Chapter 1 Nazar #2
Nazar stays where he is, his hand tight around the water bottle.
His mind goes back to six years ago. The scouting combine.
The drills where scouts watched every move, timed every lap.
He’d been projected top five. Top five meant big guaranteed contracts, signing bonuses, security for him and his grandmother.
Then everything changed.
The list came out, and his name wasn’t on it.
And Kaisyn Callahan—who hadn’t been projected to go in the top five and was only added to the draft combine at the last minute—had taken the fifth spot.
His father Doyle Callahan owned the Toronto Wardens and had his hands in half a dozen other teams’ business. That’s what everyone said. That he’d pulled strings. Made calls. Ensured his youngest son got what he wanted.
Nazar’s jaw clenches. That one spot changed everything. Not getting into the top five meant a shorter contract, less money, playing for a team that didn’t want him. It meant one more year of fighting for ice time, of proving himself over and over while Callahan got handed opportunities.
But.
Nazar exhales slowly.
Callahan is fast. Not just fast—explosive. The kind of speed that turns a broken play into a breakaway before the defense can blink. And his precision, that surgical accuracy when he needs it, is something Nazar has watched on tape more times than he’d admit.
Callahan is good. Maybe not elite, not yet, but good enough that the question of whether he belongs is more complicated than Nazar wants it to be.
It pains him to think about it. Burns like acid in his throat.
Because it would be easier if Callahan was just a rich kid coasting on his name. Easier to hate him cleanly, without this gnawing doubt that maybe, maybe, the talent is real.
Nazar pushes off the wall and walks back toward the locker room.
The noise hits him again as he steps inside. Most of the team is halfway to the showers now. He heads for his stall, tossing the water bottle onto the bench.
He feels it before he sees it.
That prickle of attention.
Nazar looks up. Callahan is standing by his own stall, towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp and pushed back from his face. He’s staring directly at him.
For a second, neither of them moves.
Then Callahan’s mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “Enjoyed the show, Rykov?”
Nazar holds his gaze. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” His voice is light, almost amused, but his eyes are cold. Hard.
Nazar’s mind races. Callahan thinks he’s enjoying this. Thinks Nazar gets some kind of sick satisfaction from watching the team tear into him. Like he’s sitting back, gleeful, letting everyone else do the dirty work.
Something sharp and cutting forms on Nazar’s tongue. Something about how Callahan wouldn’t know real scrutiny if it hit him in his pretty face. Something about earned versus bought.
But the seconds stretch.
Callahan’s eyes stay on him, full of fierce challenge despite the almost-amused curve of his mouth. Waiting.
Nazar’s jaw clenches. His teeth grind together. The words won’t come.
They’re stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth, tangled up with anger and something else he doesn’t want to name.
He turns away without a word.
“That’s what I thought,” Callahan says softly behind him.
Then he’s gone, disappearing into the steam of the showers.
Nazar stands there, fists clenched at his sides. The anger in his chest unfurls, darker and hotter than before.
Miller drops onto the bench beside him. “Man, this is exhausting to watch.”
“Shut up,” Nazar says.
* * *
The team meeting is nothing new. Thompson goes over schedules, travel plans, PR obligations.
Nazar only half-listens.
He’s too aware of Callahan sitting three seats down, his posture relaxed, his attention seemingly elsewhere. But every so often, Nazar catches him glancing over. Just a flicker of movement, gone before Nazar can decide if it’s real or imagined.
When the meeting ends, Bachman stands. “One more thing,” he says. His voice is steady, commanding. “I don’t care what happened before today. I don’t care what team you came from or what beef you’re carrying. We’re all Vancouver Wolverines now. We win together or we lose together. No exceptions.”
His gaze sweeps the room, landing on Nazar, then Callahan. “That clear?”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the team.
“Good,” he says. “Now get out of here. Rest up. Tomorrow we work harder.”
The room empties quickly. Nazar lingers, shoving gear into his bag with more force than necessary.
When he finally looks up, Callahan is still there, leaning against the doorframe.
Nazar knows what he needs to do. Just walk past. There’s enough room in the doorway to get through without touching. He’s twenty-three years old, he plays in the league for one of the best teams, and he’s a fucking adult who understands that the smart move is to ignore Callahan.
Ignore him and the idiotic impulses that surface every time they’re in the same room.
He slings his bag over his shoulder and crosses the locker room. Three feet. Two feet. A few inches to the threshold.
Callahan doesn’t move.
“Move,” Nazar says, voice low.
He has the audacity to frown, all mock innocence. “You heard the coach. We’re one team now. We have to behave ourselves.”
“Only you have to behave yourself.”
“And the righteous Nazar Rykov will make sure I do, right?” Callahan’s expression shifts fast, from mockery to something sharper. His eyes burn. “Just make sure your righteousness doesn’t ruin the team’s game.”
“Never thought you’d overestimate yourself this much, Callahan.” Nazar’s jaw tightens. “You think your game matters that much? We were doing fine without you.”
“They wouldn’t have brought me here if they didn’t desperately need what I can do.” Callahan’s voice is flat now, matter-of-fact. “I’m a walking scandal, remember? Roven and Seniero hate scandals.”
The mention of the team owners hits like a jab. It’s true. The Vancouver Wolverines’ management is notoriously conservative, obsessed with image. If they took him anyway, they must have decided his skill outweighed the risk.
Nazar feels his control slipping. “I have news for you. Almost everyone hates scandals. You just love them so much you don’t even realize it.”
“You’ll never have news for me, Rykov.” Callahan’s voice drops, cold and dismissive. “Everything I need to know about you, I learn from the press.”
The words land like a punch.
Four years ago, Nazar made one comment to a reporter. One.
He’d been tired after a game, irritated by a loss, and when asked about facing Callahan on the ice, he’d said: “You always know when he’s on the ice. Mostly because you can hear him from the bench.”
It wasn’t even meant as an insult. Everyone knew Callahan talked constantly during games—to refs, to other players, to anyone who’d listen.
But Nazar almost never spoke to the media about such things. He avoided making comments about other players entirely. So when he did, it made headlines.
That’s when it started.
Callahan began leaving comments in interviews. Small ones. Passive-aggressive, double-edged remarks that most people didn’t catch were about Nazar specifically. But Nazar knew. He always knew.
“Some of the Vancouver Wolverines players are an absolute nightmare to play against… on a Tuesday night in November.”
That one had come just a month ago, during the off-season when most teams were on vacation. Nazar had been absent from a few playoff games due to injury. The implication was clear.
And before that: “I love playing against him. It’s a great way to get familiar with the ice in his end of the rink.”
Everyone had laughed at that one.
Callahan had more opportunities than most to talk to the press. Six years in the league, four teams already. Every time he transferred, the media circled like sharks, hungry for quotes. Meanwhile, Nazar had been with the Vancouver Wolverines for four years. Stable. Boring. No scandals, no drama.
No ammunition.
Callahan turns abruptly and walks down the corridor. Not toward the exit. The opposite direction.
Nazar wants to shout after him that he’s going the wrong way, that he can’t even find the damn exit. But he bites his tongue at the last second, the words dying in his throat.
He watches Callahan’s retreating back, his eyes catching on the line of his shoulders, the way his damp hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck.
That neck.
Nazar’s stomach twists.
The memory slams into him before he can stop it.
The draft combine weekend. Six years ago. One of the most shameful, unbelievable moments of his life. The kind of moment he’s spent years trying not to think about.
Never.
But every time he sees Callahan’s face, every time his gaze drops to that long column of throat, the memory comes back. Sharp and vivid and humiliating.
God, he fucking hates that neck.
Nazar turns and walks in the opposite direction, his hands curled into fists, his pulse pounding in his ears.
This season is going to be hell. Nazar knows it with a certainty that settles deep in his bones. And Kaisyn Callahan is the devil himself, looking like a fucking angel.