Chapter 7 Nazar
The party sprawls across half a city block. Bar counters line the pavement, red and black lighting bleeding into the street, the crowd spilling between the indoors and out.
People move through it in small groups, many wearing masks or elaborate costumes—it’s the kind of event where anonymity is the main attraction.
Nazar pulls his cap lower and moves through the crowd without rushing. He needs to blend in. Needs to find Callahan without drawing attention.
Callahan’s words from the alley won’t stop circling in his head: Do you think I let management fuck me?
Not some generic phrase. Not just fucking someone. But the specific image of Callahan being fucked. As if the scenario only made sense one way.
Kai, open, claimed. The image sears Nazar’s brain, heat pooling low, cock twitching against his will. He grits his teeth. Focus.
Fuck. Nazar hates himself for the obsessive loops his brain is running through. For the way his body reacts to the thought.
He’s pretending to examine the menu at an outdoor bar when he nearly collides with Irving, one of the young sports agents he knows vaguely.
“Rykov!” Irving grins and immediately adjusts the black mask dangling around his neck. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Here to blow off steam?”
“Something like that,” Nazar says carefully.
They talk for maybe two minutes. Irving’s friends laughing somewhere nearby. He rambles—trades, agents, pre-match rituals.
Nazar nods in the right places.
Then his gaze drifts past Irving’s shoulder.
A group of people stands near one of the bar counters. Among them is a tall guy in all black, his face hidden by a mask to match. He’s in the process of pulling off a black glove, one finger at a time, before reaching for a neon-colored cocktail that looks ridiculous.
Nazar’s gaze locks onto that bare hand as it catches the light.
The calluses. The small scar on the knuckle from a rough faceoff years ago.
He’d recognize those hands anywhere.
He didn’t know he’d been memorizing them this well until this second.
“Gotta go,” he mutters, brushing past Irving.
Callahan’s in the thick of it. Performing.
Laughing a little too loud at jokes that probably aren’t that funny.
The company surrounding him looks deliberately provocative: leather, chains, makeup.
One of the men in particular—tall, dark-haired, with an intensity in his gaze that Nazar recognizes—is looking at Callahan like he’s something to consume.
The way that man looks at him makes something primal twist in Nazar’s chest.
Callahan reaches for another cocktail, moving deeper into the crowd, and Nazar can’t hold back anymore.
He moves fast, cutting through the crowd, and grabs Callahan by the arm as he approaches a darker section of the street. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t waste time. He just pulls.
Callahan resists for half a second, then seems to recognize the grip—the size of the hand, the way it holds him. He doesn’t shout. He just lets himself be pulled into a narrow courtyard between buildings.
The moment they’re out of sight, Callahan shoves him hard against the nearest wall.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Nazar blocks his path before he can bolt back out. He pushes again—harder this time—and Nazar quickly pins him back against the brick, his hands firm on Callahan’s shoulders.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Kai’s voice is rough, demanding.
“Don’t you want to ask yourself that question?” Nazar shoots back. “We’re both not supposed to be here. We’re not allowed at this party.”
“I’m wearing a mask, Rykov. You look like you. And you’re dragging me around like we’re in some action movie.”
“Everyone already knows you’re here.” Nazar doesn’t even know where that’s coming from. It’s not true. The press killed the story, but he can’t tell Callahan about Oksana’s call without explaining things he’s not ready to explain.
“What? No. No, what are you talking about?” Callahan’s voice spikes. “Did you tell someone? Rykov, did you fucking tell—”
“No.” Nazar’s grip tightens, thumbs pressing into the hollows above Kai’s collarbone, feeling the pulse there. “But keep this up, and they’ll know it’s you.”
“Warning me now? How noble.” Kai grabs Nazar’s shirt, fingers twisting the fabric, knuckles grazing his chest, sending a jolt through him. “If you drag me somewhere again, I’ll punch you.”
“Then do it.”
“Shut up,” Callahan hisses. “I swear to God, just shut up.”
The thing is, Nazar has never had a problem with silence. He lives in it. But right now, if he doesn’t speak, if he doesn’t find out what Callahan was doing with that group, if he doesn’t understand what he saw in that man’s expression, he’s going to explode.
“Tomorrow at eight a.m. for the mandatory pre-match routine,” Nazar says. “You rolling in from the orgy?”
Callahan punches him in the shoulder. Hard.
Nazar catches the next swing, hooks his leg behind Kai’s—testing. Kai kicks back, snarling. But Nazar’s faster. Grabs both wrists, slams them overhead against the brick. The mask falls away.
His body surges forward, thigh slotting between Kai’s, chests crushed together. Close enough that he can feel Kai’s heart pounding.
Nazar’s cock hardens, straining against denim, pressing into Kai’s hip.
They’re panting, Kai’s lips parted, flushed, the scar on his cheek catching the dim light. Nazar’s gaze traces it, then drops to the pulse leaping in the pale column of his throat, the faint sheen of sweat there. He wants to taste it.
“You’re still convinced I didn’t deserve the top five in the draft, right?” Callahan’s voice is low, dangerous. “That I took your spot. Come on, just say it to my face.”
“Yeah. I figured it out—your dad’s dirty hands all over it. Shove his kid in, screw the rest of us.” He grits the words out. “Stick Callahan anywhere you want. Push everyone else off the board.”
“Don’t you fucking dare think you know my father,” he chokes, his voice scratching Nazar’s nerves raw. “He would never have pushed me into hockey. He hates it. He hates that I play. But think whatever helps you sleep, you idiot. Just shut up. Shut up, shut up—”
Nazar doesn’t let him finish.
He crashes his mouth down, hard, hungry, lips bruising against Kai’s, while squeezing his wrists tighter against the wall. Callahan doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t pull away. He lets Nazar take control of his mouth, and Nazar takes it deeper, pressing harder, even though there’s nowhere left to press.
For one breath. Two.
Then Nazar breaks away, gasping.
He releases Kai’s wrists. This time, Kai kisses him back, hands moving to Nazar’s face, fingers digging in slightly.
Nazar bites his lower lip and pulls him closer.
Kai arches, just enough, a soft gasp escaping into his mouth.
His hand slides lower, grazing the edge of Kai’s belt, thumb brushing bare skin where the shirt rides up.
The contact burns—Kai’s skin hot, smooth, trembling under his touch.
His cock is hard now, aching against his jeans, threatening to explode.
Kai’s tongue slides over his own, uncertain at first, then more confident. But Nazar loses control. The kiss becomes rough, desperate, consuming. He can’t stop. His cock throbs, painfully hard, grinding slow against Kai, each roll sending sparks up his spine.
“Damn it, stop.” Callahan pulls back abruptly, his breathing ragged. The mask slides back into place. “Fuck. You’re not wearing a mask and there are dozens of people out there.”
Nazar tries to lean back in, but Callahan puts a hand on his chest, holding him at a distance.
“There’s a way,” he says, his voice low. “The back of the club—there are external staircases. Private rooms.”
Nazar’s throat is dry. He nods.
“Wait here five minutes,” Callahan continues. “Go up to the third floor. Room nine. I’ll meet you there.”
“No.” Nazar’s voice is rough. Demanding. “We talk here.”
“Are you insane?” he hisses. “We’re already taking an enormous risk. You need to go upstairs. Now.”
“Are you going back to those men?”
The silence that follows is heavy, loaded with everything unsaid. Callahan’s jaw tightens. He knows exactly what Nazar is implying.
“Just a reminder—I don’t owe you explanations about anything,” he says at last, pushing back just enough to create space. “I don’t owe you shit.”
“Callahan—” Nazar’s hand lingers, fingers brushing Kai’s waist, reluctant to let go.
“Go to the room, Rykov. Or don’t. But don’t follow me again.”
He leaves before Nazar can respond, slipping back out into the crowd.
Nazar stands alone in the courtyard for several seconds, his chest heaving, his mind a complete mess. Then he moves toward the back of the building, toward the external staircase, toward room nine.
He’s going to regret this. He knows that with absolute certainty.
But he’s also past the point of caring.