Chapter Nine #3
“Howie!” A voice cut through the thick awkwardness.
Kilian turned with a smile. “Ketchup! Good to see you, man.”
Ketchup slammed into him in a massive bear hug, impressive given he was the shortest of the three of them. “Awesome you’re here! I mean, shitty trade from your end, sucks they tossed you out, but awesome you’re here.”
“Thanks,” Kilian muttered into his shoulder.
Damir cleared his throat.
“Oh, yeah, his majesty over there was all ‘Howard will be hungry when he arrives. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to procure sustenance.’” Ketchup delivered the latter part a good octave deeper than his regular speaking voice, sounding serious and pissed off.
He thrust a wax-paper bag at Kilian. “Here you go.”
“Thanks, dude.” Kilian was starving. He’d considered grabbing something on the flight, but shelling out fifteen bucks for airplane food with his stomach still sensitive from alcohol and shock had seemed like a terrible idea.
He ripped open the bag. It contained an everything bagel with sun-dried tomatoes, chicken strips and cream cheese.
The bread was still warm, the cream cheese a bit gooey. He bit in with relish.
Damir grabbed the handle of his suitcase, ignoring Kilian’s wordless protest around his mouthful.
Then, Damir led all three of them to parking, stowed the bag in his car trunk, and slid into the driver’s seat.
With Ketchup up front next to Damir, chattering away about Damir’s apartment and the team and how they were all going to be roomies, Kilian let himself relax into his seat.
He took out his phone. Better to assess the damage now when neither of his new teammates (and roommates) could see him.
Three missed calls from Derek. Two emails from Grandpa, but the preview revealed no text body besides links to random articles about Kilian’s latest on-ice performance, and nothing about the trade.
Someone needed to take the internet away from Grandpa.
Nothing from his dad, so the news hadn’t broken yet.
Liam had sent twelve texts from the club last night, increasingly pissed off at him for ditching so early.
Oh well. They weren’t going to see each other again anyway.
Kilian also had a missed call and a message from an unknown number.
Hi Kilian. This is Olivia Starling. If you’re available for comment…
Kilian deleted the message without bothering to read the rest. The best thing about this trade was never having to talk to her again. She might be doing her job, but he found the way she did it invasive and annoying.
Sorry I didn’t tell you Lindy wasnt happy, Kilian texted Derek.
His phone rang immediately with a call. Kilian debated answering, but before he could, the car lurched as the motor stalled at a light turning green. Damir swore quietly and forced the car to start again as people behind them began to honk.
“This is what you get for driving a stick shift,” Ketchup said with a shake of his head. “I keep telling you it’s bad for your blood pressure.”
Fuck, Kilian had to sell his car. No way he could drive his little convertible around Chicago, not when it got so cold and icy. Besides, he could get traded again at any minute, so there was no point in shipping a car out here.
Maybe Damir would let him drive the big SUV someday. Kilian missed driving stick.
He looked down at his phone again. Derek had hung up and left another message.
Ignoring it for now, Kilian scrolled down his texts far enough to find the number he was looking for, the number he should have texted weeks ago, the number he would probably have no reason to text again in the near future.
Hey breezy, he wrote, then paused, thumbs in the air.
He bit his lip, considering, before taking a deep breath and typing out the rest. Sorry to ask this of you.
I know we haven’t hung out much lately, but I’m gonna need someone to go through my apartment and ship me all my stuff.
as lame as it sounds after everything, I don’t trust anyone else to do it.
You can get my key from Phil. Sorry, and thank you.
He sent the message off before he could think about it too hard and then added, Also pls don’t mention the clothes in the bottom dresser drawer to anyone ever.
Once he’d painstakingly tapped out all the letters, easily five times more than he’d ever texted at once, he put his phone away again and turned to the window.
Ketchup had stopped talking at some point, so the hum of the motor, the low buzz of the radio, and Damir’s occasional cursing when he hit a patch of traffic formed a comfortable soundtrack to Kilian’s first view of the city.
Tall high-rises spread out on one side of the car, with the dead, brown earth of the park by the lake on the other.
At least there were fewer hills than in San Francisco.
The SUV pulled up to the curb outside one of the big buildings with an imposingly modern glass front.
Damir twisted around to look at Kilian. “Are you ready?”
Kilian took an unsteady breath. “Yeah.”