Page 57 of The Last Inch Of Ice
The press room is worse.
Hot lights. Packed media. Cameras pointed like weapons.
“Kaisyn, there seemed to be a breakdown in communication on the second line tonight,” the ESPN reporter starts.“Particularly on that power play. Can you walk us through what happened?”
Kai’s face is a perfect mask of thoughtful disappointment. “Hockey’s fast. Sometimes wires cross. We didn’t execute. That’s on all of us, not one player, not one line. We’ll look at the tape and be better next game.”
The lies are smooth, blame-free, perfectly delivered.
Nazar hates how easily they come.
“Rykov, same question. Is there tension on the second line?”
Nazar leans into the mic. “What he said. We lose as a team. Next question.”
His tone makes it clear the subject is closed.
Ten more minutes of standard interrogation. Then they leave through different exits without looking at each other.
In the showers, steam turns everything into isolated pockets of mist.
Nazar stands under scalding water, trying to wash away frustration that clings like film. It doesn’t work. His muscles stay tight, his mind replaying every mistake.
He can feel Kai two showers down. Can see his silhouette through the steam—lean back, wet hair, that graceful way he moves even when exhausted.
Through a gap in the mist, their eyes meet in a chrome fixture’s reflection.
For one brutal second, the accusation between them is clear and mutual.
Your fault.
No. Yours.
Then Kai’s expression goes flat and cold. He turns his back and the steam closes in.
Not a single word spoken between them.
* * *
Nazar sits in his hotel room, the television on but muted, flickering blue light across the walls.
He’s watching SportsCenter replay their loss with commentary about “continued chemistry issues” and “questions about the second line’s effectiveness.”
He’s trying to wait. Trying to let the red haze of fury cool into something manageable, something he can control and put away until practice tomorrow.
He fails.
His door bursts open—not kicked, but shoved hard enough that it slams against the interior wall with a crack that makes him jolt to his feet from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed.
Kai stands in the doorway, breathing hard, his hair a wild blond halo under the harsh hallway light. He’s pulled on dark jeans and his trademark stupid sweater.
He looks like a vengeful angel, and the sight of him sends a jolt of something hot and familiar straight through Nazar’s body.
“You leave your door open like this for everyone, or just me?”
“How did you—” Nazar starts.
It’s the first time Callahan has come to him on his own.
