Chapter 11 Kai
After the game, the locker room has the tense, ugly energy of a team that knows they fucked up.
They played poorly. Against the Coyotes, a team that’s rebuilding and shouldn’t have given them any real trouble. But the West Coast trip has worn everyone down—three games in four nights, time zone changes, too many nights in hotels that all look the same.
It’s not an excuse. It’s just a fact.
Davis is the first to voice what everyone’s thinking, and his irritation lands mostly on Kai.
“You were invisible out there, Callahan. Completely invisible.”
Kai’s jaw tightens. He’s still in his gear, sweaty and exhausted and not in the mood for this. “I had three assists.”
“You should’ve had five. Maybe six.” Davis is pulling off his skates with aggressive motions. “You were hesitating. Second-guessing. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing’s going on with me.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been off all week.”
Rykov speaks up from across the locker room, his voice low and even. “Harley played us too conservative in the second period. We should’ve been forechecking harder.”
Davis whips around. “I’m not asking you, Rykov.”
“I’m not asking for your permission to have an opinion about the game we just played,” Rykov says flatly.
Kai and Rykov exchange a look across the room. Just for a second.
“We all played like shit,” Kai says, breaking eye contact first. “It happens. Long season. We’ll be better next game.”
“Not to us it doesn’t happen,” Davis shoots back. “Not on this team. We have standards.”
Nobody says anything else. They’re all acutely aware that they’re having this conversation without the captain present.
When Bachman arrives, the argument stops immediately. Everyone disperses like smoke, suddenly very busy with their gear.
Kai showers quickly, changes into his post-game outfit, and escapes to his hotel room before anyone can corner him for a “talk.”
* * *
Bonifazio is exactly where Kai left him that morning—curled up on the hotel bed in a patch of afternoon sunlight, looking like a small, judgmental shadow.
“Hey, buddy,” Kai says softly, running a hand down the cat’s spine. Bonifazio opens one green eye, assesses him, and goes back to sleep.
Kai refills the food bowl—the fancy organic stuff Bonifazio will only sometimes deign to eat—and checks the water. The cat hasn’t moved. Good. At least someone in Kai’s life is content.
He’s just settling onto the bed himself, contemplating whether to order room service or just drink his feelings, when there’s a knock at the door.
Loud. Insistent.
He opens it to find Rykov standing there, still in his post-game clothes, his dark eyes blazing with something Kai can’t quite identify. Anger, maybe. Or determination. Or something more dangerous.
Kai immediately slams the door.
His phone buzzes.
He looks down at the screen.
Rykov: open the door or you’ll regret it
Kai stares at the message, his pulse already accelerating. The insolence of it infuriates him. The command. The certainty that Kai will comply.
When he opens the door again, he pulls Rykov inside forcefully.
Kai stares at the message, then at Rykov standing in his hotel room, then back at his phone.
“You texted me while standing outside my door?”
“You weren’t answering.”
“I was going to answer by not opening the door. Are you insane?” he hisses. “Do you have any idea how many people are on this floor? Miller’s room is three doors down. If anyone sees you coming out of here—”
But Rykov is already moving, crossing the space between them in two strides. His hand finds the back of Kai’s neck—that specific spot that makes Kai’s entire nervous system light up—and then Rykov’s mouth is on his skin.
Kai’s breath catches. His hands come up automatically, one gripping Rykov’s shoulder, the other fisting in his shirt.
“I’m starting to think you want press coverage,” Kai manages, his voice unsteady. “That you’re using me for tabloid material.”
“There’s no press here, Callahan.” Rykov’s breath is hot against his throat.
“You can’t be that naive. Players leak gossip constantly. Especially when there’s something to hide. And you and I?” Kai tilts his head back despite himself, giving him better access. “We’re already in the spotlight.”
“About what?” Rykov’s jaw is tight. “That I came to your room? We’re on the same team. Teammates visit each other.”
“Try explaining us being in that storage room—”
“That’s what we have you for.” Rykov’s mouth moves to the spot just below Kai’s ear. “You always have an explanation. Especially for the press.”
Kai stops talking because this— this contact, this heat, this specific pressure of Rykov’s mouth on his neck—is the only thing that makes sense right now. The only thing that quiets the noise in his head.
Rykov tries to push him toward the bed, but Kai’s hand finds Rykov’s cock instead, hard and obvious through his jeans, and they only make it to the sofa.
They barely make it there because Rykov doesn’t let him jerk him off and instead spits on Kay’s exposed hard cock.
The contact is urgent and desperate. Kai’s heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat, in his fingertips, everywhere. Rykov’s touch is electric and greedy and consuming, and he can’t breathe properly, can’t think properly.
When Rykov pulls back to watch him, Kai’s breath comes in short gasps. He closes his eyes because he can’t handle seeing the intensity in Rykov’s expression.
But Rykov makes that decision for him. He’s deliberate with every touch, watching Kai’s reactions like they’re the most important thing in the world. Kai can’t look away. Can’t distract him. Can’t do anything but feel.
Every second is like walking on a knife’s edge. The pleasure builds, unbearable and sharp, and he can’t hide it. He moans—brief, vulnerable—and arches his back.
Rykov looks at him with an expression Kai can’t read. Then something shifts. Rykov leans down and tastes him, and he holds his breath. After, Rykov brings his hand to Kai’s mouth, and Kai licks it clean without hesitation.
“Very good,” Rykov says, his deep voice rough with something that sounds like nervousness. “Lick it all off.”
He obeys without question, and when Rykov kisses him, it’s rough and greedy. The kiss gradually becomes something else .Rykov’s tongue moving against Kai’s like he’s trying to memorize him.
Kai reaches for Rykov’s cock, stroking him again. Rykov’s eyes stay on his hand movements, his body tense and close. Rykov’s cock begins to leak, and Kai barely resists the urge to kneel down. But he waits, running his thumb over the head instead.
Rykov’s breathing changes. He inhales sharply through his nose, then suddenly comes, turning his head away.
Kai feels a flash of something—disappointment, rejection, confusion—but he forces it down.
The silence that follows is heavy. Wrong.
Rykov suddenly pulls away, his expression darkening.
“I just haven’t had sex in a long time,” he says flatly.
Just.
The word sits between them like a bomb.
Kai understands perfectly. Rykov saw him at the club, saw him looking available, accessible, easy, and decided he would be convenient. A way to scratch an itch he couldn’t address elsewhere. Without risk to be exposed.
Not that Kai has any room to complain. He wants him too. Has wanted him with an intensity that scares him. But having Rykov serve this explanation up on a silver platter— like Kai needs to understand that this doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just physical necessity—infuriates him.
“It’s not even sex, Rykov,” he says, standing and creating distance between them. His legs are unsteady but he forces them to work. “Thanks for the favor, though. Very charitable of you.”
Rykov’s dark eyes fix on him with an intensity that makes his chest tighten painfully. He hates how Rykov sometimes looks at him like he can see through every defense, every carefully constructed wall. Like Kai is transparent.
It should be the other way around.
Kai is the one who reads people, who understands social dynamics and hidden motivations. Rykov only understands force and collision and straightforward aggression.
“Are you going to say nasty shit every time after it’s over?” Rykov asks, his voice rough.
“Every time?” He moves toward the minibar with deliberate casualness. He pulls out one of those small bottles of champagne and pours it into a glass.
He takes a slow sip, knowing it will irritate Rykov. Knowing Rykov will probably lecture him about alcohol and hydration and professional responsibility.
Knowing that Kai will enjoy the lecture because at least it means Rykov cares enough to argue.
“Let this be the last time,” he says, keeping his voice light and careless. “No more ‘every time.’ Easy.”
Rykov stands abruptly, his jaw clenched so tight Kai can see the muscle jumping. He looks at Kai with an expression that’s almost angry and—something raw that Kai has never seen before.
Then Rykov grabs his jacket and walks toward the door.
“Rykov—” Kai hears himself say, but he doesn’t know what comes next. Doesn’t know what he wants to say.
Rykov pauses with his hand on the door handle. For a moment, Kai thinks he might turn around. Might say something that makes this all make sense.
Instead, he opens the door and walks out, closing it behind him with enough force to rattle the frame.
Kai stands alone in the hotel room, champagne glass in his hand.
Bonifazio opens one eye from his spot on the bed, regards the owner with what might be sympathy or might just be cat-like indifference, then closes his eye again.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Kai tells him. “I know what I’m doing.”
Bonifazio’s tail twitches. Even the cat doesn’t believe him.
Kai drains the champagne in one gulp and immediately pours another glass.
Everything is fine. It’s all wonderful, actually.
It’s especially wonderful that Kai ended it. Not Rykov. He made the decision. He maintained control.
He takes another sip of champagne and tries not to think about the look in Rykov’s eyes when he left.
Tries not to think about what he just threw away.
Tries not to think about the fact that “I just haven’t had sex in a long time” might have been Rykov’s clumsy attempt at honesty, not dismissal.
Tries very hard not to think about anything at all.
His phone buzzes. A text from Sam: You good? Heard the locker room got tense.
Kai stares at the message for a long moment, then types back: All good. Just tired. Long week.
It’s a lie, but it’s an easy one. The kind everyone accepts without question.
He sets his phone face-down on the nightstand and finishes his third glass of champagne.
Bonifazio is still asleep, unbothered by human drama.
Kai wishes, not for the first time, that he could be more like his cat—capable of sleeping through emotional disasters and content with solitude.