Page 44 of The Last Inch Of Ice
The disconnect is so staggering that Nazar’s brain short-circuits.
The question is out of his mouth before his brain can engage any kind of filter.
“Why are you wearing pajamas?”
Kai’s lecture on the Oilers’ neutral zone trap cuts off mid-sentence.
The room goes completely silent. Every single person turns to stare at Nazar.
The stupidity of his own question crashes down on Nazar like a physical force. Heat floods his face. He can feel his earsburning. He wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He wants to rewind time. He wants to have literally any other superpower that would allow him to un-ask that question.
The worst part—the absolute worst part—is that Kai doesn’t respond at all.
Not a smirk. Not a sarcastic jab. Not even an eye roll.
He just holds Nazar’s gaze for a long, unreadable moment, his expression completely neutral, before turning back to the television as if Nazar hadn’t spoken at all.
Nazar would have preferred the aggression. Would have welcomed a fight, an insult, anything that acknowledged his existence. This incomprehensible silence is infinitely worse.
He sinks into an empty armchair near the windows, feeling like the world’s biggest fool.
The tension breaks mercifully when there’s a knock at the door and someone shouts, “Food’s here!”
Armstrong jumps up to answer it, and suddenly the apartment fills with the smell of Thai food and the rustle of takeout containers.
The atmosphere shifts immediately—becomes louder, more relaxed. People migrate toward the dining table where Armstrong is unpacking enough pad thai and curry to feed a small army.
“Oh thank God,” Miller says, grabbing a container. “I’m starving.”
“Well, you gave my cat a chip, Miller,” Kai says, but there’s less ice in his voice now. “You’re lucky me and Bonifazio have a forgiving nature.”
“Does he though?” Sam asks, eyeing the cat, who has relocated to a cat tree in the corner and is surveying the room like a disapproving monarch.
“No,” Kai admits. “But he’s beautiful, so we let it slide.”
As they eat, Kai launches into a story about acquiring his first Ferrari.
It’s an absolutely ridiculous tale involving a winery in Tuscany, an eccentric owner with a collection of vintage cars, sampling twenty different wines in a single afternoon, and an objectively unsafe helicopter ride over the Italian countryside—all part of an elaborate scheme to impress the Ferrari brand enough to be offered a limited edition model that wasn’t technically available for purchase.
“And then,” Kai says, his hands moving expressively, “the owner of the winery—this guy named Paolo—he calls his cousin, who happens to work at Ferrari in Maranello, and suddenly I’m being given a private tour of the factory at midnight—”
“At midnight?” Miller interrupts, completely absorbed.
“At midnight. Because Paolo’s cousin has a key and doesn’t believe in normal business hours. And that’s how I ended up buying a 488 Spider that wasn’t supposed to be available to American and Canadian buyers for another six months.”
Sam and Miller are hanging on every word, their eyes wide with something like awe. Even Armstrong is listening, a forkful of pad thai frozen halfway to his mouth.
Nazar squints.
He doesn’t believe a fucking word of it.
And they’re all eating it up like it’s gospel truth.
Kai catches Nazar’s skeptical expression and there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe—before he smoothly continues the story.
After dinner, Nazar escapes to the bathroom.
On the counter, he notices two prescription bottles. He doesn’t mean to snoop, but his eyes catch the labels anyway: one for anxiety, one for insomnia. Both in Kai’s name.
