a dull, heavy ache lodged somewhere behind his sternum that some days makes it hard to breathe properly. Like there’s a hand pressed against his chest, not quite crushing him but never letting him forget it’s there.
He moves through the world like he’s underwater. Everything is muffled, distant.
The Wardens are having a decent season. Not great, but decent.
Kai’s putting up points. Not as many as he should be, but enough that management isn’t breathing down his neck. Histeammates have learned to give him space. To not ask how he’s doing. To accept his silence as the new normal.
He hasn’t spoken to his father since the funeral.
The funeral was less a mourning and more a corporate-level strategic management exercise. Doyle Callahan treated his eldest son’s death like a PR crisis to be contained and controlled. The right people were invited. The right image projected.
Kai had stood there in his black suit and felt nothing. Numbness so complete it was almost peaceful.
Bonifazio is the only thing that feels real anymore.
The cat demands food at precise intervals, knocks things off counters when he’s feeling neglected, purrs like a small engine when Kai finally drags himself to bed at night.
It’s grounding. The mundane animal needs that don’t care about his grief or his famous last name or the fact that he’s barely holding himself together.
One night — Chicago or Dallas or somewhere, they all blur together — he’s flipping through channels in another hotel room. He’s not really watching, just needs the noise.
Then he sees him.
It’s TSN’s post-game coverage. The Comets just beat Montreal 4-2. And there’s Rykov, still in his team-issued hoodie, hair damp from the shower, looking serious and grim under the harsh television lights.
A reporter asks him something about the playoff race, about the Wardens’ chances in their division.
“They’ve got the talent,” Rykov says, his voice that low, steady rumble that Kai can feel in his chest even through the TV speakers. “Especially Callahan. When he’s on his game, there’s no one in the league who can read a play faster. He sees things three steps ahead. He’s a generational talent.”
