Page 35 of The Last Inch Of Ice
What he fears most—what makes his chest tighten and his throat close and his vision narrow—is swimming. Open water. The sensation of being pulled under, of water in his lungs, of drowning slowly while the surface gets farther and farther away.
Only Mrs. Butterly knew about that fear. And his mother, who found him in the pool house when he was seven, blue-lipped and choking, after he’d tried to teach himself to swim because his father said swimming lessons were for weak children.
They’re both dead now. Mrs. Butterly from a stroke three years ago. His mother from cancer when Kai was sixteen.
So now no one knows.
Except apparently Rykov has figured out the flying thing, which means Kai’s mask is slipping in ways he can’t control.
He takes off his sunglasses and rinses his face with cold water, careful not to get his hair wet. When he looks up, his reflection stares back—pale and controlled.
He hates that Rykov knows. Hates the exposure. Hates that he’s given Rykov another piece of ammunition to use against him.
Kai puts his sunglasses back on and returns to his seat, ignoring the way Rykov’s eyes track his movement down the aisle.
* * *
Pre-game warm-ups are Kai’s least favorite part of the routine.
Not the skating. That’s fine. But the forced socializing. The way everyone has to perform enthusiasm for fans who’ve paid obscene amounts of money to watch them skate in circles for twenty minutes.
He’s going through the motions—passing drills with Vyachovsky, a few lazy shots on goal—when he spots her.
An older woman, maybe seventy, standing near the tunnel with a team liaison.
She’s wearing a jersey with Rykov’s number and has that particular look of excited nervousness that family members get when they’re in professional sports environments.
Kai wouldn’t have noticed except Rykov skates over to her during a break in drills.
The transformation is immediate. Rykov’s entire posture changes. Softens. He leans against the boards, his face breaking into a smile that Kai has maybe seen once in the entire time they’ve been teammates.
The woman reaches up and cups his face through the glass, saying something that makes Rykov laugh.
Kai finds himself drifting closer, curiosity overriding common sense.
He catches fragments of their conversation—she’s speaking foreign language, rapid and affectionate, gesturing expressively. Rykov responds in the same language, his voice gentler than Kai has ever heard it.
Then she switches to English: “You’re too skinny. They don’t feed you enough here.”
“Ba, I told you I’m fine.”
“Muscle weighs more. You need more fat.”
“I eat real food.”
“Bah.” She waves dismissively.
Kai skates closer, unable to resist. This is too good. Rykov being chastised about his eating habits by his grandmother. The opportunity is too perfect.
“Mrs. Rykov?” Kai interrupts, his voice warm and charming. “I’m Kaisyn Callahan. It’s lovely to meet you.”
Rykov’s head snaps around, his expression shifting from relaxed to murderous in approximately 0.3 seconds.
The woman’s face lights up. “Oh! Kaisyn! Yes, yes, I know you. The pretty one with the beautiful cat.”
Kai blinks. “You… know about Bonifazio?”
“Of course! I saw his photo on television. You have very good taste in animals. Persians are noble cats. Like little lions.” She pronounces it “lay-ons” in a way that’s absolutely charming.
