Chapter 25 Kai
The Super Bowl parties are a different breed of hell, but at least it’s a change of scenery.
Here, in the glitzy, sun-drenched landscape of Los Angeles, Kai is not a hockey pariah.
He’s merely a niche curiosity—a strange Canadian guy who occasionally appears on ESPN highlights. The distinction is refreshing. Nobody here cares about the Wardens’ losing streak.
They just know he’s a famous athlete, and in LA, that’s currency enough to get you invited to parties in mansions that cost more than some small countries.
The party is at some tech billionaire’s house in the Hollywood Hills and every view is meticulously engineered for Instagram.
Kai leans into his role as the exotic hockey player, making wry, self-deprecating jokes to hulking football players who treat him with the particular brand of respect athletes show each other across sports.
“Man, I cannot imagine playing on ice,” a cornerback whose arms are the size of Kai’s entire torso says, shaking his head. “Like, the balance alone. I’d be on my ass every thirty seconds.”
“You get used to it,” Kai says, taking a sip of champagne — his third glass, not that anyone’s counting. “Though I’d probably die if I had to take one of your hits without pads thick enough to stop a car.”
“Fair trade-off.” The cornerback grins. “Your sport’s colder though. How do you even breathe right in those arenas?”
“Poorly,” Kai admits. “Very poorly. Half the game is just remembering to inhale.”
Another player — a wide receiver Kai vaguely recognizes — leans in. “Yo, you guys get like five minutes to beat the shit out of each other and then just go sit in a penalty box? Like timeout for adults?”
“Five minutes for fighting, yeah. Two minutes if you’re just being an asshole.” Kai smiles. “Very civilized. We have rules about our violence.”
“That’s wild. In our sport you get ejected and probably fined six figures.”
“Well, rugby’s a gentleman’s game played by barbarians. Football’s a barbarian’s game played by gentlemen. And hockey’s just a barbarian game played by barbarians. Or something like that.”
The wide receiver laughs. “I like this guy. You’re funny for someone who voluntarily plays a sport where you can lose teeth.”
“Key word: can. I still have all mine. Mostly because I’m good at not getting hit.”
“The Mayweather approach. Respect.”
He’s expertly deflecting a question about salary cap structures from a quarterback when he needs air.
The house is crowded, the music too loud, and everyone is talking over each other in that LA way where nobody actually listens but everyone performs conversation.
He steps out onto the main terrace for a moment of peace.
And sees him.
Rykov.
He’s talking to a linebacker, looking impossibly, unfairly good in a dark button-down shirt that fits him like it was made by someone who understood exactly how fabric should drape over shoulders that size.
A wave of pure annoyance washes over Kai so intense it’s almost physical.
What the fuck is Rykov doing here? At a Super Bowl party. In Los Angeles. At the exact same party Kai is attending.
It’s a high-profile, famous party, but Rykov isn’t one for parties.
This can’t be a coincidence. The universe isn’t that cruel. Or maybe it is. Maybe this is Kai’s personal hell—doomed to run into Nazar Rykov at every event, in every city, for the rest of his life.
It feels like a targeted haunting.
Like Rykov has made it his personal mission to appear in every corner of Kai’s existence and systematically ruin it.
Kai retreats before Rykov can spot him. He navigates through the crowd with practiced efficiency, smiling and nodding at people whose names he doesn’t remember, until he finds a smaller, uncovered terrace on the opposite side of the sprawling mansion.
It’s colder here.
The city sprawls beneath him, a carpet of lights stretching to the dark horizon.
Kai pulls out a cigarette—a bad habit he only indulges in when he’s particularly stressed or particularly drunk. Currently he’s both.
He lights it with a match. The small flame flickers in the wind.
He takes a deep drag, feeling the burn in his lungs, and tries not to think about the fact that Nazar Rykov is approximately two hundred feet away.
Footsteps behind him. Heavy. Familiar.
He doesn’t have to look to know who it is.
Rykov appears at the edge of the terrace.
He walks over with that deliberate stride he has—like he owns every space he enters— and without asking permission, takes the cigarette from between Kai’s fingers.
He takes a drag, his eyes never leaving Kai’s face.
“Don’t tell me,” Kai says, his voice dripping with venom and exhaustion, “that you came all the way to Los Angeles just to make my life more miserable. Because if that’s your hobby now, I have to say, it’s working spectacularly.”
A muscle jumps in Rykov’s jaw. “Is that what I’m doing? Making you miserable?”
“Don’t suddenly play the philosopher, Rykov.” Kai holds out his hand. “Give me back my cigarette.”
“Take it.”
Kai steps forward. Rykov takes a step back, and another, until his back is against the stone railing of the terrace.
He’s still somehow the most dominant presence on the patio even in retreat, which is infuriating.
Kai snatches the cigarette back and takes a long, slow drag, refusing to break eye contact. Rykov just watches him, his hands shoved in his pockets, his expression unreadable in that way that makes Kai want to scream.
The silence stretches.
Finally, Kai can’t take it anymore.
“If you came here for something specific,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, “you’ll only get it right here. In front of half a dozen NFL players with phone cameras. How does that sound to you?”
Rykov’s face darkens. He knows exactly what Kai is implying. Let’s see you risk your precious, alpha-male image for a quick blowjob in public. Let’s see you prove you want me that badly.
Kai knows he never will.
“I know what you’re doing,” Rykov says, his voice a low growl.
“Wow, congratulations on engaging in that rare activity. Thinking. And what is it you think I’m doing?”
“It’s not going to go the way you think it is.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’ve started talking in riddles. I think I preferred when you were just a silent, brooding troglodyte with communication skills limited to grunts and the occasional sentence fragment.”
Rykov leans in suddenly—so fast and fluid that Kai doesn’t have time to react. He’s suddenly in Kai’s space, his lips brushing against Kai’s ear, his breath warm and shocking.
Kai’s own breath catches. This is too risky. This is insane. They’re at a party full of professional athletes and media people.
“You liked the way I talked when you had my cock in your mouth,” Rykov whispers, his voice a dark, intimate rumble that goes straight to Kai’s groin despite his brain screaming warnings. “I’m sure you liked it then.”
He presses his lips harder against Kai’s ear, and Kai can feel his pulse hammering.
“Now it’s going to be my way. In three minutes, you’re going downstairs to the second floor. First men’s bathroom. And you’re going to—”
“Fuck you,” Kai says, but the words come out breathy and weak.
“And yes,” Rykov murmurs, pulling back just enough that Kai can see his dark eyes. “You’re right. I came here just for you.”
He steps away then, melting back into the party like he was never there.
Leaving Kai trembling on the cold, dark terrace.
For approximately thirty seconds, Kai considers it.
Part of him—the part that’s had three glasses of champagne and hasn’t slept properly in weeks—wants to go. Wants to follow those instructions, wants to fall back into the familiar pattern of self-destruction and desperate need.
But a larger part—the part that still has some self-preservation instinct left—recognizes this for what it is.
The same cycle. The same dynamic. Rykov issuing commands. Kai following them. And then what? Another refusal? Another public confrontation? Another grandmother’s doorstep?
Kai has sworn to himself: no more. No more of this self-destructive madness.
So he stays on the terrace. Finishes his cigarette. Lets the three-minute deadline pass.
Then he goes back inside briefly, only to leave this party entirely and head to another one.
* * *
Two hours later, the Uber ride back to his rental bungalow after Kai left the second party in Venice takes forty minutes, crawling through LA traffic.
He spends the entire time staring out the window, his phone in his hand, ignoring the texts that start coming through.
Unknown Number: where are you?
Unknown Number: Kai.
Unknown Number: answer me.
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even save the number, though he knows exactly who it is.
The bungalow is a small place near the beach.
Kai hates it, but it’s only for two days and it’s private.
The driver drops him off on the quiet residential street. It’s late—past midnight—and the neighborhood is silent except for the distant sound of waves.
Kai is halfway to his front door when he sees him.
A dark figure sitting on the low garden wall across the street, illuminated by a single streetlamp.
A baseball cap pulled low over his face, but there’s no mistaking the sheer size of him, the coiled stillness of his posture.
Rykov found him. Found his rental address somehow. And he’s been waiting.
One of the biggest stars in the league, sitting on a wall in Venice Beach in the middle of the night like some kind of stalker from a Lifetime movie.
Kai stands frozen on the sidewalk, key in hand.