Chapter 2 Nazar
“Holy moly,” Miller says.
Nazar glances over.
Miller’s face has gone pale, and he’s not the only one. Half the team stands frozen, staring at the whiteboard where Thompson has just sketched out the practice drill.
Bag skating.
Not just bag skating—the kind of bag skating that makes grown men want to cry.
The patterns Thompson has drawn look like a sadist’s fever dream: tight figure-eights, suicide sprints from blue line to blue line, and something that might be a star pattern or might just be Thompson’s way of saying I hate all of you.
Bag skating is hockey’s version of punishment disguised as conditioning.
No puck. No plays. Just skating until your lungs burn and your legs turn to jelly.
It’s meant to break you down, remind you that talent means nothing without stamina, and separate the players who want it from the ones who just like the idea of wanting it.
“This is insane,” Davis mutters.
“Coach, you trying to kill us before the season even starts?” someone else calls out.
Thompson doesn’t even look up from his clipboard. “On the line. Now.”
Nazar moves without complaint. He’s always been good at this part—the silent obedience, the willingness to do what needs to be done. While the rest of the team shuffles into position, still grumbling, he sets his blades on the goal line and waits for the whistle.
It comes sharp and sudden.
He pushes off hard, his muscles screaming in protest from yesterday’s drills but responding anyway. First sprint to the near blue line. Stop. Back. Stop. Far blue line. Stop. Back. The pattern repeats, shifts, twists into something uglier.
By the fifth minute, sweat is pouring down his face. His breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhale burning his throat. But he doesn’t slow down.
That’s when he notices Callahan.
He’s good. Not just keeping up—good. His edges are sharp, his turns tight and efficient. While Miller stumbles through the star pattern and Davis looks ready to vomit, Callahan skates like the drill was designed for him. His chest heaves, his face is flushed red, but his form doesn’t break.
Nazar thinks back to their conversation yesterday. They wouldn’t have brought me here if they didn’t desperately need what I can do.
He understands now. The owners and coaching staff wouldn’t put the team through the toughest version of bag skating unless they were serious about changing something. Unless they needed to weed out weakness fast.
And Callahan isn’t weak.
When Thompson finally blows the whistle, Nazar’s legs are shaking. He bends over, hands on his knees, gulping air. Around him, players collapse onto the ice or lean against the boards. Someone might be crying. Nazar can’t tell and doesn’t care.
He straightens up, wiping sweat from his face with his jersey.
That’s when he sees Callahan talking to one of the assistant coaches—Burke, the one who handles special teams. Callahan’s hair is plastered to his forehead, his skin flushed and damp. He’s gesturing with one hand, his expression serious.
Nazar stands a little farther away, catching his breath. Davis and Vyachovsky skate over.
“Look at that,” Davis says, nodding toward Callahan. “Already found a reason to complain to management.”
Vyachovsky snorts. “What’d you expect? Guy’s used to getting what he wants.”
Nazar watches Callahan’s mouth move, the way Burke nods and responds. He hates that he wants to know what they’re saying. Hates that part of him wouldn’t be surprised if Callahan found a way to spin this, to ruin Nazar’s career with a few well-placed words to the right people.
People like Callahan and his family are used to resolving issues with conversations. With money. With influence. They’ve been doing it since childhood, moving through the world like it’s a chessboard and everyone else is just a piece to be repositioned.
And Nazar hates Callahan for the simple, infuriating fact that he can still get away with it—even here. In hockey. This sport is supposed to be untouchable. Pure. It’s about hard plays, real blood, and skill you can’t fake or buy with a famous last name, money, or daddy’s connections.
Nazar chose hockey because of that. Because on the ice, what matters is what you can do —not who you are.
Except sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes there are situations where the scales tip with the usual bullshit of the privileged. Politics. Backroom deals. Whispered favors.
And people like Callahan know how to do that best.
“Rykov?” Davis prompts. “You see what I mean?”
Nazar tears his gaze away. “Just keep training,” he says abruptly, skating off.
Behind him, he feels Callahan’s eyes on his back. When Nazar glances over his shoulder, Callahan is still talking to Burke, but his gaze has shifted.
Moments later, he’s watching Nazar again, his chest still rising and falling hard, his hair a tangled mess of gold.
Nazar doesn’t understand why the hell Callahan is watching him.
No. That’s not true.
Nazar is certain Callahan is up to something.
* * *
When the pre-season games begin—games that have no bearing on the team’s future reputation but are of utmost importance for how the roster will be assembled—Nazar becomes convinced that Kaisyn Callahan didn’t join this team by chance.
He intends to ruin it.
After all, the bloody bastard can afford to.
During the first game, Callahan skates up to him at a moment when he shouldn’t. Naturally.
“I know you’re almost mute, but you’re not deaf,” Callahan says, his voice tight. “Pass the puck to me, you bloody center.”
“I thought your job was to receive the puck,” Nazar shoots back. “If you don’t receive it, whose problem is it?”
“You pass it to Vyachovsky, and I—”
“Well, then catch it. Now.”
Nazar skates into the next shift and passes to Vyachovsky again. Not because he’s vindictive—though he is—but because Callahan is standing God knows where right now, completely out of position.
It was a brilliant idea by the coaching staff to make them a duo.
Nazar, the playmaking center, the distributor.
Callahan, the goal-scoring winger, the finisher.
On paper, it’s perfect. The center carries the puck through the neutral zone, uses his vision to set up his wingers for scoring chances.
The winger finds open space in the offensive zone and shoots the instant the puck touches his stick.
Forced dependency. The distributor needs the finisher to get assists. The finisher needs the distributor to get goals.
In practice, it’s a disaster.
Throughout the game, Nazar and Callahan try to break the scheme. Nazar plays both roles—distributor and finisher—carrying the puck himself, taking his own shots. Callahan does the same, trying to do everything solo. They’re disjointed, out of sync.
Nazar keeps telling himself it’s just pre-season. It won’t kill his career.
Then he sees Callahan after the game, pulling off his helmet, wiping the sweat from his hair. His head tilts back, exposing the long line of his throat, and something in Nazar’s chest tightens so hard he can’t breathe.
This will kill his career.
Everything turns red. He can’t take his gaze off that bastard.
And weeks later, when he hears that voice—sarcastic, always a little curious, always a little warm despite the ice in his eyes—he knows he’s fucked. Nazar says just one short phrase to him during the game, and of course, Callahan can’t just reply and move on.
“Oh, he’s talking!” Callahan says, skating backward beside him. “Wait, I’m going to nominate you for the Nobel Prize in Public Speaking.”
“I’ll say it again,” Nazar growls. “Stay out of here.”
“Where is ‘here’?”
“Callahan—”
“Sorry, didn’t hear you,” Callahan says, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Thought you were talking to yourself… worried you’d actually gone soft.”
They win the game with an excellent result, despite the fact that they both tried to break the scheme again. A few hours after the final buzzer, Thompson pulls them aside in the hallway outside the locker room. His assistant coach stands beside him, arms crossed.
“Callahan?” Thompson asks.
“Everything’s fine,” Callahan says smoothly.
“Rykov?”
“Everything’s fine,” Nazar says. “Any comments?”
Thompson exchanges a quick glance with his assistant. “Good. Less skating around like you’ve got nowhere to go. Got it?”
“Yes, coach,” Callahan replies, smirk tugging at his lips.
“Yes, coach,” Nazar echoes, jaw tight.
* * *
Before the season opener, Nazar realizes the current lineup and tactics will be the main strategy for the season.
This means he and that nepo bastard will depend on each other for the entire season.
During one team meeting, Callahan presses his lips together, his jaw tight. It’s the first time Nazar has seen that expression on his face—genuine tension, maybe even worry.
And if he is worried, then they’re both doomed.
Nazar is so angry he waits for Callahan in one of the corridors after practice. When Callahan turns the corner and nearly walks into him, he flinches—like he’s surprised—and for some reason, that makes Nazar’s mood even worse.
“I’ll be brief,” Nazar says, his voice low. “I know you didn’t come here for no reason. And if you’re planning to mess things up and ruin the season, then frame me like I’m to blame for the poor results—I can’t vouch for what I’ll do to you after that.”
Callahan’s face changes before his eyes. His mouth twists, and his voice drips with venom. “You’ll be brief? Dude, you can’t even string two words together.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Are you sure you didn’t rehearse this speech in front of the mirror?” He steps closer, his tone mocking. “It looks like you did. ‘I can’t vouch for what I’ll do.’ Dear God.”
Nazar orders his legs to stay put. He grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. Fuck, by the end of the season, he won’t have any teeth left. They’ll be worn down to dust.
“Did you hear me?” Nazar asks after a pause.
“Fuck off,” Callahan says, enunciating each word as he moves even closer.