Chapter 3
Was he relief at the thought of seeing her again?
Or did he think of Callum?
Did he grieve for
them
the same way Callum was grieving right now?
And then, the worst thought, the one that made the breath stutter in his chest despite the counting:
What if the last thing he ever felt was alone?
They'd spent ten years being so careful, so clever.
Ten years of hidden touches and secret codes, building a love in the shadows because the light felt too dangerous. Ten years too proud and too scared to let each other fully in. Ten years where Kirill had carried that kind, lonely heart of his all by himself, and Callum—who knew what it was to feel alone in a crowded room—had sworn that he would spend the rest of his life making sure Kirill never felt that way again.
Did he fail?
He'd have to live in a world where Kirill Nazarov wasn't.
A world where that laugh, that specific, rolling chuckle that felt like victory, simply didn't exist anymore.
He'd have to play hockey on the same ice Kirill had once owned, in a league that had moved on, while Callum's own life fractured into a permanent Before and After.
Callum was drowning in a grief that didn't even happened yet.
Right there in the back seat of Duncan's rental car, he was mourning the man who was his equal, his opposite, his home.
But he was also mourning himself, the Callum Sterling who had been whole for one brief, shining moment, who would now shatter beyond any system's ability to reboot.
Callum couldn't breathe.
The twenty-minute drive felt like an entire lifetime.
An entire alternate lifetime where the worst had already happened, playing on a silent, torturous loop in the prison of Callum's skull.
An entire lifetime of not knowing if the last words they'd exchanged would be their last.
The car hadn't fully stopped before Callum was out, the door swinging shut on Duncan's "Callum!
Wait!" He moved across the parking lot asphalt with a gait that wasn't quite a run but was miles from a walk.
The automatic doors hissed open, releasing a gust of air that smelled of industrial cleaner and human fear.
The lobby was a cathedral of terrible possibilities, too bright and humming with a low-grade dread.
His heart was a frantic bird trapped in his throat.
Desperation was a cold fire in his veins, sharpening his focus to a single point.
He was vaguely aware of his friends falling into step behind him, a familiar defensive formation, but they were just shadows in his peripheral vision.
He beeline for the main reception desk, the nurse behind it looked up, her face a mask of professional neutrality.
Callum didn't bother with preamble as he leaned forward, his knuckles white where they pressed against the cool laminate.
"Kirill Nazarov.
I'm here for Kirill Nazarov.
Where is he?" His voice was too tight, too demanding, stripped of all his usual nervous politeness.
He was ready to fight.
He'd argue, he'd plead, he'd call in every favor, he'd
scream
if he had to.
No one was keeping him from Kirill.
Too deep in his own panicked tunnel vision, he didn't register the sharp, simultaneous inhales from Duncan and Ty standing just behind his shoulders.
The nurse's fingers tapped across her keyboard.
She glanced from him to her screen, and something in her demeanor shifted, softened with a dawning recognition.
"Your name, sir?" Was it genuine ignorance, or was she giving the very famous Captain of the Bayview Sentinels—who was visibly,
publicly
on the verge of tears frantically asking for the welfare of the Lockwood Stallions' star winger— a discreet way to state his business?
Callum couldn't find in himself to really care at the moment.
She nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of confirmation.
"Mr.
Sterling.
We were about to call the number on file.
You're listed as Mr. Nazarov's primary emergency contact."
For a split second, the panic receded, washed over by a wave of staggering shock.
What.
Kirill had put him down at his emergency contact.
He'd put
Not an agent, not a manager from the Stallions organization.
Him.
But he surprise was immediately obliterated by the nurse's next words.
"He's been moved from the emergency room to a private one for the night.
Room 418, fourth floor.
He's stable, and awake.
You can go up."
The relief was so violent it was dizzying.
The iron band around his chest loosened just enough for him to drag in a full, shuddering breath and dragged himself to the elevators.
Callum stepped inside, jamming the button for the fourth floor with more force than necessary.
Duncan and Ty followed, their movements automatic, like teammates following their captain into a box during a line brawl.
The doors closed, sealing the three of them into a tense, humming cube.
The mirror wall showed the identical expressions of profound, earth-shattering bewilderment plastered on his friends faces.
Ty's eyes were wide, darting from Callum to Duncan, who's mouth was slightly open, the shock rapidly being overtaken by a dawning, profound comprehension.
But even through their confusion and curiosity, they stood there, two silent, baffled sentinels around their visibly shattered friend.
The elevator chimed.
The doors slid open and Callum sprint to the room where the love of his life was hopefully just resting now.