Chapter 2 Nazar #2
Nazar’s eyes drop to his neck on their own. He jerks his gaze back up, meeting blue eyes.
His pupils are dilated. Dark and wild. It’s the first time Nazar has seen this much anger in Callahan’s face, and it makes his blood boil. He feels like he’s on drugs. Even a bulldozer couldn’t move him now—Callahan is so close, he can almost feel his breath on his face.
Callahan opens his mouth like he’s about to say something. Nazar has no doubt a barrage of insults is coming. That bastard never misses an opportunity.
But Callahan changes his mind.
He throws another angry glance at Nazar and walks away.
* * *
Nazar’s Ukrainian grandmother, Halina, opens the door before he can knock. She takes one look at him and launches into rapid-fire Ukrainian, her hands flying up in horror.
“Look at you! Skin and bones!”
“Ba,” Nazar says, stepping inside and kissing her cheek. “I’m fine.”
“Fine?” She pinches his arm, hard. “This is fine? I’ve seen better meat on a chicken carcass at the market.”
Nazar, easily over two hundred pounds and six feet three inches tall, follows her into the cramped kitchen.
The table is loaded with food: varenyky, holubtsi, kovbasa, salo, pickled vegetables, fresh bread, and what looks like an entire roast chicken.
The smell makes his stomach growl despite himself.
He’s tried multiple times to buy her a more spacious home. Each time, she’s refused with the same line: “I raised three children in this house. Why do I need a palace now?”
Since his mother and brother died, he makes a point of visiting her before every season. It’s the only ritual that feels like home.
“Sit,” Halina commands, pointing at the chair. “Eat before you collapse.”
“I eat plenty, ba.”
“You eat garbage.” She waves a hand dismissively, already piling food onto his plate. “Protein shakes and chicken breast. That’s not food, that’s punishment. No wonder you look miserable all the time.”
“I don’t look miserable.”
“You look like someone stole your favorite toy and set it on fire.” She sits across from him, pouring tea into two mismatched cups. “Now eat. And tell me why you’re scowling like your brother used to when the Dynamo lost.”
Nazar picks up his fork. The first bite of varenyky is perfect—potato and cheese, the dough thin and tender. He closes his eyes for a second.
She watches him with sharp eyes, the kind that see through every lie, every omission. Then she picks up the remote and turns on the television. A hockey highlights reel plays, and she leans forward, her focus absolute.
“Terrible defense,” she mutters as a goal is scored. “What is the goalie doing? Sleeping?”
Nazar hides a smile. She watches every Wolverines game, records the ones she misses, and critiques his performance with brutal honesty.
“That was a lazy pass,” she says, pointing at the screen. “See? He didn’t even look. You do that sometimes, Nazar. You get impatient.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“You better.” She takes a sip of tea, her gaze never leaving the screen. “You’re good, but you’re not patient. Patience wins games. Your brother knew that.”
Nazar’s grip tightens on his fork. She doesn’t say Derek’s name often, but when she does, it’s like a knife sliding between his ribs.
Then they show Callahan.
The camera zooms in on him after a goal, his helmet off, hair damp and wild, that stupid scar on his cheek catching the light. He’s grinning at someone off-camera, and even through the screen, Nazar can see the charisma rolling off him in waves.
“Ah, that boy,” Halina says, her voice full of admiration. “Such a little sparrow. Look at him go.”
Nazar grits his teeth.
“He’s fast,” she continues, leaning back in her chair. “And smart. You see how he reads the ice? That’s instinct. You can’t teach that.”
“He’s reckless,” Nazar says flatly.
Halina raises an eyebrow. “Reckless? Or brave?”
“There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” She gives him a knowing look, the kind that makes him feel like he’s twelve again and she’s just caught him lying about breaking the neighbor’s window. “You don’t like him?”
“I don’t know him.”
I fucking hate him.
“You don’t need to know someone to dislike them. But usually, synku, when you dislike someone that much, it’s because they remind you of something.” She taps her temple. “Think about it.”
Nazar doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about Callahan at all.
But of course, the universe hates him, because his grandmother truly loves seeing Callahan on television.
What she doesn’t know—what he can’t tell her—is that his older brother, Derek, once played for Doyle Callahan’s team, the Toronto Wardens.
She has no idea who the owner is… because if she did, there’s no way she’d like Kaisyn as much as she does.
Derek’s career ended abruptly, the opportunities drying up like they’d never existed, debts piling up faster than he could pay them.
He was forced to work as an ice resurfacer at Doyle Callahan’s stadium, driving the Zamboni at the same rink where he used to play.
And then he drank himself to death.
Nazar’s goal has always been to get on the Toronto Wardens. To play for Doyle Callahan’s team and rub his nose in it. To prove that his brother mattered. That the Rykov name means something.
But he can’t tell his grandmother any of this. She doesn’t know the details, and he won’t upset her with them.
“You’re quiet,” Halina says, pulling him from his thoughts. “More quiet than usual, which is saying something.”
“Just tired, ba.”
“Tired.” She snorts. “You’re twenty-three. You don’t know what tired is.” She stands, refilling his tea without asking. “Speaking of which, I have a nice Ukrainian girl for you to meet. Oksana. Very sweet. Very pretty.”
“Ba—”
“Don’t ‘ba’ me.” She sits back down, fixing him with a stern look. “You’re not getting any younger. And you’re certainly not getting any more charming with that scowl.”
“I’m focused on hockey.”
“Hockey, hockey, hockey.” She waves a hand. “Hockey won’t keep you warm at night. Hockey won’t give me great-grandchildren.”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“Your father was married at twenty-two. Your mother was pregnant with Derek by twenty-three.”
Nazar doesn’t point out that his father left when he was six and his mother struggled alone for years. Halina knows. She just chooses to remember the good parts.
“You’ll meet her,” she says firmly. “Next week. I already told her about you. Showed her pictures. She thinks you’re very handsome.”
“Ba—”
“Nazar Oleksandrovych Rykov.” She uses his full name, which means the conversation is over. “You will meet this girl. You will be polite. You will smile, even if it kills you. Understood?”
Nazar sighs. “Fine.”
He’ll go on the date. He always does. And he’ll never continue the relationship past the first meeting. But his grandmother doesn’t need to know that.
“Now eat more.” She pats his hand, her expression softening. " You look like a strong wind could knock you over.” She turns back to the television, where they’re showing another highlight of Callahan. “Look at that. Beautiful skating. Like a dancer.”
Nazar nods and eats his grandmother’s food, letting her talk about Kaisyn Callahan and how graceful he is, even as the anger simmers low and constant in his chest.