The Last Inch Of Ice

Chapter 1 Nazar

Nazar Rykov laces his skates with practiced efficiency, pulling each crossover tight enough to feel the pressure through the padding.

A new arrival always shifts the air in the room, but this one feels different.

The name alone is enough to sour his stomach. Kaisyn Callahan.

The prodigal son. His father, Doyle Callahan, has ownership stakes spanning half the damn league.

“Heard his flight was delayed,” Miller says, yanking his helmet on.

“More like his manicurist ran late,” someone else adds.

Laughter ripples through space. Nazar doesn’t join in. He doesn’t look up.

He focuses on the knot in his laces, pulling until his fingers ache. Actions are what matter.

And every action he wants to take regarding Callahan would get him suspended for the entire season.

The locker room door swings open. The casual chatter cuts out.

Nazar slows, turning.

And there he is.

Callahan stands in the doorway, gear bag slung over one shoulder, his skates hooked through his fingers.

He’s wearing sunglasses indoors, like he walked straight off a press conference instead of into a locker room. His gear looks untouched.

“Princess has arrived,” Miller mutters.

Callahan’s eyes—bright, captivating blue—sweep the room. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just looks.

There’s something unnervingly deliberate about the way he takes them all in, like he’s already cataloging weaknesses.

He carries himself with a languid, unbothered grace that makes Nazar’s teeth ache. He’s tall, but leaner than Nazar, built for speed and agility rather than collision.

The infamous blond hair is a mess of gold under the fluorescent lights, almost glowing. The magazines call him angelic, and they’re not wrong.

If you ignore the scar.

A light-red slash across his cheekbone, just sharp enough to ruin the perfection of his face.

Nazar’s eyes follow the line of the scar, then drop to the long column of Callahan’s throat. A pulse beats under the skin. Steady. Nazar’s hand tightens on his stick until the wood creaks.

He forces his gaze back up, and Callahan is staring right at him. There’s no smirk. Not yet. Just a quiet, assessing look that’s gone in a second.

Callahan’s mouth curves. “Miss me already, boys?”

The silence stretches.

“Don’t worry,” he adds, his voice smooth as he drops his bag on an empty bench. “I brought enough of daddy’s money for everyone.”

The tension in the air ratchets up, so thick Nazar can taste it. A few guys shift uncomfortably. Miller looks like he might spit.

Before anyone can retort, a solid presence moves past them. Alex Bachman. Solid, dependable Bachman, everyone’s unspoken pick for captain.

“Callahan. A word.” He nods toward the hallway.

Callahan follows him without arguing.

They step just outside the locker room door, and Nazar watches through the gap as the older player talks in a low, even tone. The conversation is over in less than a minute. Bachman even squeezes Callahan’s shoulder, as if supporting him.

Nazar’s head jerks up. He never expected to see them have such a respectful relationship. The younger player listens attentively to the older man, his posture different — less defensive, more open.

When they return, Callahan’s easygoing mask is back in place.

A coach appears in the doorway behind them. “Callahan. You’re late. Checkups ended half an hour ago.”

“Traffic,” he says without missing a beat.

“We’re in the facility, kid. There’s no traffic.”

“Fair point.” He starts pulling gear from his bag. “Won’t happen again, Coach.”

Thompson grunts. “Five minutes. Everyone on the ice.”

The room noise resumes, but it’s muted now, cautious.

Nazar finishes with his skates and stands, testing his weight on the blades. Across the locker area, Callahan strips off his jacket and pulls his practice jersey over his head. The fabric catches for a moment on his shoulders before sliding down.

Nazar grabs his stick and helmet, heading for the tunnel that leads to the ice.

The rest of the team files out behind him. Callahan is last, skating onto the ice with an easy grace that makes Nazar’s jaw tighten. His edges are clean, his stride efficient. He looks like he belongs here.

That’s the worst part.

Coach Thompson’s whistle pierces the air. “Bring it in! Hustle!”

They form a half-circle around him. Nazar ends up directly across from Callahan, close enough to smell the soap on his skin. It’s a clean, sharp scent that makes something in Nazar’s chest tighten uncomfortably.

“Welcome back,” the coach starts, his voice booming across the ice. “We got new faces, but the goal’s the same. The Cup. Nothing less.” He looks around the circle. “You know the tradition. We need a captain. Management has made its choice.”

He lets the silence hang for a beat. “This year, the ‘C’ goes to Alex Bachman.”

A quiet but collective sigh of relief moves through the players. No surprises. No bullshit politics. Just the right choice.

“As is tradition,” Thompson says, “Bachman needs the full support of his team. Show of faith. Sticks on the ice.”

The sound starts a moment later. A heavy thump as Miller taps his stick. Then another, and another, until the ice echoes with the deep, rhythmic drumming of unified agreement. Thump-thump-thump.

Nazar slams his stick down hard, his eyes pinned on Callahan.

Callahan doesn’t move. He just stands there, holding his stick, watching the rest of the team. His gaze slides from other players to Nazar, and that little smirk touches his lips again.

Slowly he lowers his stick to the ice and taps it once.

A single, quiet thump.

The drumming dies out. Thompson claps Bachman on the shoulder, and players start moving off for drills. Nazar doesn’t move. He watches Callahan turn away, feeling the weight of that one, solitary tap settle in his chest like a stone.

Callahan glances back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised just enough to be a question.

Practice is brutal.

Thompson runs them through every drill twice, then adds a third round for good measure. Nazar’s lungs burn, his thighs scream, but he pushes harder. He’s always been good at pushing. It’s what got him here when everyone said he’d wash out.

Callahan keeps up. His edges are clean, his shot placement precise, but there’s a half-second hesitation before each move that tells Nazar he’s thinking too much. Trying to prove something.

“Rykov! Callahan!” Thompson barks. “Two-on-one drill. Callahan, you’re on defense.”

Nazar takes his position at center ice. Miller lines up beside him, grinning. “Make it hurt.”

“Always do,” he says.

The whistle blows.

Nazar surges forward, the puck on his stick. Callahan skates backward, his eyes tracking the play. Miller breaks left, creating space, but Nazar doesn’t pass. He charges straight at Callahan, closing the distance between them in seconds.

Callahan plants his feet, stick low. “That’s all you got, Rykov?”

Nazar feints right. Callahan bites, shifting his weight. Nazar cuts left and slams into him, shoulder to chest. The impact sends him stumbling back, his stick clattering to the ice. Nazar fires the puck into the net.

The sound of rubber hitting the mesh is satisfying.

Thompson’s whistle cuts through the air. “Clean hit. Reset.”

Nazar turns back. Callahan is already on his feet, picking up his stick. There’s no anger in his expression, just that same measured look. He skates closer, close enough that Nazar can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.

“You always this subtle?” Callahan asks, his voice low.

“You always this slow?” Nazar shoots back.

Callahan’s lips twitch. “Guess we’ll find out.”

They run the drill again. And again. Each time, Nazar hits harder. Each time, Callahan gets back up.

By the fifth round, Nazar’s breathing is ragged. Callahan’s jersey is dark with sweat, clinging to the lines of his chest and shoulders. Nazar’s eyes catch on the way the fabric molds to him, then jerks away.

“Rykov, you trying to kill him or just maim him?” Miller calls out, skating past.

“Depends on the day,” Nazar mutters.

Thompson finally blows the whistle for the last time. “Hit the showers. Team meeting in twenty.”

* * *

The locker room is loud with post-practice noise: the clang of gear hitting benches, the hiss of water from the showers, voices overlapping in tired conversation. Nazar strips off his pads methodically, his muscles protesting every movement. His jersey is soaked through, heavy with sweat.

He needs air.

Grabbing his water bottle, he pushes through the side door into the hallway. The facility is quieter here, just the hum of industrial HVAC and the distant sound of a Zamboni on another rink. He leans against the wall, taking a long drink.

That’s when he hears it.

“—don’t care who your daddy is, Callahan. You’re on my line, you better keep up.”

Nazar recognizes the voice. Davis. A fourth-liner with more attitude than skill.

“I’ll do my best not to embarrass you.” Callahan’s voice is smooth, almost bored.

“You think this is funny?”

“Not particularly. You’re the one who cornered me in a locker room.”

Nazar moves closer to the corner, staying out of sight. He shouldn’t listen. He should walk away.

He doesn’t.

“You know what everyone says, right?” Davis continues. “That you’re only here because Daddy owns half the fucking league. That you couldn’t make a roster on your own if your life depended on it.”

“They say a lot of things,” he replies. “To be honest, Davis, most of it’s more creative than that.”

“This is a joke to you.”

“No.” Callahan’s voice loses its casual edge. “But I’m not going to defend myself to you. You’ve already decided what you think.”

“Damn right I have.”

“Then we’re done here.”

There’s a pause. Nazar can picture Davis trying to decide if he wants to push it further.

“Just stay out of my way,” he finally says.