Chapter 10 Kai
“Do you know where the second emergency exit is?” Kai asks Armstrong, squinting from his seat across from him on the private jet.
The Airbus is one of the nicer charter jets the team uses—all cream leather and that new-plane smell that probably costs extra. It seats nineteen comfortably, which means the team is spread out enough that conversations can happen without everyone listening in.
“What?” Armstrong asks, his voice slightly strangled.
“The second emergency exit,” Kai repeats patiently. “In case something happens. The flight attendant mentioned it during the safety demonstration.”
“She only showed us the first one,” Armstrong says, immediately craning his neck to look around the cabin with growing panic.
Kai taps the toe of his white Ferragamo loafer against Armstrong’s New Balance 990s.
The sneakers are that particular shade of blue that only dads and people who’ve given up on aesthetics wear.
Tragic, really. If Kai’s going to die in a plane crash, he’d at least like to be found wearing something that suggests he had taste.
“Exactly,” Kai says, adjusting his sunglasses even though they’re inside an aircraft with perfectly adequate lighting.
“There’s only one emergency exit on this model.
If flying were genuinely dangerous, they would’ve built in redundancies.
Multiple exits. This is an Airbus for private corporate flights, Armstrong.
Billionaires fly these things. Tech CEOs.
If there were any real danger, they wouldn’t purchase them.
Rich people are many things, but suicidal isn’t typically one of them. ”
“Hey, Callahan!” Miller shouts from three rows back, where he’s been scrolling through his phone since takeoff. “Stop pulling Armstrong’s leg. The kid’s already green.”
“No, no, it’s actually very interesting,” Armstrong says, swallowing hard. His Adam’s apple bobs visibly. “Very… logical.”
“I know where the second emergency exit is,” Rykov suddenly interjects from two rows away.
Kai’s entire body goes still.
Rykov sits with his usual mountain-man posture—shoulders broad, taking up more space than strictly necessary, wearing that god-awful baseball cap he seems to think is a personality.
He never makes public comments like this.
Never participates in team banter. Certainly never addresses anything Kai says directly.
Kai feels the urge to dramatically lower his sunglasses and give Rykov a withering look over the rims. It’s a move he’s perfected over years of dealing with tedious people at tedious events.
But he doesn’t.
Not with Rykov.
Not when the contents of his gaze—the anger and want and complicated mess of everything else—need to stay carefully hidden behind polarized lenses.
“And where is it, Rykov?” Kai asks, keeping his voice light and disinterested.
“Where I’ll cut one if the plane starts losing altitude,” Rykov says, deadpan.
The back of the plane erupts in laughter. Even Vyachovsky, who’s been napping with noise-canceling headphones on, cracks a smile.
Kai doesn’t laugh. He just raises one eyebrow and pulls out his phone, connecting to the jet’s private Wi-Fi network—the password for which he charmed out of the flight attendant earlier.
He definitely won’t be sharing it with the team, or they’ll burn through the bandwidth streaming Love Island or whatever straight men watch when they think no one’s judging them.
He opens the book app and pulls up a book about sports psychology he’s been meaning to finish.
His phone buzzes with a text notification.
Unknown Number: i think you’re more afraid of flying than Armstrong
Kai’s stomach does something complicated.
He knows it’s Rykov. Somehow this blockhead has acquired his number, and the knowledge makes Kai feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the thin aluminum shell separating them from 35,000 feet of empty air.
He types back without looking up from his screen: I’m glad I stimulated your thinking so it doesn’t atrophy completely. Keep exercising those brain cells.
Unknown Number: god, you even talk like that in messages
How do I talk?
Unknown Number: like we’re in a TV series. Or like you’re accepting an award
Unknown Number: “I’m glad I stimulated your thinking” who tf talks like that?
Kai finds the earplugs in the seat pocket. He stands, making his way down the narrow aisle toward the bathroom, and tosses them at Rykov’s knees as he passes.
He doesn’t have to say anything. The message is clear: Here are earplugs so you don’t have to listen to me talk.
Rykov will understand perfectly.
In the cramped airplane bathroom—all stainless steel and that weird blue lighting that makes everyone look like a corpse—Kai carefully avoids looking at himself in the mirror.
Instead, he braces his hands on the tiny sink and focuses on his breathing.
Four counts in. Hold for seven. Eight counts out.
It’s one of the exercises Mrs. Butterly taught him when he was nine years old and having panic attacks so severe his mother thought he was having seizures.
Dr. Patricia Butterly, PhD, with her office that smelled like lavender and her infinite patience with a child who couldn’t explain why everything felt like too much.
He knows the exercises by heart. Has done them in bathrooms and hotel rooms and locker rooms across North America. They work, mostly. Enough to get him through flights without visibly falling apart.
He really does hate flying. The loss of control, the vulnerability, the statistical improbability of survival if something goes wrong. But that’s not his worst fear.
What he fears most—what makes his chest tighten and his throat close and his vision narrow—is swimming. Open water. The sensation of being pulled under, of water in his lungs, of drowning slowly while the surface gets farther and farther away.
Only Mrs. Butterly knew about that fear. And his mother, who found him in the pool house when he was seven, blue-lipped and choking, after he’d tried to teach himself to swim because his father said swimming lessons were for weak children.
They’re both dead now. Mrs. Butterly from a stroke three years ago. His mother from cancer when Kai was sixteen.
So now no one knows.
Except apparently Rykov has figured out the flying thing, which means Kai’s mask is slipping in ways he can’t control.
He takes off his sunglasses and rinses his face with cold water, careful not to get his hair wet. When he looks up, his reflection stares back—pale and controlled.
He hates that Rykov knows. Hates the exposure. Hates that he’s given Rykov another piece of ammunition to use against him.
Kai puts his sunglasses back on and returns to his seat, ignoring the way Rykov’s eyes track his movement down the aisle.
* * *
Pre-game warm-ups are Kai’s least favorite part of the routine.
Not the skating. That’s fine. But the forced socializing. The way everyone has to perform enthusiasm for fans who’ve paid obscene amounts of money to watch them skate in circles for twenty minutes.
He’s going through the motions—passing drills with Vyachovsky, a few lazy shots on goal—when he spots her.
An older woman, maybe seventy, standing near the tunnel with a team liaison.
She’s wearing a jersey with Rykov’s number and has that particular look of excited nervousness that family members get when they’re in professional sports environments.
Kai wouldn’t have noticed except Rykov skates over to her during a break in drills.
The transformation is immediate. Rykov’s entire posture changes. Softens. He leans against the boards, his face breaking into a smile that Kai has maybe seen once in the entire time they’ve been teammates.
The woman reaches up and cups his face through the glass, saying something that makes Rykov laugh.
Kai finds himself drifting closer, curiosity overriding common sense.
He catches fragments of their conversation—she’s speaking foreign language, rapid and affectionate, gesturing expressively. Rykov responds in the same language, his voice gentler than Kai has ever heard it.
Then she switches to English: “You’re too skinny. They don’t feed you enough here.”
“Ba, I told you I’m fine.”
“Muscle weighs more. You need more fat.”
“I eat real food.”
“Bah.” She waves dismissively.
Kai skates closer, unable to resist. This is too good. Rykov being chastised about his eating habits by his grandmother. The opportunity is too perfect.
“Mrs. Rykov?” Kai interrupts, his voice warm and charming. “I’m Kaisyn Callahan. It’s lovely to meet you.”
Rykov’s head snaps around, his expression shifting from relaxed to murderous in approximately 0.3 seconds.
The woman’s face lights up. “Oh! Kaisyn! Yes, yes, I know you. The pretty one with the beautiful cat.”
Kai blinks. “You… know about Bonifazio?”
“Of course! I saw his photo on television. You have very good taste in animals. Persians are noble cats. Like little lions.” She pronounces it “lay-ons” in a way that’s absolutely charming.
“Thank you. He’d be flattered to hear that. He already thinks very highly of himself.”
She laughs. “As he should! A cat with standards is a cat with character.”
“Ba—” Rykov starts, his voice strained.
“You boys play together, yes?” She looks between them. “Good. Nazar needs friends. He’s too serious. Always frowning.”
“I don’t always frown,” he protests.
“Yes, you do. Even now, you’re frowning.” She reaches up and pokes his forehead through the glass. “See? Lines. You’ll get wrinkles.”
Kai is trying very hard not to laugh. Rykov looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping.
“Your grandson is actually quite cheerful,” Kai says, his voice dripping with innocence. “He was just telling the team a very funny joke on the plane earlier. About emergency exits. Everyone laughed.”
“Really?” She looks pleased. “Good! He should joke more. Life is too short to be serious all the time.”
“I completely agree.” Kai leans against the boards, settling in. “You know, Mrs. Rykov, I’ve been trying to get Nazar to lighten up for weeks now. Maybe you could give me some tips?”
“Call me Halina, please. Mrs. Rykov makes me sound old.” She considers this. “You could try feeding him. Food makes everyone happy. Do you cook?”
“I make excellent reservations.”
She laughs again, delighted. “A man who knows his limitations. Smart.”
Rykov is now staring at Kai with an expression that promises violence. Kai has never enjoyed anything more in his life.
“Ba, we need to get back to warm-ups,” Rykov says through gritted teeth.
“Oh, yes, yes. I’m keeping you.” She pats the glass affectionately. “Play well, synku. And you too, Kaisyn. Take care of each other, yes?”
“Absolutely,” Kai says sincerely. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t frown too much.”
As they skate away, Rykov grabs Kai’s arm hard enough to hurt. “What the fuck was that?”
“What? I was being polite to your grandmother. She’s delightful.” Kai can’t keep the grin off his face. “She was right, by the way. You do frown too much. It’s bad for your skin.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Not in front of your grandmother. She’d be disappointed.”
Rykov looks like he’s seriously reconsidering this policy. His grip tightens. “Stay away from her.”
“Why? She likes me. We bonded over our mutual appreciation for noble cats and the importance of not taking life too seriously.”
“Callahan—”
“Plus, she thinks you need friends. I’m just being a good teammate.” Kai’s grin widens. “Maybe I should visit. Bring Bonifazio. I bet she’d love to meet him.”
The look on Rykov’s face is worth every risk. He’s practically vibrating with suppressed rage, his dark eyes promising retribution while simultaneously knowing he can’t do anything about it because they’re surrounded by teammates and fans and his grandmother is watching.
“You’re enjoying this,” Rykov accuses.
“Immensely,” Kai confirms. “Your grandmother is wonderful. You should have introduced us sooner.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Too late. We’re already friends. She said to take care of each other.” Kai skates backward, still grinning. “I take my promises to grandmothers very seriously, Rykov. I’ll be checking in on you. Making sure you’re eating enough. Not frowning too much.”
He leaves Rykov standing there, looking like he’s torn between murder and actual physical combustion.
It’s possibly the best five minutes of Kai’s season.