Chapter 3 Nazar
The season picks up speed fast. Three games in five days, then a flight to Ottawa.
Nazar stares out the bus window as they pull up to the hotel. There’s a crowd outside. Signs. Chanting. It takes him a second to process what they’re saying.
“Callahan Out!”
“No Nepotism in Hockey!”
“Earn Your Spot!”
He counts at least thirty people, maybe more. They’re loud, organized, holding professionally printed signs. A few reporters hover at the edges, cameras ready.
The bus doors hiss open. Thompson stands at the front. “Stay together. Ignore them. Straight to the lobby.”
Nazar grabs his bag and follows the team out. The noise hits him immediately—shouting, the click of camera shutters, someone blowing an air horn. Security guards form a corridor from the bus to the hotel entrance, their arms linked.
That’s when Nazar notices it.
There are more guards around Callahan than anyone else. Four of them, specifically positioned, creating a tighter circle. How the fuck did he not notice this before? They’ve been traveling for weeks now, and only now does it register that Callahan has his own security detail.
He feels foolish. Observant on the ice, blind off it.
They push through the doors into the lobby. The noise cuts off, replaced by the muted hum of air conditioning and quiet conversations. The team scatters toward the check-in desk, but Nazar’s eyes land on Callahan.
He’s standing near the windows with Alex Bachman and Sam Kowalski—the oldest player and the youngest. Bachman has a hand on Callahan’s shoulder, his expression serious. Sam nods along, saying something Nazar can’t hear.
Callahan’s face is carefully blank. Composed. But his jaw is tight, and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. He’s hiding it well, but Nazar can see the tension in the line of his shoulders.
Then Callahan’s eyes flick up. He catches Nazar watching.
For a second, neither of them looks away.
Then his mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. He says something to Bachman, claps Sam on the arm, and turns toward the doors.
“Where the hell is he going?” Miller mutters beside Nazar.
Nazar watches as Callahan pushes back through the hotel entrance, stepping into full view of the crowd and the cameras. A reporter shoves a microphone in his face almost immediately.
“Of course,” Nazar says under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He grabs his key card from the front desk and heads for the elevators.
* * *
Nazar’s room is on the fifth floor. He drops his bag on the bed, pulls out his phone, and scrolls through messages. One from his grandmother asking if he’s eating enough. One from his agent about an endorsement deal he doesn’t care about.
Then he hears it.
A low, guttural hiss from the hallway.
He freezes.
No.
Another hiss, followed by a sharp yowl.
Nazar closes his eyes and counts to ten.
When he opens the door, Callahan is three doors down, crouched in front of a pet carrier, trying to coax something out.
“Come on, Bonifazio,” Callahan says, his voice softer than Nazar has ever heard it. “We’ve been over this. Hotels aren’t scary.”
Aha, fucking Bonifazio is having a bad afternoon again.
Nazar watches for a moment—watches Callahan’s careful patience, the way his voice gentles—then steps back into his room and closes the door.
And then that cat hisses again.
After one flight on a plane with Almighty Bonifazio, Nazar can now recognize that cat from among a hundred just by his hissing.
He’s going to lose his mind this season.
* * *
The game against Ottawa is brutal.
The Senators are fast, aggressive, and hungry for a win on home ice. The crowd is deafening, every hit and shot met with roars or boos depending on which side makes the play.
Nazar and Callahan are still fighting the scheme. Nazar carries the puck too long, takes shots he should pass. Callahan hovers in the wrong positions, trying to do everything himself. But somehow—somehow—the team is showing its best results in years.
They’re up 3-2 going into the final minutes.
Thompson leans over the boards during a stoppage. “Rykov! Callahan! Stop fucking around and play the system!”
“Yes, Coach,” they say in unison.
The puck drops. Nazar wins the faceoff, sending it back to the defense. They cycle it around, building pressure. Callahan breaks toward the net, but Nazar doesn’t pass. He shoots instead, and the goalie makes the save.
“Rykov!” Callahan snaps.
“You weren’t open!”
“I was right fucking there!”
The whistle blows. They reset. This time, when Nazar gets the puck, he sees Callahan streaking down the wing. He should pass. It’s the right play.
He doesn’t.
He tries to carry it himself, cutting toward the boards. There’s a Senators defenseman closing in. Nazar sees him too late.
The collision sends Nazar into the boards with a sickening thud.
The arena erupts. For a second, everything goes white, pain radiating through his shoulder. He pushes himself up slowly, shaking his head to clear it.
When he skates back to the bench, Callahan is staring at him. Their eyes meet for a split second before Nazar looks away.
They win the game 4-2.
The locker room is loud with celebration. Miller is shouting about the win, Vyachovsky is laughing at something Sam said, and Bachman is giving a speech about momentum.
Nazar strips off his gear in silence. His muscles ache, his knuckles are bruised, and all he wants is a shower and sleep.
But he can’t leave.
Not while Callahan is sitting three stalls down, pulling off his pads and sighing like Nazar is the one who created all their problems.
Nazar’s jaw clenches. He yanks off his jersey and tosses it into his bag with more force than necessary.
“Nice hit tonight, Rykov,” Davis says, walking past. “Really got him good.”
Nazar looks up. “What?”
“That check in the second period. Right on the neck. Beautiful.”
Nazar’s stomach drops.
“Uh, that wasn’t—” Sam starts.
“Doesn’t matter,” Davis says, grinning. “Still looked great.”
Nazar’s hands go still. Davis wasn’t talking about Callahan. He was talking about some other play, some other hit. But the word neck echoes in Nazar’s mind, and suddenly he’s not in the locker room anymore.
He’s back on the ice six years ago. Draft combine. The first day he ever met Callahan.
They were running drills, testing speed and contact. Nazar went in for a check, harder than necessary, and knocked Callahan down. He fell on top of him, the weight of his body pinning Callahan to the ice.
He should have gotten up immediately.
He didn’t.
His face was buried in Callahan’s neck. He could feel the heat of his skin, the rapid pulse beneath it. His lips brushed against that long column of throat, and he exhaled, his breath warm and unsteady.
He should have moved. Should have pulled back. Should have stopped it.
But Nazar’s mouth stayed where it was.
And for one terrifying second, he was afraid to move. Not because he needed to get up. But because he was afraid his mouth would do something else.
Callahan didn’t push him away. He had every opportunity. But instead, he froze beneath Nazar, his breathing strange and shallow.
When Nazar finally forced himself to stand, he skated away as fast as possible, glaring at Callahan like it was his fault.
Callahan had smirked and made some sarcastic comment about contact sports.
Nazar prefers not to think about that moment. But in his mind, it’s clear: that was the moment Callahan decided to ruin him. That was when he felt contempt for Nazar, saw him as weak.
And Nazar felt contempt for himself.
“Rykov?”
He blinks. Miller is standing in front of him, frowning.
“You good, man?”
“Fine,” Nazar says.
He grabs his towel and heads for the showers, refusing to look at Callahan on the way out.