Chapter 9 Kai
Kai watches Nazar from the bench.
He plays with brutal intelligence. The way he reads the ice, anticipating plays three seconds before they happen. The way he accelerates without warning, catching defenders off-guard. The focus in his expression—absolute, unwavering, total.
Wave after wave of something rises in Kai’s chest. Anger. Tension. Malice. Maybe something else underneath, something he doesn’t have a name for.
He can’t remember ever feeling this many things, this intensely, about anyone.
Rykov is a damn hypocrite, and there are few qualities Kai despises more. And yet—the most painful, most paradoxical thing is that since he first saw Nazar, he has never stopped thinking about him. Not once. Not for a single day.
He knows his own tendency to become addicted. It’s why he never indulges in serious drugs. Because he knows what he’s like once he latches onto something—he can’t let go. Can’t moderate.
And Rykov is like a drug. A very large, very angry drug with dark eyes and a contempt that cuts deeper than anything he’s experienced.
Kai shouldn’t give in to his reactions. Shouldn’t let it consume him. But since last night—since the private room, since Rykov’s hands on him, since that moment of vulnerability—it’s become unbearable.
Six years ago, at the draft combine, Rykov fell on him during drills. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, but that wasn’t what stopped his breathing. It was Rykov’s mouth—right there on Kai’s neck—and the heat of him, the weight of him, the sudden intensity of everything.
Kai froze instantly. His body reacted before his brain could catch up. He got hard. Was pinned beneath Rykov with an obvious erection he couldn’t hide.
Rykov probably didn’t feel it through the hockey gear. Probably.
But somehow, Rykov understood everything about Kai.
And when Rykov got up and skated away—so fast, like he’d been burned—he looked at Kai with such contempt. Such disgust.
It was worse than anything he had ever experienced. Worse than a few years of his father’s neglect combined.
Kai had prepared himself for so much: for his father to hate that he played hockey, for obstacles and setbacks, for the hockey world to reject him or dismiss him.
His mother had encouraged him before she died.
His older brother had fought for him. Kai had built walls to protect himself against the world’s judgment.
But for someone from the hockey world—someone Kai was already drawn to—to look at him with that level of contempt because of what his body was doing, because of what that moment revealed about him…
It broke something inside him. But it also made him harder, colder, more determined to never let anyone see that reaction again.
He’d learned to weaponize his weaknesses. To make it offensive rather than defensive. To ensure that if anyone was going to judge him for being attracted to men, he’d give them plenty of other reasons to judge him first.
Kai had been surprised when Rykov didn’t make the top five. Genuinely surprised.
But he wasn’t surprised that he blamed him.
Because Rykov despises Kai so much because of that moment—because Kai’s body reacted to his closeness—that it was convenient to blame Kai for his own hockey failure. Easier than examining what actually happened at that combine.
Damn hypocrite.
Now, as Kai takes the ice, he relies more on speed—his natural gift—than on smart play. His head’s not in it. His focus is fractured.
He’s tracking Rykov instead of tracking the play.
And that’s how he ends up in the wrong position when the puck comes loose.
He doesn’t see it coming until it’s too late. He crashes hard into another player—one of their own defensemen—and the impact sends him sprawling into the boards.
His shoulder takes most of the hit.
The pain is sharp, immediate, but manageable. What’s not manageable is the way Rykov’s head whips around on the ice, finding him instantly. The way Rykov’s expression shifts into something Kai can’t read from this distance.
The team loses the game, but they play well. The stats are good. It’s the kind of loss that feels like it could’ve gone either way.
Kai doesn’t care about any of it.
* * *
An hour later, Kai walks out of the medical office, sunglasses on despite the dim lighting of the hallway. His shoulder is wrapped, his arm restricted. The injury gave him the perfect excuse to skip the post-game press conference. Today is not a day he could handle reporters.
He freezes mid-step.
Rykov is leaning against the wall near the exit, still in his team-issued cap and hoodie, like he’s been waiting.
“If you’re going to give me that lecture-growl about my lack of concentration, make it quick,” Kai says to the wall in front of him. “Bonifazio and pistachio ice cream await. One of us is getting fed, and if it isn’t him, guess who’s on the menu? You.”
“I’m not going to lecture you about the game,” he says.
Kai keeps walking. “Then what are you doing here?”
“You’ll eventually get tired of pretending I’m some schoolboy who thinks games are won or lost because of one person.”
“Maybe.” Kai pushes through the exit door. “But I’m definitely not stopping thinking you’re a hypocrite. You told me just a month ago that I’d ruin the game. Well, congratulations. I did my part.”
“Let me see your shoulder.”
“There’s nothing to see.”
“You’re a fucking princess, you know that?” Rykov’s voice is tight, and when Kai glances back, his eyes are flashing with rage. He’s standing very close now.
Then Kai hears voices. Footsteps echoing in the parking garage.
He instinctively moves toward the wall where he can blend into the shadows better. Rykov follows—of course he does—and before Kai can protest, Rykov is dragging him into a utility room, the door closing behind them with a soft click.
“This isn’t funny anymore, Rykov,” he whispers loudly. His eyes adjust slowly to the darkness. “Do you even know where we are?”
“In a storage room.”
“That’s not the point. Half of the hockey world could walk past here and—”
Rykov silences him with a kiss.
Kai’s hand comes up automatically, fingers threading through his wild hair, pulling him closer.
Rykov presses him against the wall, and Kai can feel every point of contact—Rykov’s chest, his thigh between Kai’s legs, his hands gripping Kai’s waist.
“My driver is waiting for me,” Kai whispers between kisses. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“God, you talk so much.”
They rub against each other, kissing greedily.
Rykov’s hands are insistent and quick, touching him everywhere, and his brain can’t keep up with the sensation.
But through the fog of desire, Kai notices something: Rykov is being very careful with his injured forearm.
Not gripping it, not putting pressure on it.
Moving around the injury like he thinks about it every second.
The realization causes a strange panic to bloom in Kai’s chest. A chill that runs deeper than the cold of the storage room.
He pushes him away.
“Enough. I’ll go first.” His voice comes out rougher than he intended.
“Let me look at your shoulder. Make sure there are no—”
“Don’t touch me,” Kai says angrily. “You know what? You go first. Since I’m apparently a cripple in your eyes, I need to rest.”
“You’re unbearable,” Rykov replies, but there’s no heat in it. “You were just rushing to feed that cat.”
“Fine. Whatever you want.”
But Kai sees red before his eyes. The anger and the desire mix into something dangerous, something desperate. He kisses him again—fiercely, trying to be seductive, trying to regain control of the situation.
Rykov breathes heavily through his nose, and Kai feels the hard evidence of his arousal against his hip.
For a moment, neither of them moves. The air between them is charged, electric, suffocating.
Then Kai reaches between them. His hand finds Rykov’s cock through his sweatpants, and he grips it, stroking deliberately. Rykov’s head falls back against the wall.
Kai sinks to his knees.
The darkness makes it easier somehow. Makes it feel less real, less terrifying. Makes it possible to do this without overthinking it.
He pulls Rykov’s sweatpants down along with his underwear, and for a moment, Kai just pauses. His chest heaves.
“Damn. Callahan?”
Kai takes the head of Rykov’s cock into his mouth and sucks hard. He wants to drown in this. Wants to forget everything—the game, the injury, the complicated mess of feelings Rykov stirs in him.
“Stop me if you want,” he says, pulling back just enough to speak.
Rykov remains silent, breathing heavily, his hand coming down to grip Kai’s hair.
Kai takes him deeper, a greedy, throat-stretching slide. The sheer size of him, the unrelenting hardness, is overwhelming.
Kai’s eyes drift shut as he gives himself over to it.
He lets his mouth work with an obscene, wet heat, no longer holding anything back.
Nazar hasn’t said to stop. His cock just swells in response.
A feeling of pure freedom washes over him—just this, just finally sucking Rykov’s cock and not giving a fuck about a single thing else in the world.
“Fuck,” Rykov gasps. He leans heavily against the wall, and Kai has to shift closer on his knees to keep going.
Rykov’s hips jerk twice when Kai increases his pace.
“You’ll have to stop… soon,” Rykov manages, his voice rough. “If you don’t want me to…”
Kai understands what he means. He pulls back and wraps his hand around Rykov’s cock instead, stroking him firmly. He keeps his head down, keeps his eyes closed, because he can’t—he can’t look at him right now.
But when Rykov starts to come, a large hand grips Kai’s chin and forces his face up. In the darkness of the storage room, Kai can still see enough. Can still see the way Rykov clenches his teeth, the way his eyes stay fixed on Kai without breaking contact.
“Fucking fuck,” Rykov whispers after he finishes.
Kai quickly gets up. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and turns away, not wanting to look at Rykov’s expression. He doesn’t want to see contempt there. Doesn’t want to see regret.
He grabs his sports bag from where he’d dropped it and tosses it over his uninjured shoulder.
“I understand why you didn’t inherit eloquence,” Kai says, keeping his tone light, defensive, sarcastic.
All the armor he needs. “All your big talent went into other places. And by the way, we lost because you were on the ice more than I was. If I’d been on the ice more, we would’ve won, you thick-skulled, dick-heavy caveman. ”
He moves toward the door without waiting for a response.
“Bye-bye, Rykov.”
He doesn’t give Rykov time to say anything. Doesn’t give him a chance to ruin this moment with whatever complicated thing he’s thinking.
Kai just leaves, disappearing back into the hallway before his hands start shaking too badly.