Chapter Five
Olivia Starling [off-screen]: Howie, can you tell us what just happened at the net?
Kilian: I tried to block Denisov’s shot. And I did, but I got too far into the crease, took away Dmitriyev’s space, and then he couldn’t do his job properly. My fault, dumb play. I’m not a D-man.
Starling: Any update on how Dmitriyev is doing and whether he’ll be able to rejoin the game?
Kilian: No.
Top comments:
sealions4lyfe: yikes gotta hope dmitriyev gets better soon that did not look good
amazetti: Howie shouldn’t blame himself, he should blame Denisov for a literal fucking assassination attempt on our goalie
firecrackers_spark: Howard is the only guy in the league who has spoken up for Denny. Hope this doesn’t ruin it.
(From “Kilian Howard Intermission Interview,” Firecrackers @ Sea Lions, 11/05/2025)
Kilian paced around his kitchen.
What a nightmare of a game.
He opened Instagram. The last messages between him and Denisov consisted of him sending his address and Denisov’s promise to catch an Uber over after the game ended. He’d declined Kilian’s offer to drive him, saying it would be too obvious, and he was probably right.
On the other hand, did discretion matter?
Kilian was on The Gay Team. If someone gave him shit for sleeping with a player on a rival team, Kilian would be happy to point out to Tom and Jax how much stupider it was to fuck a coworker.
He didn’t actually care about their relationship affecting team dynamics or whatever.
He’d done more damage to those with his teenage hissy fit than they ever would.
But since Kilian had no idea how to get out of the rut he’d driven himself into, he might as well put fuel on the fire.
Should he write again to see if Denisov was still coming?
Christ, of course Denisov wasn’t coming. Kilian had spent the whole game getting in his face and chirping him with every idiot thing he could think of because Lindy had asked him to. Denisov probably never wanted to see him again.
It hadn’t even won them the game. Instead, they’d lost their starting goalie, probably indefinitely, and it was all Kilian’s fault. Good thing he already wasn’t talking to anyone, or they might yell at him. Kilian hated getting yelled at.
Chose the wrong career path, he thought, not for the first time.
The buzzer went off, and Kilian nearly jumped out of his skin.
He pressed the button to let Denisov in.
It had to be Denisov. No one else had said they were coming over.
But why would Denisov still bother after that shitshow of a game?
After how Kilian had played? He forced the lock open, putting the door on the lean before going back to the kitchen.
Shit, what could he offer? Denisov wouldn’t want cheap vodka or day-old takeout.
He had some cream soda he used as a mixer in the vegetable drawer. Maybe Denisov liked cream soda?
He should have gone shopping. There was a Russian specialty store somewhere in the South of Market area. Kilian had googled it when he pulled Abrahamov for the team Secret Santa and had been meaning to go.
Not that Denisov was here for tea and chitchat. He was here to fuck Kilian up, and it would be better for them both if Kilian didn’t try to make it something it wasn’t.
The door creaked open. Kilian ought to pick up some WD-40 and get his toolbox out of the hall closet to fix the hinges and the tricky lock. But he’d planned on moving out soon, and he didn’t have any friends to invite over anymore.
“Howard?”
There he was. In Kilian’s apartment, Russian accent in his deep voice, heavy footfalls on the cheap linoleum floor. He actually came.
“In here,” Kilian called and shut the fridge door. “Do you want some soda? Or a sports drink? I don’t really have any food, but—”
“I was under the impression I came here to suck your cock, not have dinner.”
Despite having had the same thought minutes ago, Kilian opened his mouth to say something about how a little courtesy never hurt anyone. Before he could, Denisov crossed the threshold and pushed into his personal space, caging Kilian up against the counter.
“Unless you don’t want me to.”
“I want you to.” Had Kilian’s voice always been so high? Or was it the contrast to Denisov’s deep rumble making it sound that way? He loved how Denisov made him feel—small and penned in.
“Good.”
Denisov kissed him then, and it blew every kiss Kilian had had since their hotel room hookup out of the water.
One big hand cradled the base of Kilian’s skull while the other grasped his hip firmly.
His lips were insistent, his body immovable, and Kilian could do nothing but give himself up to it.
Kilian’s eyes fluttered closed, his mouth dropped open, and, oh, there was Denisov’s tongue moving slick and hot against his own.
Dimly, Kilian knew he ought to do something. Touch Denisov, maybe. Help him get undressed. But it was all Kilian could do to return the kiss and clutch at the countertop.
For a blissful moment, he didn’t think of the mess he’d made of the game or the mess he’d made of the team, of his friendships with Tom and Jax and Luca and Breezy.
Of course, the second Kilian realized how nice it was to forget, it all came screaming back, and he tensed up out of the pleasant haze Denisov had put him in.
“What?” Denisov asked against his lips.
“You’re not mad?”
Denisov pulled away, still caging Kilian in but no longer pressing their bodies together. “Why would I be mad?”
“I was such a dick during the game. I kept chirping you—”
“You told me my hair looks like shit. It does. I haven’t been to see my barber since the season started.”
“But—”
“Howard, who was dogging whom in the first period?”
“Heh. Dogging.”
Denisov’s grip on Kilian’s hips went tight, and he pushed himself into Kilian’s space. “Howard.”
“You were,” Kilian admitted.
“And who broke your goalie?”
“I was in the crease.”
“I was the one shooting pucks at him.”
Kilian sighed and knocked his head against Denisov’s shoulder. “Okay.”
“I’m not mad. Are you?”
“No, of course not.”
Denisov kissed him again, sharp and hard like the edges of his smile. “Good. I believe we had plans.”
Then he sank to his knees right there on the kitchen floor.
God, Kilian hadn’t mopped it a single time since moving in. He also hadn’t done any cooking, so it couldn’t be too gross, but—
His thoughts were rudely interrupted by Denisov opening Kilian’s pants, tugging them roughly down around his ankles along with his boxers, and wrapping his plump, plush lips around Kilian’s cock.
“Oh, fuck,” Kilian said, half shock and half pleasure.
Denisov gave no quarter. He sank down and down and down on Kilian’s dick until his nose was in the pubic hair at the base and his throat fluttered around the head. His beard scratched against the sensitive skin of Kilian’s thighs. The breath raced out of Kilian’s lungs in short, shocky bursts.
Before this, Kilian had been vaguely aroused in the way he usually was when the possibility of having sex at some point soon appeared on the horizon. Having Denisov’s mouth on him drove him from zero to sixty in seconds, hard and aching so fast he got dizzy with it.
Denisov either didn’t have a gag reflex or he didn’t care when it was triggered because his throat kept clenching around the head of Kilian’s dick.
Kilian’s balls drew up. The blood rushed in his ears.
Spit dripped from Denisov’s lips and ran down Kilian’s shaft.
“Oh God,” Kilian moaned. “You gotta slow down.”
Around his mouthful, Denisov managed to snort derisively.
He did not slow down.
Kilian came with a strangled groan, pulsing right down Denisov’s throat. His balls ached with the suddenness of it all, the rapid progression from arousal to erection to orgasm. It was too fast, too good, too much.
One final sharp pulse of pleasure left him doubled over, panting for breath.
Denisov pulled off and wiped his hand across his mouth.
He sat back on his haunches, then pushed to his feet in one smooth gliding motion.
The power in those quads mesmerized Kilian.
Unaware of the effect he had—or maybe aware and interested in displaying his glutes as well as his quads—Denisov turned to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out two sports drinks.
“Your come tastes awful. You need to hydrate.”
Kilian, who had barely managed to right himself, still processing the drive-by blow job, caught the purple drink Denisov threw at him with one hand, then dropped it and had to pick it up again.
“Uh. Thanks?” he tried. “No, wait, hey, that was rude.”
“Live with it.”
Denisov cracked his own drink and downed half of it in two long gulps. With nothing better to do, Kilian followed suit.
Grimacing, Denisov finished the bottle and set it on the counter. “Seriously, when was the last time you drank anything?”
Kilian vaguely remembered having a mouthful here and there between shifts during the game. He shrugged and, to avoid looking at Denisov, busied himself pulling up his pants.
“You should know better. Finish your drink.”
Kilian did as he was told and then set the empty bottle beside Denisov’s. “I’m not incompetent, you know.”
“Did I say you were?”
“No, but…”
“But?”
But everyone on the team acted as if Kilian was a child, too young to know what was in his own interest, let alone stand up for it.
But Kilian’s family did the same, with his dad calling him up all the time to give unasked-for hockey tips and his sisters trying to take care of him as well.
But no one seemed to think Kilian could be trusted to behave like the adult he was, and from Denisov, it would sting even more.
“I don’t have to think you’re incompetent to take care of you,” Denisov said matter-of-factly.
Kilian swallowed heavily. The words were too close to everything he wanted. He raised his eyebrows and pasted on a flirty smile, the kind he used when he went clubbing and wanted to get fucked. “Are you gonna?”