Chapter 13 Nazar
Nazar barely has time to process Kai’s clipped greeting before his attention is pulled elsewhere.
Kai has turned his back to the door now, laser-focused on Miller, who is crouched near the coffee table holding what appears to be a Lay’s potato chip the size of his palm. That monstrous, fluffy cat with a squashed-in face is in the process of accepting the offering.
“Miller, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Kai asks coldly, eyes narrowed.
Miller snatches his hand back like he’s been burned, but it’s too late.
The cat lunges forward and crunches down on the chip with a sound that’s disturbingly human—like someone biting into an apple in a silent library.
“Dude, he was looking at me,” Miller says defensively, his voice pitched higher than usual. “Like, really staring. With intensity. I thought he was gonna murder me if I didn’t give him something.”
“He has chronic indigestion.” Kai’s voice is dangerously quiet as he crosses the room and scoops the cat into his arms with practiced ease.
“Specifically on the left side of his digestive tract. He is not allowed to eat processed human garbage, and he is especially not supposed to eat while lying on his back because it exacerbates the reflux.”
The cat—who seems entirely unbothered by being picked up—settles against Kai’s chest like a furry emperor being carried by a particularly devoted servant.
“Sorry, man,” Miller says, genuinely contrite now. “I didn’t know. He just looked so… demanding.”
“Yes, he’s very demanding. It’s his defining characteristic,” Kai says, his tone softening slightly as he strokes the cat’s head.
Sam and Vyachovsky having an intense, hushed conversation in the corner near the windows. They’re leaning close together, and Vyachovsky keeps gesturing with his wrist in a way that makes his watch catch the light.
“They just said no,” Sam is saying, sounding genuinely baffled and slightly hurt. “I walked into the boutique on Michigan Avenue, pointed at the display model, and the sales guy told me it wasn’t available for purchase. Just flat-out no. I have the money! I showed him my bank app!”
Vyachovsky scoffs, a sound that’s equal parts amusement and superiority.
He holds up his own wrist to flash what Nazar now recognizes as a Rolex Submariner.
“You can’t just walk into an AD and buy a Sub, Sammy.
That’s not how it works. You have to build a relationship with the brand first. Buy some of their less popular models.
The watches nobody wants. Then, maybe—maybe—after a year or two, they’ll offer you the good stuff. It’s a whole system.”
Bachman, who’s been quietly scrolling through his phone on the other end of the couch, looks up with an expression of complete disbelief. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would you pay thousands of dollars for a watch you don’t want just to be allowed to buy a different watch?”
“Because that’s how luxury brands work,” Vyachovsky says, like he’s explaining basic arithmetic. “It’s about exclusivity. Scarcity. You can’t just—”
“I’ll get it for you, Sam,” Kai interrupts. He says it as casually as if he’s offering to pick up someone’s dry cleaning. “Don’t worry about it. I know someone.”
Sam’s eyes widen. “Really? You can do that?”
“One of the few benefits of the family name. I’ll make a call tomorrow.
” Kai says with a shrug. He gestures toward the massive television mounted on the wall.
“Now, can we please continue? The ‘88 Oilers are about to demonstrate a zone entry that’s pure poetry. Gretzky’s positioning here is…
” He trails off, reaching for the remote.
Nazar finally moves.
A few heads turn briefly—Bachman nods in acknowledgment, Armstrong raises his beer in greeting—but no one looks particularly surprised to see him.
Only Kai seems to willfully ignore his presence, his entire being focused on the grainy hockey footage now playing on the screen.
Nazar finds himself standing awkwardly, unsure where to sit or what to do with his hands. He should leave. Should make an excuse about remembering something he forgot to do and get out before this becomes even more uncomfortable.
Instead, he watches.
Kai is analyzing the Oilers game with the kind of focused intensity most people reserve for things like surgery or defusing bombs.
He points out tiny details that Nazar would never have noticed—a defenseman’s hip rotation opening up a passing lane, a winger’s subtle stick lift before receiving a pass, the way Gretzky positions himself to draw two defenders and create space for his linemate.
“See that?” Kai pauses the footage and rewinds fifteen seconds. “Watch Messier here. He’s not looking at the puck. He’s watching Gretzky’s eyes. That’s how he knows exactly when to break for the slot.”
Sam leans forward, completely absorbed. “I never would’ve caught that.”
“Most people don’t,” Kai says, rewinding again. “But it’s the difference between a good play and a great one. Hockey’s happening off the puck just as much as on it.”
He’s not performing. Not putting on a show or trying to impress anyone. He’s teaching, and the others are listening with complete attention.
And that’s when Nazar sees it. Really sees it.
Kai is wearing pajamas.
Dark blue silk, clearly expensive—probably something Italian with a designer name Nazar wouldn’t recognize. But the pattern. The pattern is small, cheerful-looking otters. Holding hands. In repeating rows across the fabric.
The disconnect is so staggering that Nazar’s brain short-circuits.
The question is out of his mouth before his brain can engage any kind of filter.
“Why are you wearing pajamas?”
Kai’s lecture on the Oilers’ neutral zone trap cuts off mid-sentence.
The room goes completely silent. Every single person turns to stare at Nazar.
The stupidity of his own question crashes down on Nazar like a physical force.
Heat floods his face. He can feel his ears burning.
He wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
He wants to rewind time. He wants to have literally any other superpower that would allow him to un-ask that question.
The worst part—the absolute worst part—is that Kai doesn’t respond at all.
Not a smirk. Not a sarcastic jab. Not even an eye roll.
He just holds Nazar’s gaze for a long, unreadable moment, his expression completely neutral, before turning back to the television as if Nazar hadn’t spoken at all.
Nazar would have preferred the aggression. Would have welcomed a fight, an insult, anything that acknowledged his existence. This incomprehensible silence is infinitely worse.
He sinks into an empty armchair near the windows, feeling like the world’s biggest fool.
The tension breaks mercifully when there’s a knock at the door and someone shouts, “Food’s here!”
Armstrong jumps up to answer it, and suddenly the apartment fills with the smell of Thai food and the rustle of takeout containers.
The atmosphere shifts immediately—becomes louder, more relaxed. People migrate toward the dining table where Armstrong is unpacking enough pad thai and curry to feed a small army.
“Oh thank God,” Miller says, grabbing a container. “I’m starving.”
“Well, you gave my cat a chip, Miller,” Kai says, but there’s less ice in his voice now. “You’re lucky me and Bonifazio have a forgiving nature.”
“Does he though?” Sam asks, eyeing the cat, who has relocated to a cat tree in the corner and is surveying the room like a disapproving monarch.
“No,” Kai admits. “But he’s beautiful, so we let it slide.”
As they eat, Kai launches into a story about acquiring his first Ferrari.
It’s an absolutely ridiculous tale involving a winery in Tuscany, an eccentric owner with a collection of vintage cars, sampling twenty different wines in a single afternoon, and an objectively unsafe helicopter ride over the Italian countryside—all part of an elaborate scheme to impress the Ferrari brand enough to be offered a limited edition model that wasn’t technically available for purchase.
“And then,” Kai says, his hands moving expressively, “the owner of the winery—this guy named Paolo—he calls his cousin, who happens to work at Ferrari in Maranello, and suddenly I’m being given a private tour of the factory at midnight—”
“At midnight?” Miller interrupts, completely absorbed.
“At midnight. Because Paolo’s cousin has a key and doesn’t believe in normal business hours. And that’s how I ended up buying a 488 Spider that wasn’t supposed to be available to American and Canadian buyers for another six months.”
Sam and Miller are hanging on every word, their eyes wide with something like awe. Even Armstrong is listening, a forkful of pad thai frozen halfway to his mouth.
Nazar squints.
He doesn’t believe a fucking word of it.
And they’re all eating it up like it’s gospel truth.
Kai catches Nazar’s skeptical expression and there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe—before he smoothly continues the story.
After dinner, Nazar escapes to the bathroom.
On the counter, he notices two prescription bottles. He doesn’t mean to snoop, but his eyes catch the labels anyway: one for anxiety, one for insomnia. Both in Kai’s name.
He looks away quickly, feeling like he’s seen something private he wasn’t meant to see.
When he comes back out into the hallway, Kai is just turning the corner from what must be the bedroom, his face set in a frown.
They’re alone for the first time since Nazar arrived, the noise of the living room a distant buzz.
Kai stops walking. They’re standing maybe six feet apart in the dim hallway.
“I’m in my pajamas because I’m at home, Rykov,” Kai says, his voice a low, clipped murmur. So he’d waited until they were alone to finally deliver the response. “But if I had known you were coming, I would have worn a tuxedo. Obviously.”
Nazar’s blood pressure spikes. His brain cycles frantically through a thousand possible responses—apologies, explanations, defensive remarks—but before he can land on anything coherent, Sam comes bounding into the corridor, laughing as he shoves his phone in Vyachovsky’s face.
“Look at this! Armstrong just sent me a picture of that chick with a piece of spring roll—”
The moment is gone. Kai slips past them both and back into the living room without another glance at Nazar.
Nazar has no choice but to follow, seething in silence.
* * *
Later, as people settle back onto various furniture surfaces, Kai picks up the remote and starts scrolling through his TV’s home screen.
Nazar watches from his position in the armchair. The folders are meticulously organized.
‘90s Power Plays. European Transition Drills. Obscure Goalie Techniques 1960-1980. Swedish Defensive Systems. Soviet-Era Training Methods.
Categories Nazar has never even heard of, let alone thought to study.
His gaze drifts beyond the television to the dining area, where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line an entire wall.
About thirty minutes later, he slips quietly into that room.
The shelves are full—overflowing, really. Sports biographies. Tactical manuals. Histories of the game in three different languages. Coaching philosophy. Sports psychology. The physics of skating and body mechanics.
Most of the books are worn at the edges, spines cracked, some pages marked with tabs or scribbled notes in the margins. Not just owned—but studied. Revisited.
A strange, sharp pang of something hits Nazar’s chest. Shame, maybe. Or embarrassment.
He’s snooping, studying, an uninvited guest learning secrets he has no right to know. And it’s becoming sickeningly clear that Kai’s casual brilliance, his seemingly effortless understanding of hockey—it isn’t an act.
It’s not some trust fund kid playing at being smart about sports.
The guy is genuinely obsessed. Has been for years, maybe his whole life. His passion for the game, so obvious when he was analyzing that Oilers footage earlier, is completely real.
It’s like watching someone forget to turn on their filter. Forget to be the scandalous Callahan offspring, the problematic player, the headline generator. And just become a person who loves something more than anything else in the world.
The thought makes Nazar’s heart do something painful and complicated in his chest. A hot, sweetly aching sensation spreads through his ribs.
He wants to see that again. Wants to see the Kai who forgets the performance and just is.
He’s seen it before—in fleeting moments. In the dazed, unguarded aftermath of pleasure, when Kai came undone beneath his hands and forgot to be defensive or sarcastic or anything except present.
The realization hits him with sudden, gut-wrenching certainty: he’s hooked on those moments.
Addicted to those brief, incandescent flashes of the real Kai Callahan like a fucking drug he can’t quit.