Chapter 17 Nazar
Two weeks after Millbrook.
The locker room is tomb-silent except for the scrape of blades on concrete and the aggressive rip of tape being torn from ankles. Someone drops a water bottle.
Nazar can feel Kai’s anger from three stalls down—not explosive, but humming. A tightly controlled frequency that matches his own fury.
Bachman clears his throat. “Tough game. We’ll review the tape tomorrow. Get some rest.”
No one responds.
The press room is worse.
Hot lights. Packed media. Cameras pointed like weapons.
“Kaisyn, there seemed to be a breakdown in communication on the second line tonight,” the ESPN reporter starts. “Particularly on that power play. Can you walk us through what happened?”
Kai’s face is a perfect mask of thoughtful disappointment. “Hockey’s fast. Sometimes wires cross. We didn’t execute. That’s on all of us, not one player, not one line. We’ll look at the tape and be better next game.”
The lies are smooth, blame-free, perfectly delivered.
Nazar hates how easily they come.
“Rykov, same question. Is there tension on the second line?”
Nazar leans into the mic. “What he said. We lose as a team. Next question.”
His tone makes it clear the subject is closed.
Ten more minutes of standard interrogation. Then they leave through different exits without looking at each other.
In the showers, steam turns everything into isolated pockets of mist.
Nazar stands under scalding water, trying to wash away frustration that clings like film. It doesn’t work. His muscles stay tight, his mind replaying every mistake.
He can feel Kai two showers down. Can see his silhouette through the steam—lean back, wet hair, that graceful way he moves even when exhausted.
Through a gap in the mist, their eyes meet in a chrome fixture’s reflection.
For one brutal second, the accusation between them is clear and mutual.
Your fault.
No. Yours.
Then Kai’s expression goes flat and cold. He turns his back and the steam closes in.
Not a single word spoken between them.
* * *
Nazar sits in his hotel room, the television on but muted, flickering blue light across the walls.
He’s watching SportsCenter replay their loss with commentary about “continued chemistry issues” and “questions about the second line’s effectiveness.”
He’s trying to wait. Trying to let the red haze of fury cool into something manageable, something he can control and put away until practice tomorrow.
He fails.
His door bursts open—not kicked, but shoved hard enough that it slams against the interior wall with a crack that makes him jolt to his feet from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed.
Kai stands in the doorway, breathing hard, his hair a wild blond halo under the harsh hallway light. He’s pulled on dark jeans and his trademark stupid sweater.
He looks like a vengeful angel, and the sight of him sends a jolt of something hot and familiar straight through Nazar’s body.
“You leave your door open like this for everyone, or just me?”
“How did you—” Nazar starts.
It’s the first time Callahan has come to him on his own.
“Miller gave me your room number,” Kai says, stalking into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “Don’t you—don’t you ever fucking skate away from a pass like that again.”
“It was a shit pass,” Nazar says, his own control snapping like a frayed cable. “It was halfway to my ankles. I would’ve had to go to my knees to get it.”
“A decent center would have had it!”
“A decent winger would have put it where I could actually reach it without breaking my back! I always thought you came here to sabotage us,” Nazar snarls, taking a step forward, closing the distance between them.
“That you were doing all of this on purpose. Playing badly when it matters most. But now I’m starting to think you really just can’t play a consistent game.
You’re all flash and no fucking substance. ”
The words are a direct strike at the one thing Kai prides himself on. His skill, his hockey IQ, his value as a player.
Kai’s face goes white. He laughs, but it’s a sharp, ugly sound with no humor in it.
“Me? Inconsistent? You’re the most unstable person I’ve ever met, Rykov.
You’re a fucking black hole of rage and impulse wrapped up in some bullshit disguise of discipline.
You stand there like this pillar of consistency, but you’re the one who blows everything up.
Every single time. You’re a fucking hypocrite. ”
The space between them crackles with a silence more violent than any shout. They’re chest to chest now, close enough that Nazar can see the pulse jumping in Kai’s throat.
Six years of resentment. A season of raw, unspoken need. All of it compressed into the charged air between them.
Then they launch themselves at each other.
The kiss is messy—too much teeth, not enough air, like they’re both trying to devour each other.
Nazar barely notices when his back hits the wall. Kai is pressed against him, fingers locked in his shirt, like if he lets go, he’ll fall apart.
Then Kai drops to his knees.
Nazar’s hand shoots out to steady himself against the wall as he looks down—Kai is staring up through dark lashes, cheeks flushed, chest rising fast.
Kai’s palms drag slowly up the insides of Nazar’s thighs, almost cautious—like he knows exactly what he’s doing to him. The touch is barely there, but Nazar feels it everywhere.
Heat coils in his stomach, sharp and sweet and unbearable. His fingers slide into Kai’s hair, not pulling. As if he needs proof this is real.
Kai leans in.
That first touch—hot breath, lips brushing sensitive skin—sends a violent tremor through Nazar’s legs. His hips jerk forward without permission.
Kai’s hands tighten on his hips, holding him there, guiding him, teasing, taking. Nazar’s vision sparks at the edges. His head tips back against the wall with a dull thud.
His breathing turns rough, uneven, like each inhale costs him something.
Kai works his mouth slowly along him, taking more with every deliberate glide. Each time Nazar feels Kai’s lips part and slide over the sensitive tip, his vision threatens to go white—this has to be it, he’s going to lose it right there.
Kai is relentless. Focused. Almost reverent in the way he moves, like he’s memorizing this—every reaction, every sound Nazar makes. It feels unreal, feverish, like something conjured in the dark hours of the night, not happening here, not with Kai on his knees.
This can’t be real. Any second now, he’ll wake up alone, aching, with no memory of what Kai’s mouth looked like wrapped around him—no image burned into his mind of Kai’s flushed lips, swollen and slick, after taking him in.
“Fuck—Kai—” His voice breaks, low and hoarse.
Kai only hums softly in response—a sound that vibrates through Nazar in places he didn’t even know could ache like this.
A flicker of panic coils low in Nazar’s gut.
The first time Kai went down on him, he’d blamed the intensity of it on inexperience—on the shock of another man’s mouth and the fact that Kai was, infuriatingly, good at this. He’d told himself that was all it was.
But now—this second time—he knows better. Because it takes everything he has not to lose control.
His fingers curl tight, knuckles white, every muscle locked as he fights the urge to take more, to thrust deeper, to hold Kai exactly where he wants him. The restraint costs him. Costs him everything. This isn’t just about touch or technique or curiosity.
The world narrows to the drag of heat, the pressure, the rhythm that builds and builds until thought is gone and there’s only instinct. His hand tightens in Kai’s hair. Not to control. Just to survive it.
When it finally hits, it hits hard.
Nazar’s entire body locks up, pleasure detonating like lightning through his veins, sharp and blinding. His vision whites out. For a moment, he’s sure his knees will give.
When he can think again, he’s still standing—but barely. His chest is heaving. His hand is still tangled in Kai’s hair. And Kai is still kneeling in front of him, lips swollen, breathing hard, eyes dark and unreadable.
Nazar doesn’t give Kai time to think. He pushes him back toward the sofa with uncompromising pressure, like this was always inevitable and they both know it.
Kai lets himself fall onto the cushions, but there’s defiance in the tilt of his chin, like he still wants to pretend he has a say in this.
Nazar’s hands are rough when he drags Kai’s jeans down. He takes his time. He wants Kai to feel every second of it. He uses his mouth slowly. Kai’s fingers dig into the sofa, thighs trembling, breath stuttering out of him in broken little gasps he can’t swallow down fast enough.
It only takes a few minutes.
Kai breaks. Loudly. Head thrown back, throat exposed, voice hoarse with helpless pleasure.
And still— still—Kai tries to turn away. To hide. To act like this is nothing. Like he didn’t just fall apart in Nazar’s hands.
Nazar snaps.
This is what drives him insane— in these moments, Kai gives him everything with his body. And then he tries to take it all back by looking away, by not letting Nazar see how he looks when he comes.
Not tonight. Nazar won’t let him.
His hand catches Kai’s jaw, firm, making him look.
Afterward, when they’re both breathing hard and reality starts creeping back in, Nazar’s hand wraps around him again, still stroking with focused intent, watching Kai’s face, watching the way his eyelids flutter, the way color floods his cheeks.
“You’re very mediocre at that,” Kai chokes out, his voice hoarse, his armor already reassembling itself piece by defensive piece.
Nazar lets out a short, rough laugh. “Well, I’m not gay.”
Kai actually rolls his eyes—a gesture so quintessentially him that something in Nazar’s chest tightens. He leans down, his lips brushing Kai’s ear. “But your mouth takes me so well,” he whispers, “I might not criticize how you handle passes on the left side for a couple days.”
A faint blush dusts Kai’s cheekbones.
He stays silent for a beat too long before recovering. “You think too highly of your hockey skills. You don’t even know how to criticize properly.”
Nazar just stares at him, the want still thrumming through his veins like a second heartbeat. He wants more. Needs to move past this—these frantic, stolen moments in storage closets and hotel rooms. He hates uncertainty in anything.
As if reading his mind, Kai’s expression hardens. “Don’t mix hockey into this,” he says, his voice suddenly cold and distant. “This is just sex.”
Just sex.
Kai straightens, reaching for his sweater that got pushed up during everything. Nazar’s hand shoots out, stopping him. He holds Kai’s wrist, his thumb finding the pulse point, rubbing circles over the frantic rhythm there.
Kai looks at him. Really looks at him for the first time since arriving. And something in his expression shifts. The defensiveness recedes.
“You know I didn’t ask my father for that draft spot, right?” The words are quiet, stripped of all of Kai’s usual irony and performance. “Back then. I didn’t ask him or anyone else to manipulate things to get me into the top five.”
Nazar’s grip on his wrist loosens slightly. He just stares, his mind going blank.
“Maybe someone included me to suck up to him,” Kai continues, his gaze unwavering.
“Without his knowledge. People do that—make decisions they think will please the boss. But my father hated that I was playing hockey. He put up obstacles every chance he got. Refused to help with training costs. Wouldn’t let the family name be associated with my junior teams. But I never asked anyone to put me anywhere. ”
Nazar searches his face, looking for the lie, the performance, the manipulation. He finds nothing but tired honesty.
“Are you telling the truth?” The question is barely a whisper.
“Yes, Rykov. I’m telling the truth,” Kai says, and there’s a world of weariness in his voice. “I know everyone thinks I’m a nepotism case. That I bought my way in. But I wasn’t worse than the other guys in that draft class.”
Nazar thinks about it. Really thinks about it for the first time in years without the filter of rage and resentment.
He thinks about Kai’s explosive speed, his hockey IQ, the way he reads plays before they develop. The foundation of his hatred—the bedrock on which he’d built the last years of his life—begins to crack.
“You weren’t worse,” Nazar says after a long silence. The admission feels momentous, like physically shifting the weight of the world. “That’s true.”
Something flickers across Kai’s face—relief, maybe. Or just exhaustion.
The confession seems to break whatever trance held them. Kai pulls his wrist free and yanks his sweater down properly, covering the pale skin that Nazar wants to keep looking at.
Kai turns toward the door without another word, without a backward glance, every line of his body communicating that this encounter is over.
“Kai—” Nazar starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.
The door closes quietly behind him.
Nazar is left alone in the wreckage of his hotel room—sheets twisted, his own clothes half-off, the muted television still replaying their loss on loop.
He sinks onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands.
He believes him. Deep down, in a place he doesn’t want to examine too closely, he knows Kai told the truth.
But if that’s true, then everything is different.
If Doyle Callahan actively hates that his son plays hockey… it explains so much. Why Kai publicly announced he’d never play for Toronto. Why he seems to deliberately court controversy, as if daring his father to be disappointed in him.
The thought should be a relief. Should leave Nazar’s path clear, his endgame intact. He still needs to get to that team. Still needs to make Doyle Callahan pay for what he did to Derek.
But all Nazar can think about is the stark, empty space where Kai Callahan had been kneeling just moments ago.
All he can think about is that he’s spent years hating Kai for something he didn’t do.
And now he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to feel instead.