Chapter 6 Nazar
“My uncle gave me this watch,” Marcus says, holding up his wrist like he’s presenting evidence in court. “He wore it when he was fighting in the war. Shrapnel hit it, right where the brand name was engraved.”
Nazar can barely see the watch from where he’s sitting.
Marcus’s desk is massive—probably Italian, definitely overpriced—and to actually examine the watch, he would have to stand up and lean across like a schoolboy being shown a prize.
He stays exactly where he is, motionless. Beside him, Callahan does the same.
“When they repaired it,” Marcus continues, turning his wrist in the light, “they left the brand name off. But it works perfectly. Never missed a second. Over time, it only became more valuable.” He pauses, waiting for them to absorb his wisdom.
“This taught me an important lesson. And lessons, gentlemen, add up to a philosophy of life. My philosophy is simple: I don’t believe in brands. ”
Nazar is already familiar with Marcus Roven’s personality. The man is in love with the sound of his own voice. He’d deliver the same grandiose speeches even if he were selling meat at a corner butcher shop instead of managing a hockey team.
Marcus rises from his chair and begins pacing the length of his office, hands clasped behind his back like a general surveying troops.
“They put you on magazine covers. Your agents get advertising firms involved. You cash checks—big checks, little checks, checks upon checks. And it’s all because of your name.
Each of you walks around believing you’re a brand.
” He stops near the window. “And that’s fine, honestly.
You need to believe that. But here’s the truth: there’s only one brand in this building, and it’s called the Vancouver Wolverines.
That name will outlive all of us. It’ll be here when you’re six feet under. When I’m six feet under.”
“And because of our legs,” Callahan interjects, his voice lazy, almost bored. A sharp blond curl falls across his forehead.
“Excuse me?” Marcus turns, squinting.
“You said the checks come because of our name. But we’re paid for our legs. Our ability to skate. To score. That’s what generates revenue, not our surnames.”
“You’re absolutely right, Kaisyn.” Marcus walks closer, and there’s something predatory in the movement. “Because without legs, there’s no personal game for you. But the team? The team still plays. The franchise continues.”
Nazar knows Callahan is rolling his eyes internally. He’s losing patience himself, his fingers drumming once against his thigh before he forces them still.
“Yes, we’re replaceable,” Nazar says, his voice flat and deliberate. “Is there a specific problem you want to address?”
“You tell me, Nazar.” Marcus plants both hands on the desk and leans forward.
“Carolina reports to me daily about how many publications are covering your personal war with Callahan on the ice. Middle of the goddamn season. And we’re not talking about the Chicago Tribune’s sports section.
We’re talking ESPN think pieces. Twitter insiders with two hundred thousand followers.
Reddit has already made a statistical breakdown chart with color coding.
So I’ll ask again: do the Wolverines have a problem? ”
“Let me check our stats,” Callahan says, pulling out his phone with deliberate slowness. The mockery in his voice is unmistakable. “Oh, wait. Look at that. Best results in four seasons. Funny how that works.”
The manager moves around the desk. Callahan shifts one leg slightly to the side, a polite gesture—making room in case Marcus wants to walk past.
Marcus doesn’t walk past.
He pushes Callahan’s knee with his own. Hard. Deliberate. Forcing Callahan’s legs wider apart, then stepping between them, blocking any movement.
Callahan goes completely still. He doesn’t look at Marcus. Doesn’t move. Just stares straight ahead, his jaw locked tight, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
Every nerve ending in Nazar’s spine freezes.
He’s staring openly now—at Callahan’s legs, at the way Marcus is standing between them, too close, invasive, wrong. At the way Callahan’s hands have gone very still on the armrests of his chair.
What the fuck?
Why the hell isn’t Marcus moving away from him?
And why isn’t Callahan telling him to fuck off?
“Listen, boys.” His voice is almost jovial now, conversational.
“I have exactly one problem in my life right now. My wife Diana doesn’t like her new Ferrari.
Says the color’s wrong. And we can’t get the new model for six months.
She’s very impatient about it.” He rocks slightly on his heels, still standing between Callahan’s legs.
“And she has to wait for me constantly because I’m here, reading reports about you two.
Making decisions. Weighing risks. All because of your unnecessary drama.
Unnecessary. You understand that word? Unnecessary. ”
He finally steps back, and Callahan’s shoulders drop fractionally.
“My new wife,” Marcus continues, returning to his desk, “has areolas the size of fucking pucks. Can you even imagine that? And instead of, you know, giving them the attention they deserve, I’m stuck untangling whatever bullshit war you two are having out there during power plays. Got it?”
“Crystal clear,” Callahan says. His voice is completely flat, scraped clean of inflection.
Nazar nods once. Marcus waits, clearly expecting him to speak too. When he doesn’t, Marcus’s expression tightens.
“Good. Then we’re done here. Check with Carolina about the charity event schedule. And Rykov, I think you have that interview with Sports Illustrated on Thursday. Don’t forget.”
They stand. Walk to the door.
“Gentlemen,” he calls after them. “Play nice.”
* * *
They walk down the corridor in silence. Not side by side—Callahan is a half-step ahead, moving fast, his shoulders rigid.
The chill in Nazar’s spine hasn’t left. It’s spreading through his chest now, cold and furious.
“What the hell was—”
“You seem to have decided I’m taking the fall for both of us,” Callahan interrupts without looking back. His voice is sharp, mocking, but there’s an edge underneath that Nazar recognizes. “Both with the press and with these fucking suits—”
Nazar grabs Callahan by the arm and hauls him toward a corner near the service staircase.
Callahan is so shocked by the sudden movement—by Nazar’s hand on him, by the force of it—that Nazar manages to pull him several feet before he recovers enough to resist.
“What the fuck, Rykov?” he yanks his arm back, but Nazar doesn’t let go. They’re in the stairwell now, out of sight of the main corridor, surrounded by concrete and fluorescent lighting.
“Is this the first time he’s touched you like that?”
His face changes. The mask drops for half a second, and Nazar sees pure rage, before it’s covered again by that familiar sneer.
“So according to you, I got my roster spot by letting management fuck me?” His voice is shaking now, though whether from anger or something else, Nazar can’t tell. “Is that your new theory? That I’m whoring my way through the league? You’re fucking unbeliev—”
Nazar shakes him. Not hard. Just enough to cut through the spiral of words. “Did he touch you before or not? Just answer the fucking question.”
“No.” He hisses it through clenched teeth. “No, he didn’t. Happy? It’s obvious I got a place on this team because Daddy made a phone call. Just like always. Just like you think.”
“It’s not about the roster spot.”
“Then what the hell is it about?”
Nazar realizes he needs to let go. His brain is screaming at him to let go. But his hands won’t cooperate. His lungs aren’t working properly.
He can’t stop seeing it—Marcus pushing Callahan’s knee, forcing his legs apart, standing between them while Callahan went very, very still.
Not like himself at all.
“Radio Rykov?” Callahan’s voice cuts through. “Hello? Anyone home in that thick skull?”
“Stop making jokes about everything.”
“Dude, I’m confident you know other words besides ‘stop.’ Pretty sure they taught you a few more in school.”
“That’s the only language you understand.”
“Right. And the only way to communicate with you is grunting.” Callahan’s sarcasm is back in full force now. “What was it like in kindergarten for you? Did the other kids draw storm clouds over your picture while everyone else had bright yellow suns smiling down?”
He can’t take it anymore. He rolls his eyes and releases Callahan, stepping back.
Callahan straightens immediately, his hands moving to adjust his leather jacket with exaggerated care. Making a show of it. “Is that all? Is the interrogation over?”
Nazar steps aside, creating a clear path to the stairs.
Callahan brushes past him. Their shoulders touch—just barely, just enough to send electricity racing down Nazar’s arm.
And that’s it. That’s all it takes.
A siren goes off in Nazar’s head. He moves without thinking, blocking the path again, his body angled to cut off the stairs entirely.
Callahan’s control snaps. He shoves Nazar hard in the chest with both hands. “What now? What the fuck do you want from me?”
“Want from you?” Nazar’s voice rises. “You’ve been causing me problems every three days since you got here.”
“Poor Rykov,” Callahan snarls, stepping closer.
So close their noses almost touch. So close Nazar can see the individual flecks of color in his eyes—not just blue, but gray and silver and something almost green near the pupils.
“You’re so oppressed. So victimized by my existence.
” Nazar feels sparks at his fingertips. His hands are shaking.
“What, you singing Marcus’s song now? And at the same time thinking you’re better than him?
You probably tell yourself you’re different—not some executive, but a guy who earns his living with real work.
But you’re not that different from him, Rykov. ”
“I don’t know,” Nazar says, his voice dropping low and dangerous. “Seems to me it’s you and him who’d fit right in at those Ferrari weekend parties with horse racing and whatever the fuck you do there. Not me. I don’t give a shit about it.”
“Oh, wow, congratulations. Want a medal for being working class?” Callahan’s laugh is bitter, ugly. “You’ve got enough money to buy one yourself. Actually, how do you even know what parties I go to? Are you stalking me?”
“It’s fucking impossible not to notice you when you broadcast everything to everyone around you. Everything I know about you, I learned against my will.”
Nazar thinks throwing Callahan’s own words back at him will bring satisfaction. It doesn’t. He’s left standing there, vibrating with an energy he doesn’t know how to release, hoping—praying—that Callahan will shove him again. Hit him. Do something that will justify hitting back.
He won’t start it himself. But God, he wants Callahan to.
“Get out of my way,” Callahan says. His voice has dropped to almost a growl, rough and raw.
And despite the anger radiating off him, despite the tension coiling through every line of his body, he looks so young. Boyish. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that makes Nazar’s throat go dry.
Finally—finally—Nazar steps back.
Callahan walks away without another word, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell.
Nazar leans against the concrete wall, staring after him long after he’s gone. His mind won’t stop racing. Won’t stop circling back to one thought:
He needs to know if Marcus has touched Callahan before. Needs to know if Callahan was telling the truth.
And underneath that: the realization that he can’t control himself anymore around Callahan. That somewhere along the way, Callahan hooked something inside him and refuses to let go.
The taste of Callahan’s skin on his lips that day at the draft combine. The sound of his breath catching. The sight of him in the shower, naked and hard and unflinching.
It’s driving Nazar slowly insane.
Fuck.
He isn’t gay. He’s thought about men before—fleeting thoughts, passing curiosity—but it was never like this. Never this consuming.
And even if he is gay, that would be manageable. That would be something he could work through.
But this? All his desire, all his rage, all his intensity focused on one person—on the one person he’s supposed to hate?
That’s not manageable at all.
* * *
Two days later, they’re in Boston for an away game.
The evening before the match, Nazar is in his hotel room watching game footage when his phone rings.
Oksana.
They went on one date at the beginning of the season—his grandmother’s doing—and somehow stayed friends afterward. She works for a sports publication, knows hockey inside and out, and doesn’t expect anything from him beyond occasional conversations. It’s easy. Comfortable.
“Nazar, hey.” Her voice is tight. “Sorry to call so late.”
“It’s fine. What’s up?”
“Okay, so—remember when we talked about the Callahan family? About Doyle and all his bullshit?”
He sits up straighter. They’d had that conversation after their first date, when she had asked about playing with “the owner’s son.
” Nazar had said more than he intended, and Oksana had listened with the focused intensity of someone who understood exactly what it meant to be crushed by people with money and power.
“I remember,” he says carefully.
“Right. So, my publication just got some information. Kaisyn Callahan was spotted about an hour ago at Club Inferno.”
His grip tightens on the phone. “That stupid secret goth club downtown?”
“Yeah. But here’s the thing—his father’s PR firm killed the story within minutes. And I mean minutes, Nazar. Someone called our editor directly. Threats of legal action, the whole nine yards.”
“Hmm.”
“I know.” Oksana’s voice is sharp with anger now. “And you know what? Fuck Doyle Callahan. I’m tired of watching him control narratives and bury stories just because he has money. So I’m telling you. Do with it what you want.”
His mind is already racing. “I was invited to Club Inferno. A few days ago. By Stahl—he plays for the Bruins. Some of our team got invites too. But our PR department told us not to go.”
“Really? They specifically said to avoid it?”
“Yeah. Direct order.”
“That’s weird.” She pauses. “I mean, it’s just a club. What’s so provocative about it that they’d ban you from going?”
“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “But I’m going to find out.”
“Nazar—wait. Think about this. If your PR department told you not to go, and you go anyway—”
“Thanks for calling.”
He hangs up before she can talk him out of it.