Page 72 of The Last Inch Of Ice
After he leaves, Kai stands alone in the vast, cold conservatory for a long time, staring out at gardens he’s never been allowed to play in.
His phone buzzes. A text from Sam:Sushi won. You should’ve been there to break the tie. Vyachovsky is being soooo weird about wasabi.
Kai types back:Give him my regards and moderate amounts of wasabi.
He doesn’t mention where he is. Doesn’t mention the conversation. Some things are too complicated to text, too exhausting to explain.
Instead, he gets in his car and drives back to his downtown condo and tries not to think about Nazar’s eyes tracking him across a parking lot.
Tries not to think about the fact that in two weeks, when the season starts, they’ll be in the same city.
Playing for rival teams.
Close enough to hurt each other all over again.
22
Chapter 22 Kai
The game is brutal.
It’s the kind of hockey Kai hates with the passion of a thousand suns.
Grinding board battles, bodies crashing into corners, and a neutral zone so clogged with defensive positioning that moving the puck forward feels like pushing a boulder uphill. No flow. No creativity. Just attrition warfare on ice.
Kai and Rykov only cross paths a few times during the game—they’re on different lines, different defensive pairings to contend with—but each encounter is a contained explosion.
Rykov’s aggression has evolved over the past eighteen months. It’s no longer the raw, impulsive force it used to be. Now it’s sharpened, honed to a disciplined edge. He plays with more surgical precision, his checks perfectly timed, his positioning immaculate.
The sports media loves it. They call him one of the league’s most complete players. A Selke Trophy candidate. The kind of two-way center every team wants.
So this time Kai meets that polished aggression and raises him a healthy dose of cunning.
A subtle trip as they round the net, not obvious enough to draw a whistle, just enough to throw Rykov’s timing off. A perfectly-timed stick lift that makes Rykov’s pass go wide. Little acts of sabotage that don’t show up on the scoresheet but leave Rykov’s jaw clenched and his dark eyes burning with that familiar, satisfying fury Kai remembers from the past.
In the third period, they end up in a battle for a loose puck along the boards. It’s violent —both of them throwing their weight around, sticks tangling, shoulders colliding. The refs let it play out because it’s technically clean, just hard hockey.
Rykov gets the puck, but Kai’s already positioned himself to cut off the passing lane. Their eyes meet for exactly half a second through their face shields.
Rykov’s expression is pure concentrated rage.
Oh please. Always so serious.
Kai smiles.
The personal war between them doesn’t change the outcome of the game — the Wardens lose in a dismal shootout, 1-0—but Kai knows what the sports commentators will say tomorrow. They’ll praise his “newfound grit.” They’ll say he’s finally playing with an edge.
They have no idea that the edge is named Nazar Rykov, and that his very existence on this planet forces Kai into a state of heightened, infuriated focus.
He hates him for it.
* * *
Back at the hotel, the wet streets are reflecting neon signs in smears of pink and blue and yellow.
The Four Seasons is exactly where Kai expected it to be—King Street West, all glass and modern luxury. He’s stayed here before. Knows the layout.
He’s approaching the entrance, his hood up against the rain, when he spots him through the gleaming glass of the lobby doors.
