Page 69 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Another lie from Kaisyn Callahan, who lies as easily as he breathes.
“Holy shit,” Miller says somewhere to Nazar’s left. “Did you know about this?”
On screen, Kai is speaking now. His voice is steady, professional, empty of anything real: “I’m honored to join the Toronto Wardens organization. This represents an exciting new chapter in my career, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to contribute to a team with such a storied history…”
It’s all corporate script. All meaningless platitudes. But the fact remains.
Kai Callahan is now a Toronto Warden.
And Nazar is still standing here, holding cold coffee, watching his entire carefully constructed plan explode on live television.
Someone near him laughs. “Guess Daddy finally reeled him in. Probably doubled his salary just to get him to wear the family logo.”
“Three years,” someone else says. “That’s a long leash.”
Nazar sets his coffee down before he crushes the cup. He needs to leave. Needs to get out of this room before he does something stupid in front of fifty witnesses and a dozen camera crews.
He walks out without saying goodbye to anyone.
In the empty hallway, he pulls out his phone and opens Kai’s contact. His thumb hovers over the call button.
Shit. He still wants to hear him.
He starts the call, then aborts it immediately. He needs to stop. At least for today. Before he says something he’ll regret.
He had let himself believe they were trapped together, two damaged fighters caught in a desperate circle. He had allowed himself to be soft for a pretty boy.
But Kai Callahan was never trapped. He was always maneuvering.
21
Chapter 21 Kai
Eighteen months is a long time in hockey.
The photo shoot unfolds in a downtown Toronto studio.
Stylists armed with dyson airwraps and those terrifyingly precise Japanese scissors swarm around like well-dressed hornets, while a photographer named Antoine—who insists he’s just Antoine, no last name, like Cher—orbits Kai.
“Kaisyn, darling, the camera adores you,” Antoine announces, peering at him through his viewfinder like he’s discovered a new species. “This is not subjective. This is physics. You refract light differently.”
“Just try to capture my inner turmoil,” Kai says, adjusting the collar of the shirt they’ve buttoned him into. “Very on-brand for fall. Ennui with a hint of vanilla.”
“You mock, but you understand,” Antoine says approvingly. “This is why we work.”
Across the studio, Kai spots them before they spot him.
Sam Kowalski has filled out over the past year and a half, less lost golden retriever puppy, more handsome and slightly confused golden retriever adult. And Vyachovsky, whose collection of watches has apparently evolved from “flashy” to “visible from space.”
“Kai, my dude!” Sam’s face breaks into one of those smiles that makes you remember why people still believe in basic human goodness. “Man, you look—”
“Expensive?” Kai supplies. “Emotionally unavailable? Like I’m one bad quarter away from a cologne ad?”
“I was going to say good,” Sam laughs, pulling him into a hug that lifts Kai slightly off his feet. “Really good. How’s Toronto treating you?”
“Like a beautiful prison with excellent public transit,” Kai says. “But come on, we saw each other just two months ago. Don’t make it sound like it’s been ages.”
Vyachovsky joins them, and they fall into the easy rhythm of people who’ve shared locker rooms and losses. They catch up — Sam’s got a girlfriend now, a marine biologist who thinks hockey is “vaguely homoerotic performance art” but supports him anyway. Vyachovsky is investing in cryptocurrency.
