Chapter Three #2
Kilian snorted. As a kid, when his dad started coaching him, he did this whole spiel about how he’d be calling Kilian “Howie” at the rink and “Kilian” at home so no one would think he was playing favorites.
After about a practice and a half, no one would have thought so anyway, but the nickname stuck.
He couldn’t remember the last time Dad had called him “Kilian.”
“Howie.”
“I’m driving home right now, Dad. Was there something you wanted to talk about? Or is it okay if I hang up to concentrate?”
“Look, about your shot…”
Kilian drifted off while Dad gave him a series of tips he’d heard about twenty times from Coach Edwards over the last year and a half.
He knew what he had to do to improve his game.
But he couldn’t make it happen because he was a shit hockey player.
No surprises there. At least when Lindy scratched him, he could get drunk on the company’s dime while watching from the box.
Finally, when he reached the narrow, steep entrance to the parking garage under his building, Kilian interrupted. “Hey, Dad, this has been great. Thanks for all your help, but I’m about to lose signal. Talk soon, yeah?”
He hung up before he could hear the response.
“Red Wine Supernova” filled the car again as Kilian descended into the garage.
He jabbed the button to fold in the side mirrors just in time, then drove to the far corner, where he parked right next to the motorcycle that never came out from under its protective cover.
Finding this parking place was his first stroke of good luck all day.
Otherwise, he’d have to go for the dick move and park right on the line between two spots.
The garage had been built back when cars were much smaller, and while Kilian’s wasn’t huge, if he parked in a single spot, he’d spend so long trying to get out he’d be late to practice again tomorrow.
On his way up, he dumped a week’s worth of disgusting, damp workout gear he’d accumulated in the bottom of his bag into one of the washers in the laundry room, then dug a bunch of quarters out of his pocket.
He really needed a place with its own washer and dryer.
Breezy had been after him all year about moving.
And Kilian had tried—he had. He’d had a few viewings.
But the only part of town he’d be interested in moving to was the Castro.
Explaining that to the team had seemed like an insurmountable obstacle.
Now he knew they probably wouldn’t care, but Kilian’s energy for apartment hunting had waned.
In the elevator, Kilian checked his phone. His dad had sent three messages. The preview for the first started with, “And about your backcheck…”
He rolled his eyes and opened the thread with his sisters.
Kilian: SOS how do I get dad off my back a full year after moving out?
Jeannie: change your name and dye your hair
Josie: quit hockey and go into interpretive dance
Lacey: Are you okay? Do you need me to talk to him?
Kilian rolled his eyes. Lacey couldn’t help herself, always the big sister.
Kilian: I’m fine, chill. He’s just being super intense.
He tabbed over to Instagram. Twenty-eight new messages, Christ. Being mildly well-known in Canada was hard work. The elevator arrived on his floor, squeaking as it settled into place. He unlocked his door, pulling the handle toward him and jiggling the key until the lock gave.
A notification came in from his private chat with Josie.
Josie: seriously, are you okay? Does he know?
Kilian smiled despite himself. Josie, unlike the rest of the family, knew he was gay.
He’d told her after she pestered him for a solid hour over the summer while they were mucking out the stables so Mom could have a spa day.
He’d been texting his local hookup, an older guy called Sean, about meeting for drinks that night at a gay bar in town, and Josie had kept bugging him about it.
It had been a beautiful day, warm and sunny with a fresh breeze off the Pacific.
Being home at the same time as Josie, working outside with the animals, had reminded him so much of big chunks of his childhood, when she was the only one of his sisters who was around most of the time.
He’d ended up telling her everything as they lay flat on their backs in the sun-soaked meadow by the sheep paddock.
Kilian: Nah of c not. it’s always about hockey
Josie: he and mom would be okay, you know
Kilian wrinkled his nose. He didn’t want “okay.” He wanted them to be excited, jubilant, as thrilled as he was when he finally understood what he had missed about himself. But he wouldn’t get what he wanted. Dad knew how hockey was. He’d know how complicated it could get.
Kilian: I’ll tell them when there’s something to tell
He snorted at himself as he fell into the overstuffed couch.
It wasn’t like he was going to get a boyfriend anytime soon.
They couldn’t all be as lucky as Tom and Jax.
Queer hockey players didn’t grow on trees, and no one else would be down to keep a relationship secret indefinitely.
If Josie pushed him on it, he’d have to invent some shit instead of admitting he hooked up with strangers by night and torpedoed his few friendships by day.
Josie: k. If you need me to get dad to chill I can hard-launch my new boyfriend. He has tattoos.
A rush of fondness overwhelmed him. This was why Josie was his favorite.
She knew how to go with the flow. Of all of them, she reminded him most of their mom, even-tempered and hard to shock.
It made sense that she’d chosen to study agriculture and stick it out with the farm.
It would be hers someday, and Kilian was glad to know it would be in good hands.
Hands that wouldn’t make a fuss about him bankrolling any necessary renovations.
Provided he managed to get a decent contract when his ELC ran out, which became less likely by the day.
He sighed and rolled onto his stomach, heading back to Instagram to distract himself.
His notifications were nightmarish: influencers, people trying to get him to take sponsorship deals on shady products, more influencers. Kilian meant to close the app and start thinking about dinner when he found the one message he’d been waiting on for close to a year at the bottom of his screen.
ddenisov88: Did I miss my chance to repeat what we did last winter?
Kilian’s heart lurched up into his throat.
Instantly, his thumbs flew across the keyboard.
No we can repeat it anytime. He erased the message. Too desperate. I’ll get on the next flight to Chicago if you want to fuck me again. Way too desperate. And impractical. The Firecrackers would be in town in a few days.
howza68: depends, why do you ask?
There. That was sort of like playing it cool.
Why did Denisov reach out now? Sure, they’d met up after the game in Chicago briefly, when Kilian’s whole side was throbbing and sore from the hit Denisov had put on him.
But Kilian had tried his best to flirt for as long as he possibly could make one awful alcohol-free beer last, and Denisov could not have been less interested.
At the time, Kilian figured their one fuck probably hadn’t been as earthshaking for Denisov as it was for him. Which was okay. He had the memories of how it felt; he’d take that over letting a shitty repeat with a disinterested partner mar it.
But if Denisov was interested, Kilian would be ass up and begging for it instantly.
Why was there no response? Should Kilian have played it less cool? He refreshed the page. Fuck, Denisov had sent his message last night. Who knew when he might check again? Thrumming with restless energy, Kilian rolled to his feet and went to the kitchen to examine the fridge.
Wilted lettuce, a half-empty jar of mustard, some cheddar, and a week-old takeout container.
To Uber Eats it was.
Kilian opened his phone, but the Instagram icon distracted him from ordering food.
Still nothing new from Denisov. Bummer.
Kilian clicked on his profile and scrolled through his pictures: a clip from a game two nights ago, a shill post for a hockey gear brand, the team picture from the start of the season, an artfully photographed plate of food.
Not the most inspired social media presence he’d ever seen. He tapped on the clip.
In the video, Denisov, in full hockey gear with his stick held high, took a victory lap around Chicago’s Alliance Arena after getting first star of the match.
God, he was hot. His hockey especially, but also the rest of him—his height, how his dark hair always looked perfectly coiffed unless he’d just taken off his helmet.
Kilian scrolled down to make sure other people agreed and to reassure himself that his appreciation for Denisov’s helmet hair wasn’t just another embarrassing symptom of his dumb crush.
The first three comments contained variations on the fire emoji and the red sweating guy, so Kilian couldn’t be that blinded by lust.
The fourth comment read, “Chicago’s terrorist bombing the opposition!” followed by three bomb emojis.
“What the fuck?” Kilian asked the empty room.
He checked the responses to the comment but only found laughing emojis.
Further down, the same abhorrent sentiment repeated several times over. Jokes about forty virgins, ISIS, weapons of mass destruction… Why had no one moderated this? Did Denisov just read this shit, day in and day out?
With a frown, Kilian entered “Chicago Firecrackers” into the search bar and navigated to their official team page.
He selected a random post featuring Denisov and examined the comments.
He found some moderation, a few deleted comments, but plenty of “jokes” that weren’t funny at all when looked at from the point of view of the person they were about.
Dinner plans entirely forgotten, Kilian exited Instagram and headed for Google. He had research to do.