Chapter 19 Nazar
He feels like a tuxedo-clad animal in a zoo at the League Awards, and he hates every second.
He makes the rounds because that’s what you do at these things. Shaking hands with GMs who remember his statistics better than his name. Deflecting questions from agents who want to know if he’s “happy in Vancouver” in that specific tone that means they’re fishing for trade interest.
Sharing a stiff, awkward exchange with a Bruins defenseman he tried to put through the boards three weeks ago—they both pretend it was just good clean hockey, nothing personal.
“Rykov! Hell of a season you’re having.” Some retired player whose name Nazar should probably remember claps him on the shoulder. “You know, back in my day, we didn’t have these fancy analytics, but I always could spot talent when I saw it…”
Nazar nods along, making appropriate sounds while his mind wanders. He’s reached that stage of the evening where all the conversations blur together into a meaningless drone of hockey clichés and humble brags.
Then a shift in the room’s energy snags his attention.
Kai Callahan has arrived.
He’s not alone. At his side is a man who shares his aristocratic bone structure and easy grace, but has dark hair slicked back in that way that screams “I have a corner office and a Patek Philippe.”
He’s older than Kai—maybe thirty—and moves with the predatory stillness of someone who’s spent his life in boardrooms.
Kai’s older brother, Nazar realizes. The heir to the Callahan empire.
They stand by the bar, and Kai’s brother says something that makes Kai throw his head back and laugh. A real laugh—uninhibited and bright. So different from the sharp, sarcastic sounds Nazar is used to, the defensive armor Kai usually wears like a second skin.
His brother reaches over and ruffles Kai’s perfect blond hair, messing it up deliberately.
Kai looks happy. Relaxed. Younger, somehow.
It’s a version of him Nazar has never seen before, and the sight of it lodges in his chest—a strange, uncomfortable mix of envy and… something that feels uncomfortably close to grief for a version of Kai he’s never been allowed to know.
“That’s Liam Callahan,” the retired player is still talking. “The smart one. Running half the family business now. Word is Doyle’s grooming him to take over the whole operation. Unlike the younger one, who’s too busy being a—”
“Excuse me,” Nazar interrupts, already moving away. He doesn’t need to hear whatever derogatory comment is coming next.
He keeps his distance but finds himself tracking Kai’s movement through the crowd like he’s reading a play on ice.
Watching the way Kai works the room—all charm and practiced smiles, but with his brother as a buffer.
Liam seems to run interference, subtly redirecting conversations when they veer too personal, cutting off questions his brother doesn’t want to answer.
They cross paths several times throughout the night.
A near-miss by the silent auction table, where some idiotic charity is auctioning off signed jerseys and “exclusive experiences” that are just awkward dinners with players who don’t want to be there.
Kai’s eyes meet his over the rim of a champagne flute. Just for a second. Long enough for Nazar’s heart to do something stupid in his chest.
A brush of shoulders in the crush of people near the stage when they’re announcing some lifetime achievement award that requires everyone to applaud politely. The contact is brief, electric—a shock that leaves the skin on Nazar’s arm buzzing like he’s been hit with static.
Everyone else is oblivious, caught up in their own conversations and politics and networking. But Nazar is hyperaware of every time Kai moves, every time he laughs at something his brother says.
He wants him.
The knowledge that they’re surrounded by more than half the hockey world—GMs, coaches, agents, journalists, the entire infrastructure of the league—only makes the wanting sharper.
More impossible to ignore.
At one point, he catches Kai standing alone by one of those floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the skyline.
His brother is temporarily caught in conversation with a league official twenty feet away, and Kai has taken the opportunity to escape.
He’s just standing there, champagne in hand, staring out at the city lights with an expression Nazar can’t read from this distance.
Lonely, maybe. Or just tired.
Nazar can’t take it anymore.
The calculated patience, the pretense of indifference, the performance of normalcy—it all shatters.
He pulls out his phone, his thumb moving with a will of its own, muscle memory taking over.
Nazar: end of the main hall. now.
He hits send before he can second-guess himself.
He doesn’t know if Kai will come. Doesn’t even know what he’ll do if he does. But the need to see him—to touch him away from all these prying eyes, away from the performance and the masks—is overwhelming.
He walks to the back of the venue, past the main ballroom into a dimly lit corridor that leads to private event spaces and service areas.
There’s an alcove behind a display case of retired jerseys from various teams, and he positions himself there, his back to the wall, waiting.
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
Nazar is about to give up, to accept that Kai isn’t coming, when he appears around the corner.
His face is carefully neutral—that cool mask of indifference he wears so well—but there’s something reckless flickering in his eyes.
Nazar braces himself for the inevitable outrage. For the sarcastic tirade about the risks, about how stupid this is, about how they’re going to get caught.
Instead, Kai grabs his wrist and pulls.
They move fast, Kai leading him down the corridor past closed conference rooms and storage closets. Then Kai shoves open the door to the nearest men’s restroom, pulling Nazar inside. The heavy door swings shut behind them with a soft whoosh, and Kai immediately tries to lock it.
“Are you insane?” Nazar grunts, his tactical mind already cataloging the problems. “The utility room is two doors down. There’s no real lock on these stall doors. Anyone could—”
“Too far,” Kai says.
And then his mouth is on Nazar’s.
It’s desperate and everything Nazar has been trying not to think about for weeks. Kai tastes like champagne.
Nazar walks him backward until Kai’s back hits the cool tiled wall, then cages him there with his body, one hand braced against the wall beside Kai’s head.
Nazar trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down the length of Kai’s neck, and Kai lets out a soft, pleading sound that goes straight to Nazar’s cock.
“Yes,” Kai whispers, his head tilting back to give Nazar better access. “Yes.”
Nazar’s hands slide under Kai’s suit jacket, under the crisp designer shirt, finding skin that’s fever-hot. He finds the hard points of his nipples and rubs them with his thumbs, feeling them stiffen under his touch. A dizzying wave of heat washes over him.
His cock is painfully hard, aching against the confines of his dress pants.
“I like your skin,” he says, the words rough and absurd even to his own ears. He feels like a complete idiot. It’s possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever said, but his brain has short-circuited, overridden by sensation and want. “How it feels. I think about it all the time.”
Kai’s hand finds his cock—a firm, knowing grip through the fabric of his pants—and Nazar groans, pressing his face into the curve of Kai’s neck, breathing him in.
“Come on,” he rasps against Kai’s skin. “Work your hand.”
“You want to come?” Kai’s voice is low, teasing, his breath hot against Nazar’s ear. “Already?”
“When your hand is on me? Always.”
The small space fills with the harsh sound of their breathing. It feels impossibly intimate—a secret world carved out of the noisy, glittering illusion of the party happening just beyond the door.
Nazar is losing control, the pleasure building with brutal, unstoppable force. He bites down gently on the sharp line of Kai’s jaw, a desperate attempt to anchor himself to reality.
Kai moans—soft again and broken.
When Nazar comes, it’s with a shuddering gasp that he barely manages to muffle against Kai’s shoulder. For a moment, neither of them moves, just breathing hard in the stillness.
“Fuck,” Kai says softly, his hand still on Nazar. “You came, but you’re still hard.”
“Yeah,” Nazar grunts. The single word is all he can manage.
Kai turns then, bracing his hands against the tiled wall. The invitation is unmistakable.
Nazar is on him in a second, his lips finding that sensitive spot on Kai’s neck again, his groin pressed against the curve of Kai’s ass, his hand fumbling to reach around and find Kai’s cock.
They move together, finding a rhythm, and Kai’s body is slick with a fine sheen of sweat, his quiet moans setting Nazar’s entire nervous system on fire.
Nazar pushes his hips forward instinctively, and even through layers of fabric, the contact makes them both gasp.
Kai arches back against him and lowers his head, his voice dropping to a low, desperate whisper. “Rykov. Come on. Fuck me.”
The words shatter something in Nazar’s chest.
A guttural “fuck” escapes him before he can stop it. His mind is screaming yes. He craves it, aches for it with an intensity that’s almost painful. He can imagine it with perfect clarity—sliding into that heat, stretching him, watching his face as he takes it, hearing the sounds he’d make.
But not here. Not like this. Not when their real first time together happens in a bathroom at a league event with hundreds of people just outside.
“No,” he says, and the word costs him everything. His voice is tight with the effort of restraint. “I’ll come to your hotel. I already found out where you’re staying.”
Kai shakes his head violently. “No. Fuck me now,” he pleads, and his voice is breaking. “I need it… now.”
Nazar curses, angry that he can’t see Kai’s face from this angle, angry at this entire impossible situation. He can’t lose control. Not now. Someone has to be the responsible one, and it’s clearly not going to be Kai.
“It’s too dangerous,” he says, his voice rough. “Too risky. Anyone could walk in. Your brother is probably looking for you right now.”
Kai is moaning now, louder, his hips moving in a frantic rhythm. They are a ticking time bomb, and half the hockey world is drinking champagne just on the other side of the door.
“Nazar, please,” Kai begs, his voice small and desperate in a way that cuts right through Nazar’s chest. “Take me. Now. I need it. Please. Y-you… you want it?”
The vulnerability in his voice strikes Nazar to the core. His hands are trembling. He wraps an arm around Kai’s chest, holding him tight, trying to ground them both.
The next words feel like they’re being physically torn out of him. “No, baby, no. It’s too risky. No.”
“Nazar, please… I-I… please, please, please—”
“No,” Nazar grits out, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw aches. This is the hardest thing he has ever done, and he’s played through broken ribs and a concussion. “No.”
Suddenly, Kai shoves back with a strength that surprises him, breaking his hold.
Nazar stumbles backward, catching himself against the sink.
When he reaches for him, trying to steady him or explain or something, Kai twists away, turning away and hiding his face.
“Don’t touch me,” he snaps, yanking his arm out of Nazar’s grasp. The direct aggression is shocking—a sudden, violent shift in the dynamic between them.
“Wait, Callahan, wait—” Nazar’s voice is hoarse, desperate. “Let me explain. I just want—”
But Kai is already moving, adjusting his clothes with shaking hands, his face a mask of fury and humiliation.
“Kai, please—”
Kai storms out of the bathroom without looking back, the door slamming shut behind him with enough force to rattle the mirror.
Nazar stands alone in the silent, sterile space, his reflection staring back at him in the harsh fluorescent lighting. He looks wrecked—hair disheveled, shirt untucked, pupils blown wide.
He’s aching and furious and utterly fucking lost.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. A text from Miller: Where’d you disappear to? Bachman’s about to give his speech.
Nazar stares at the message for a long moment, then types back: Be there in 5.
He straightens his clothes, runs water over his hands and face, tries to make himself look like someone who hasn’t just made the worst decision of his life.
When he returns to the ballroom, Kai is standing with his brother again, laughing at something Marcus is saying. His mask is perfect—not a crack showing. No one would ever know that five minutes ago he was falling apart in Nazar’s arms.