Page 53 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Nazar sits in his own chair across the lobby and pretends to read articles he can’t focus on, trying to ignore the way his hands are still shaking slightly.
Trying to ignore the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Derek, asking him what the hell he thinks he’s doing and how he thinks this ends.
16
Chapter 16 Nazar
The school arena—if you can even call it that—is barely bigger than a regulation ice surface with bleachers that look like they were installed during the Cold War.
Every seat is filled. People are standing along the walls, pressed against the glass, sitting in the aisles despite what are probably multiple fire code violations.
The entire town has shown up.
Plus what feels like half the surrounding county—families who drove in from other small towns, probably making this the biggest event Millbrook has seen in years.
The energy is wild, unpolished. Nothing like the calculated atmosphere of professional games where every cheer is timed, every moment designed for maximum broadcast value.
These people are genuinely excited. Kids are screaming. Parents are filming on their phones. Someone brought cowbells.
And Nazar and Kai spend sixty minutes trying to tear each other apart within the loose confines of what’s supposed to be a friendly exhibition match.
It’s a personal war waged on a public stage, and everyone probably thinks it’s just competitive spirit. Just two talented players pushing each other to play better.
They nearly destroy two pucks in the process, the rubber scarred and dented from the sheer violence of their shots ricocheting off the posts when they miss the net.
At one point, Kai checks Nazar into the boards hard enough that the sound echoes through the arena, and a collective “Oooooh” rises from the crowd.
Nazar is up in a second, already skating away, but not before shooting a look that promises retribution.
Five minutes later, Nazar “accidentally” clips Kai’s skate during a line change, sending him stumbling.
After the game, as the team is collecting their gear, the school principal intercepts them—a woman in her fifties named Mrs. Patterson who has the kind of relentless positive energy that makes Nazar immediately suspicious.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she says, her voice wavering with emotion. “You have no idea what this means to the community. The donations that came in from the publicity around your visit—the school board just told me we’ve raised enough to renovate the science lab and update the library. That’s… that’s everything to these kids.”
Burke, ever the diplomat, shakes her hand. “We’re honored to help.”
“Actually,” Mrs. Patterson continues, clearly on a roll, “as a thank-you, we’ve organized a small program in the auditorium. Just some student performances. Would you mind terribly? It would mean the world to them.”
Burke looks at the team. Several players are already mentally checking out, probably dreaming of the bus ride home and real food.
“Of course,” Burke says, because what else can he say?
The auditorium is exactly what Nazar expected. A multipurpose space that probably serves as cafeteria, gymnasium, and theater depending on the day of the week.
They’re ushered into the front rows—folding metal chairs that creak ominously under the weight of professional athletes.
The first performance is a choir of nine-year-olds singing a Christmas carol.
Nazar has faced down six-foot-four defensemen without flinching. He’s played through broken ribs and a concussion. He once took a puck to the face that required twelve stitches.
Nothing in his professional experience has prepared him for this.
The children are singing—and Nazar uses that term generously—a song that might be “O Holy Night.” It’s hard to tell because approximately zero percent of them are in the same key. One kid in the back row is clearly just mouthing the words. Another is actively picking his nose while singing.
Next to him, Sam makes a sound like he’s being strangled. Across the aisle, Miller has his face in his hands.
The next act is somehow worse.
