Page 62 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Nazar wraps his arms around him from behind, trapping him. His mouth finds that sensitive spot on Kai’s neck. The one that makes him melt despite himself.
He bites down. Not hard enough to really hurt, just hard enough to mark. To claim territory he has no right to but claims anyway.
Kai lets out a surprised laugh—breathless and real, not his usual sardonic deflection. “Rykov, you’re going to be late.”
“Worth it.” Nazar grinds against him, already half-hard again. His hand moves to cup Kai through his jeans, feeling him strain against the denim.
Kai leans back into him, and for a moment they just stand there—Kai’s back against Nazar’s chest, both of them breathing hard, the hotel room silent except for the hum of the AC and the distant sound of traffic outside.
Nazar rubs against him, a desperate, frantic imitation of the real thing, grinding until he comes again, a dry, friction-burn orgasm that leaves him panting and dizzy.
“I don’t care about being late,” he mutters into Kai’s hair.
* * *
This is his hell. A closed-loop system of rage and want, and it seems that Kai is trapped in it with him.
The rest of the season blurs into a series of stolen, violent encounters in the hidden corners of the FHL.
It happens in a utility closet in Philadelphia, smelling of bleach and old mops, after a bruising overtime win. The energy of the game is still humming in their veins, and they crash together, Kai’s back pressed against a shelf of cleaning supplies. Kai comes hard against the denim of Nazar’s jeans.
It happens in a concrete stairwell in Detroit after a brutal loss, the anger between them so thick it’s a physical presence. The fight in the locker room bleeds into their actions, hisses of “fucking asshole” and “pretty show-off” muffled by punishing kisses and rough hands. Nazar leaves marks on Kai’s throat that he has to hide with a scarf the next day.
It happens in a dark hallway backstage during a mandatory team meeting. They’re both in suits, looking like civilized human beings, while Kai is on his knees in the shadows of a catering cart, his mouth on Nazar’s cock.
The risk is the fuel, a reckless, suicidal high they’re both chasing.
Each time, the pattern is the same. Confrontation. Explosion. Frantic physicality. Then Kai pulls away, rebuilds his armor, and leaves first.
Always leaves first.
* * *
“No Helen today, Rykov?” the journalist asks, offering a friendly smile. He’s younger than most, clearly aiming for a relaxed, conversational vibe. Nazar doesn’t like it. Helen, the shared publicist for four of his teammates, is a stern woman who runs interviews with the ruthless efficiency of a military drill.
“She thinks I’m a big boy now. Can handle myself,” Nazar says, his voice flat.
The journalist grins. “Well, you’re having a career year. Twenty-eight goals, forty assists through sixty games. What’s changed?”
“Work ethic. Discipline.” The standard answers roll off his tongue automatically. “Good linemates.”
“Speaking of linemates—the chemistry between you and Kaisyn Callahan has been interesting to watch. Lot of intensity there. Some have suggested it’s not always… positive intensity.”
Here it is. The trap disguised as a softball question.
Nazar feels the familiar surge of protective rage. Thinks about Kai at his apartment, surrounded by teammates who’ve learned to see past the headlines. Thinks about him at that charity event with the kids, patient and generous with his knowledge.
“Kaisyn’s okay,” Nazar says, and his voice is low and steady. He looks the journalist dead in the eye. “His cat is the problem,” Nazar interrupts. “Bonifazio. Huge diva. Demands specific bottled water. Expensive treats. Takes up half the training table. Coach is considering waiving him.”
The journalist blinks, processing. Then he laughs. “Wait, are you serious?”
“Completely serious. Cat’s a locker room cancer. We’re all terrified of him.”
The tension breaks. The interview pivots to safer topics—playoff positioning, upcoming schedule, whether Nazar’s planning to attend All-Star weekend.
“Yeah,” Nazar says when asked. “I’ll be there.”
So will Kai. Both their names are on the roster. There will be no escaping each other. Cameras everywhere. Having to pretend they’re just teammates, just two players who happen to occupy the same space without any of the complicated history burning between them.
