Chapter 4 Kai
Kai hates the league’s charity galas.
He attends every single one.
Tonight’s event is at the Carlisle Hotel, all marble floors and crystal chandeliers, the kind of place that screams old money so loudly it echoes. The league hosts these things quarterly, and most players find excuses to skip. Kai never does.
Partly because his father hates them.
Doyle Callahan despises being strong-armed into organizing and financing charitable organizations. It cuts into profit margins, forces him to smile for cameras, and worst of all, it makes him look like he cares about something other than winning.
So naturally, Kai makes it his mission to attend. To stand in front of photographers with his name—that name—pinned to his chest, a walking reminder that the Callahans can’t escape their obligations.
His father has been dissatisfied with him his entire life.
Contrary to public opinion, Doyle doesn’t love that his youngest son plays hockey.
He hates it. Hates that Kai chose the sport, hates that Kai isn’t good at staying quiet and invisible, hates that every headline with Kai’s name in it reflects back on him.
So Kai shows up. Every time. And he smiles for the cameras.
Tonight, he’s nursing a cocktail—something bright pink with edible flowers floating in it—when he sees Nazar Rykov walk through the entrance.
He nearly drops his glass.
Rykov never comes to these things. He’s the type who considers charity galas a waste of time, all performance and no substance. The kind of guy who’d rather write a check quietly and move on with his life.
But here he is, dressed in a dark suit that fits him too well, his expression as grim as ever.
Kai orders himself to stay away.
Their encounters never end well. Rykov always wants to appear righteous, like he’s got the moral high ground on everything. And Kai’s eyes flash with anger every time he remembers that the good, silent Rykov—who barely speaks to anyone—was not so restrained with one person.
Him.
Rykov made that comment to the press a few years ago, and ever since, Kai has made it his personal mission to ensure he regrets it.
He takes a long sip of his cocktail and turns away.
The evening drags. Speeches. Applause. Rich people congratulating themselves for being generous. Kai smiles through all of it, shaking hands and making small talk with people whose names he’ll forget by morning.
Sam Kowalski is here too, looking uncomfortable in a suit that’s slightly too big for him. He’s standing near the bar, nursing a soda and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“First gala?” Kai asks, sliding up beside him.
Sam jumps slightly. “Yeah. Is it always like this?”
“Worse,” Kai says. “Wait until they start the auction.”
“There’s an auction?”
“Silent auction. People bid on signed jerseys and dinner dates with players. It’s as awkward as it sounds.”
Sam grimaces. “Great.”
Kai pats him on the shoulder. “You’ll survive. Just smile and don’t drink the champagne. It’s amazing.”
He’s about to head back into the crowd when he sees Rykov again. This time, he’s talking to Frida Ivorly, the head of Very Important Charity Committee and general manager of the team. Frida is in her fifties, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, the kind of woman who doesn’t suffer fools.
Rykov is speaking to her with the kind of intensity that makes Kai pause.
He shouldn’t eavesdrop.
He does anyway.
“—before Christmas,” Rykov is saying, his voice low but firm. “A charity match. For the orphanage in Millbrook.”
Frida raises an eyebrow. “Millbrook? That’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
Frida folds her arms. “Most of these events are about visibility. Millbrook doesn’t have visibility. It’s a small town with no media presence.”
“Then maybe that’s the point,” Rykov says. “Charity shouldn’t be about cameras and cocktails. It should be about helping people who actually need it.”
Kai’s jaw tightens.
Of course. Of course Rykov would turn this into a moral grandstand. Let’s all look at how pure and noble Nazar Rykov is, rejecting the empty glamour of charity galas while the rest of them drink champagne.
Frida looks unconvinced. “I don’t think the league will approve it. The logistics alone—”
“It’s a good idea,” Kai says, stepping forward.
Both of them turn to look at him.
“Callahan,” she says, her tone cautious.
Kai smiles, the kind of smile that’s all teeth and no warmth.
“Rykov’s right. These events are hollow.
Empty. Repugnant, even.” He glances at Rykov, who’s staring at him like he’s trying to figure out what game Kai is playing.
“So why not do something real for once? Go to Millbrook. Play a charity match. Make it mean something.”
Rykov’s jaw clenches.
“You’re serious?” Frida asks.
“Absolutely,” Kai says. “And I’m sure Rykov will bring cameras and a microphone, since he loves talking in public so much.”
Rykov’s hands curl into fists at his sides.
Frida looks between them, clearly sensing the tension. “I’ll… consider it. I’ll need to talk to the league.”
“Great,” Kai says brightly. “Let us know.”
He walks away before Rykov can say anything.
* * *
By the end of the evening, Kai is exhausted. The smiling, the small talk, the pretending—all of it takes more energy than a full game. He steps out onto the balcony, the cool night air a relief after the stifling warmth of the ballroom.
He leans against the railing, his cocktail—this one’s blue with gold flakes—dangling from his fingers. The city stretches out below him, lights twinkling like stars.
He can’t resist the urge to find Rykov one more time. To provoke him. To see that flash of anger in his dark eyes.
But before he can move, he hears footsteps behind him.
“Trying to get drunk and finally get kicked off the team?”
Kai flinches, spinning around. Rykov is standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
Damn it. This happens all the time. How can someone as big and muscular as Rykov move so quietly?
“Jesus, Rykov,” Kai says, his heart still pounding. “Do you practice sneaking up on people, or is it just natural talent?”
He doesn’t answer. He steps onto the balcony, the door clicking shut behind him. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Kai holds up his cocktail. “This? It’s a mocktail. No alcohol. Just sugar.”
“Right.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I don’t care,” Rykov says. “I want to know why you agreed to the Millbrook match.”
Kai takes a sip of his drink, savoring the sweetness. Secretly, that’s one of the reasons he loves these pompous events—the opportunity to drink fun, creative cocktails. “Why do you care?”
“Because you never do anything without an agenda.”
“Maybe I just wanted to support your noble cause,” Kai says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Bullshit.”
Kai’s smile fades. “You’re right. I did it to piss you off. Congratulations, it worked.”
He takes a step closer. “You think this is a game?”
“Everything’s a game, Rykov. You just don’t know how to play.”
“I’m not playing.”
“No,” Kai says, his voice hardening. “You’re too busy being righteous to notice that everyone sees through it.”
Rykov’s jaw tightens. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Kai sets his glass down on the railing. The memory surfaces before he can stop it—the draft combine, the ice, Rykov’s weight pressing him down, his mouth on Kai’s neck. The way Kai froze beneath him, his breath catching, his body betraying him.
His mood deteriorates significantly.
“It means,” Kai says, his voice cold, “that you’re a hypocrite. You act like you’re better than everyone else, like you don’t care about anything but the game. But you’re just as desperate for attention as the rest of us.”
“Bullshit. That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” Kai steps closer, close enough to see the way Rykov’s pupils dilate. “You made one comment to the press about me. One. And you’ve regretted it ever since. But you didn’t regret it because it was cruel. You regretted it because it made you look bad.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Kai’s voice drops. “You’re so obsessed with being the good guy, the silent martyr, that the thought of anyone seeing the real you makes you squirm. And the real you… well, kind of reckless, ambitious, and a little short-sighted.”
Rykov’s hand shoots out, grabbing Kai by the front of his shirt. He slams him back against the railing, their faces inches apart.
“Say that again,” Rykov growls.
Kai’s heart is racing, but he doesn’t look away. “You heard me.”
For a second, neither of them moves. The air between them is electric, charged with something Kai doesn’t want to name.
Then Rykov lets go, stepping back like Kai burned him.
“Stay away from me,” Rykov says, his voice rough.
“Gladly. Good fucking bye,” Kai says.
Rykov turns and walks back inside, the door slamming shut behind him.
Kai stays on the balcony, his hands shaking, his breath uneven. He picks up his cocktail and drains it in one gulp.