Chapter 5 Kai
Three weeks later, Kai stands under the common showers near the locker room, water pounding over him as he mentally curses Rykov with every beat.
The bloody idiot can’t make up his mind. Sometimes he passes perfectly to Kai, threading the puck through impossible gaps like he can see the future. Other times, he takes it himself, carrying it like Kai doesn’t exist.
Kai would rather Rykov completely ruin his statistics and their game plan than cause this uncertainty on the ice. At least then he’d know what to expect. But this? This constant back-and-forth is driving him insane.
It’s all because of Rykov’s nature. The man is used to thinking he’s always right. Used to being the martyr, the one who works harder, sacrifices more, suffers more nobly than anyone else.
God, as soon as Kai sees those frowning dark eyes, his brain always shuts down for a moment.
He tilts his head back, letting the hot water run over his face. He eats himself up inside for agreeing to come and play for the Vancouver Wolverines. Because Kai can never resist temptation.
And in this case, the temptation was Rykov himself.
When they met on the ice as opponents, Kai was electrified by his play. Because Rykov doesn’t know how to play just for the sake of it. When he plays against Kai, he always does so with contempt. Like Kai is something to be crushed, destroyed, erased.
So the idea of being on the same team as Rykov—forcing him to deal with Kai’s presence every single day—was too tempting to resist.
After the early draft and that comment, Kai knows what Rykov thinks of him. The same thing everyone else does. That he’s a spoiled rich kid who bought his way into the league. That he doesn’t belong.
Oh please. Fine. If that’s what Rykov wants to believe, he will make sure he never forgets it.
Suddenly, there’s a noise. The door slams open so hard it ricochets off the wall.
Rykov bursts into the shower room.
He’s still in most of his gear—pants, undershirt soaked through with sweat, his hair damp and wild. He storms toward Kai like a man possessed, water pooling under his skates with each step.
Kai doesn’t move. Just stands there under the spray, watching Rykov close the distance between them.
“Do you have any idea that everything you do out there is being recorded?” Rykov’s voice is low, tight with barely controlled fury. “Every move. Every decision. And next time we’re sitting in analytics, we’ll be watching what you pulled during this game.”
Kai pushes his wet hair back from his face slowly, deliberately. “You mean what you pulled?”
Rykov’s jaw clenches. He takes another step forward, and suddenly he’s right there, close enough that Kai can see the pulse jumping in his throat. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
“I just spent ten minutes getting my ass chewed out by the coach,” Rykov says through gritted teeth, pushing Kai back against the wall with one hand flat on his chest. “While you were in here having your little spa moment.”
The contact sends electricity through Kai’s entire body. His back hits cold ceramic, and he has to brace one hand against the wall to steady himself.
“Spa moment?” Kai’s voice comes out more breathless than he intends. “I’m washing off the game. You know, that thing you’re supposed to do after sweating for three periods.”
“You’re up next,” Rykov continues, ignoring him. “Coach wants to see you. So maybe cut the bath short and—”
“Did he mention the score?” Kai interrupts.
Rykov’s expression darkens.
“Did he say it was a good result?” Kai presses, and now the sarcasm is real, cutting. “Four to one. That’s pretty decisive, wouldn’t you say?”
He knows he’s hit the mark. The coach is obligated to critique them—that’s his job. But if the game produces results like tonight’s? If they’re winning? None of that matters. Not really.
“I’m not your messenger service, Callahan.” Rykov’s voice drops lower, more dangerous. “If you ever move me out of center position again—”
“Then what?” Kai cuts him off. “What exactly are you going to do about it?”
He shakes his head slightly, dismissive. It’s barely a movement, but his wet hair brushes against Rykov’s forearm.
Rykov goes very still.
Then his gaze drops.
It travels down Kai’s throat, across his chest, lower. It lingers—just for a second, maybe two—on Kai’s cock, which is hard and obvious and impossible to hide.
Kai’s heart hammers in his chest. He can’t breathe. Can’t think. Because Rykov is looking at him— really looking—and Kai has no idea what that look means.
Other people are easy. Other people telegraph their thoughts, their desires, their disgust. But Rykov? Rykov is a black hole. Impenetrable. Unreadable. And it makes Kai want to claw his own skin off.
Rykov’s eyes snap back up to meet his.
For one suspended moment, neither of them moves. The water cascades down between them. Somewhere in the background, Sam is saying something to Vyachovsky, laughing about a play. But it all feels very far away.
Then Rykov jerks back like he’s been burned.
He turns and storms out of the showers without another word, leaving wet footprints across the tile.
Kai stays frozen against the wall, his hands shaking. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to go after Rykov. To chase him down and turn this into what they’ve both been circling for months—a brutal, destructive fistfight that would finally break open whatever this thing is between them.
Instead, he picks up the washcloth and starts scrubbing his skin with punishing force.
“You good, Callahan?” Miller calls from a few stalls down.
“Fantastic,” Kai says, his voice steady despite everything.
He doesn’t throw the washcloth. Doesn’t punch the wall. Doesn’t do any of the things he wants to do, because other players are watching.
He finishes his shower like a normal person.
He’s very good at pretending to be normal.
* * *
At night in his hotel room, Kai lies on the bed scrolling through sports news on his phone. He can’t bear to see how he and Rykov look from the outside.
Which is strange. Kai loves watching hockey. He’s spent countless hours dissecting games, studying plays, memorizing the subtle patterns that separate good players from great ones.
But watching himself and Rykov on the ice together makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
The headlines are brutal.
“Wolverines’ Chemistry Issues Continue Despite Win Streak”
“Rykov and Callahan: Talented Duo or Ticking Time Bomb?”
“Is Kaisyn Callahan Worth the Trouble?”
He clicks on that last one before he can stop himself. Big mistake.
“Sources close to the team suggest tensions between center Nazar Rykov and winger Kaisyn Callahan are reaching a breaking point. While the Wolverines continue to win games, insiders report that the two players can barely stand to be in the same room together. ‘It’s only a matter of time before something gives,’ one anonymous player told reporters… ”
Kai closes the browser and tosses his phone onto the bed.
It rings immediately.
Unknown number.
His stomach sinks. He knows exactly who it is. His father has a collection of burner phones specifically for calling his youngest son, because he learned years ago that Kai won’t answer calls from his actual number.
He should let it go to voicemail.
He answers on the fourth ring.
“Kaisyn.” His father’s voice is clipped, businesslike, with that familiar edge of disappointment that Kai could probably identify in his sleep. “I’ve been calling.”
“I’ve been busy,” he says lightly. “Playing hockey. Causing scandals. Living down to expectations. The usual Tuesday.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be flippant with me.”
Kai sits up, running a hand through his still-damp hair. “Would you prefer sincere? Because I can do sincere. Let me try: Father, I’m so glad you called from yet another mystery number to tell me what a disappointment I am. It really makes my evening complete.”
There’s a long pause. He can hear his father breathing on the other end, that controlled, measured breathing that means he’s counting to ten.
“I watched the game tonight,” Doyle finally says.
“And?”
“And you need to get your situation under control.”
“My situation?” Kai laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “That’s what we’re calling it?”
“Whatever issues you have, fix them. The media is starting to talk.”
“The media is always talking,” Kai says. “That’s kind of the point of being me, isn’t it? I’m excellent content.”
“This isn’t a joke, Kaisyn.”
“I’m not joking.” The lightness drops from his voice entirely. “I’m doing my job. We’re winning games. We’re three and oh in the last week. What more do you want?”
“I want you to stop making a spectacle of yourself.”
Something cold settles in Kai’s chest. “Then you really should’ve picked a different son to exist.”
The silence that follows is heavy, oppressive. When his father speaks again, his voice has gone very quiet.
“I didn’t call to talk with you.”
“Then why did you call?” Kai asks. “To remind me I’m an embarrassment? To tell me I’m ruining the family name? I’ve got those on a loop in my head already, thanks. Very efficient.”
“I called,” Doyle says slowly, “to remind you that actions have consequences. You’re on thin ice. Don’t give them a reason to trade you again.”
The line goes dead.
Kai stares at his phone. He tries to summon his usual armor—the irony, the sarcasm, the careless charm that makes everything slide off him like water. But talking to his father always strips that away, leaves him raw and exposed.
He sets the phone down carefully on the nightstand.
Bonifazio, who has been sleeping in a patch of moonlight near the window, suddenly springs onto the bed with all the grace of a drunk gymnast. He lands directly on Kai’s stomach, driving the air from his lungs.
“Jesus—Christ—” Kai gasps.
Bonifazio sits down heavily on his chest and stares at him with those unsettling green eyes. Then he very deliberately extends one paw and places it directly over Kai’s mouth.
“Are you trying to suffocate me?” Kai asks against the paw.
Bonifazio’s expression suggests this is exactly what he’s trying to do.
“You weigh like fifteen pounds. This isn’t going to work. Oh, that’s actually worse.” Kai gently moves the cat’s paws away from his face. “What do you want? Food? Attention? My death?”
Bonifazio headbutts him in the chin.
“Ow. Was that affection or assault? With you, it’s always hard to tell.”
The cat purrs, which Kai has learned is not necessarily a sign of contentment. Sometimes Bonifazio purrs right before he bites someone.
“You’re a terrible comfort animal,” Kai tells him, scratching behind his ears. “You know that, right? When people have emotional support animals, those animals are supposed to be, like, supportive. You’re more of an emotional terrorism animal.”
Bonifazio closes his eyes and pushes his head harder against Kai’s hand.
“You’re also the only one who doesn’t care that my last name is Callahan,” Kai continues quietly. “Which is probably why I keep you around.”
Bonifazio opens one eye and gives him a look that clearly says, You keep me around because I allow it.
“Right. Of course. My mistake.”
The cat settles down on Kai’s chest, still purring, his claws kneading gently through the fabric of Kai’s shirt. Kai runs his hand down Bonifazio’s spine, feeling the knobs of his vertebrae, the warmth of him.
“Dad called,” he says to the cat. “He thinks I’m on thin ice. Which is funny, because I’m literally always on thin ice. That’s where I live. It’s my natural habitat.”
Bonifazio’s purring intensifies.
“You agree with him, don’t you? You think I should get my shit together.”
Bonifazio bites his thumb. Not hard. Just enough to make a point.
“Message received.”
* * *
They fly back to Vancouver the next morning. The team is in high spirits—three wins in a row, playoff positioning looking better every week. Even Thompson seems marginally less homicidal than usual.
Kai sits near the back of the plane, headphones in, pretending to sleep. Across the aisle, Rykov is doing the same. Or maybe he’s actually asleep. It’s impossible to tell with him.
Kai risks a glance from under his eyelashes.
Rykov’s head is tilted back against the seat, his jaw relaxed for once. He looks younger like this. Less severe. Almost peaceful.
Kai looks away quickly.
When they land, his phone buzzes with a text.
GM wants to see you. Office. 2pm.
Mid-season meetings with the general manager are rarely good news. Usually they’re precursors to trades or demotions or very serious conversations about “team chemistry.”
He glances around. Players are busy stretching, laughing at dumb jokes—but Rykov isn’t paying attention.
He watches Rykov reach for his phone a beat later, his fingers stiff, eyes narrowing as he reads. Kai smirks faintly. Interesting. Rykov’s expression tightens. He nudges Miller.
“No,” Miller says, shaking his head. “Nobody called me.” A few other guys glance over.
Kai leans back in his seat, letting himself enjoy the quiet satisfaction of knowing something Rykov hasn’t quite realized yet. Only two of them got the message.
That idiot finally looks up, scanning the plane, and Kai catches that flash of awareness—sharp, hot, and immediate. His gaze lands on Kai’s, and Kai tilts his head, calm, but with a spark of amusement flickering in the corner of his eye.
This is worse than he thought.
At 1:55pm, Kai stands outside the general manager’s office. Rykov is already there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, staring at nothing.
They don’t look at each other.
They don’t speak.
Kai counts the seconds. Watches the minute hand on his phone tick closer to two. Tries to prepare himself for whatever’s coming.
At exactly 2:00pm, the door opens.
Marcus Roven stands in the doorway. He’s in his fifties, graying at the temples, with the kind of face that suggests he’s been dealing with hockey players’ bullshit for longer than either of them have been alive. His expression is completely neutral.
“Callahan. Rykov.” He steps aside. “Come in.”
He gestures to the two chairs across from him.
“Sit.”
They sit.
Kai keeps his spine straight, his expression carefully blank. Beside him, Rykov is doing the same.
Roven settles into his chair. He doesn’t speak immediately. Just studies them both with that penetrating gaze that probably made him excellent at poker.
The silence stretches. Thirty seconds. A minute.
Finally, he speaks.