Page 47 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Kai doesn’t argue. He’s learned that arguing with Burke is like arguing with plate tectonics—theoretically possible but ultimately pointless.
He grabs his duffel and the cat carrier containing a deeply unamused Bonifazio.
The cat had been making his displeasure known for the entire three-hour bus ride with intermittent yowls.
“Aha, you brought the cat.” Rykov’s voice is a low growl beside him, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air as he single-handedly wrestles three heavy gear bags out from under the bus. “To a charity match. In rural Ontario. In December.”
“He has separation anxiety,” Kai says crisply, adjusting his grip on the carrier. “We’re a package deal.”
“The cat has a therapist,” Miller adds helpfully from behind them. “I’ve seen the bills on his counter.”
“Thank you, Miller, for that completely unnecessary contribution to the conversation,” Kai says without turning around.
The truck cab is cramped.
Kai ends up squashed between a frosted window and the solid, unyielding wall of Nazar Rykov’s shoulder.
Every jostle of the truck—and there are many, because Dale seems to have a personal philosophy about suspension systems being for cowards—presses them closer together.
Kai can feel the heat radiating off Rykov through layers of winter clothing. Can smell his deodorant. Can feel the rise and fall of his breathing.
He needs a distraction before his brain completely short-circuits.
“You know,” Kai says, projecting over the rumble of the engine and scrape of the plow blade, “this whole situation has the defensive chaos of the Maple Leafs from 2002 to 2006. Systemic breakdown, poor planning, and zero contingency. A disaster waiting to happen.”
Sam chuckles. “That’s specific.”
“I contain multitudes of sports knowledge, most of it depressing.”
Chase grunts what might be agreement or might just be gas. It’s hard to tell with Chase.
Rykov just stares out the windshield, his jaw tight enough to crack walnuts.
Kai feels the familiar, self-destructive urge to poke the bear.
It’s his fatal flaw—an irresistible compulsion to focus all his attention on the one person in any given room who could not possibly be less interested in him.
He’s always been drawn to these icy characters, these emotionally barren persons. It’s probably some deep-seated psychological issue that Mrs. Butterly would have a field day analyzing.
It’s also—and here Kai allows himself a moment of dark humor—fitting. A man who makes his living on ice, pathologically obsessed with a man made of it.
“And to think,” Kai continues, a little louder, “we could all be at home right now. Watching the World Juniors. Drinking overpriced hot chocolate. Critiquing seventeen-year-olds for their lack of professional poise and defensive zone awareness. A true Christmas tradition.”
“Some of us were actually going to see our families,” Sam says glumly. “My mom was making pierogies. She only makes them once a year.”
“My condolences on the pierogies,” Kai says sincerely. “That’s a genuine loss.”
Burke clears his throat from the passenger seat. “Alright, that’s enough commentary. We’ll get there, get checked in, hunker down for the night. It’s not the North Pole.”
“Feels like it,” Chase mutters, his breath fogging in the poorly heated cab.
“Could be worse,” Dale offers from behind the wheel, his eyes never leaving the road. “Could be stuck out here without a truck.”
“That’s not the reassurance you think it is,” Kai says.
Burke pulls out his phone, squinting at the screen in the dim light. “Can’t get a signal for the GPS. Everything’s timing out. Rykov, see what you’ve got.”
Rykov grunts—his favorite form of communication—and pulls his own phone out. He leans forward slightly, angling the screen so Burke can see it. Sam and Chase lean in too, creating a small huddle of anxious players peering at a tiny blue dot on a satellite image.
