Chapter Ten
“Okay, so it’s only been a week, and he’s only played in two games, but I am willing to eat my words about Kilian Howard.
I know I was first in line to call him a draft bust and the Henderson trade a huge misstep for the Firecrackers organization, but fellas, I think I was wrong.
Four points in two games! Whatever the Sea Lions were doing with him, they clearly hadn’t tapped into his full potential. ”
Top comments:
firecrackers_spark: Eh. I’m withholding judgment. Anyone playing on Denny’s power play unit gets an artificial stat boost
lissums: tbh his stats with the Sea Lions weren’t as bad as people say when you factor in the absolute shitshow that was the Sea Lions’ d-corps last season
seelionssaylions: it’s hard to say for sure but some folks on the r/sfsealions’ subreddit have speculated Howard in particular was being sabotaged by folks behind the betting scandal with healthy scratches etc.
If true, no wonder a change of scenery is doing him some good.
If not, happy to see him doing well in Chicago anyway
(From “Was Howard always this good?” posted to r/chicago_firecrackers on 12/08/2025)
“There we go, boys!” Lissy crowded into Damir’s stall, elbowing him out of the way to pull Kilian into a noogie and rub his fist all over Kilian’s curls.
Damir suppressed the urge to pick Lissy up and move him out of their space, in no small part because no one ought to be messing with Kilian’s hair. He’d seen how many bottles of product Kilian had for it.
But Kilian laughed, lapping up the attention and praise.
Of course he did. Even before he’d known any of the interesting things about Kilian, such as his penchant for non sequiturs post-phone sex or his desire to be a role model, Damir had known he craved affirmation.
“Three straight wins! This calls for celebration!” Lissy cried, sauntering to the center of the room. He was naked, as was his wont in the locker room, leaving his surprisingly hairy ass on display.
Well, no, not surprisingly. What with his long, thick, wavy hair and his furry chest, it didn’t shock Damir that his ass followed suit. What surprised him, even after spending his whole life in locker rooms, was how little it bothered Lissy to be naked and on full display to the entire team.
“The bar and grill?” Rocky rumbled.
“Psh.” Lissy waved him off. “Howie is young. He needs excitement, adventure, not a steakhouse where they play hockey on TV.”
Kilian shrugged on his light blue shirt with a poorly hidden smile.
Damir could have sworn he’d destroyed that shirt, pulled off all the buttons and left it in a crumpled heap on the floor of Kilian’s shitty one-bedroom apartment.
And yet here it was again, washing out his pale skin and stretching too tight across his shoulders.
If Lissy got his way and took the team out to celebrate, Damir could just picture Kilian with the sleeves rolled up, top button open, revealing the tender skin over his clavicle. He’d be soaked in sweat, drunk off his ass, and dancing. Damir wanted to see it with a hunger he could barely conceal.
Fortunately, Damir had good reasons to sabotage Lissy’s planned celebration.
“You all remember we have a 6:00 a.m. flight tomorrow, right?”
“Boo!” Ketchup shouted far too close to Damir’s ear. “It’s the fun police!”
Lissy sighed theatrically. “Denny, why must you intrude with your thoughts of reality and logistics?”
Damir grinned, showing his teeth. “I like winning. I would prefer to keep doing it.”
“The man makes a point.” Lissy clapped him on the back. “All right, celebrating Howie is delayed until further notice due to frankly draconian scheduling.” He glared in the direction of the coaches’ office as if they had anything to do with the schedule. “But Howie, good work. Keep it up.”
Kilian glowed.
On the way home, Ketchup regaled him with stories about epic nights out, hot girls he’d “wheeled,” and all the times Lissy had very nearly gotten them thrown out of some establishment or other.
Kilian lapped it up with wide eyes and enthusiastic goading to hear more.
“That is amazing,” he said.
Damir eyed him warily in the rearview mirror. “Which part?”
“The Sea Lions would never all party together. Maybe, like, four of us hit the clubs together every couple months, but the whole team? Or even most of it? Nope.”
“Can’t picture Tom Crowler dancing,” Damir agreed.
Kilian barked out a laugh. “No, Tom’s, uh…not into going out. More of a homebody.”
“But you had a bunch of young guys, didn’t you? Bet Mazetti cleans up. What girl isn’t going home with him?” Ketchup said it in tones of jealousy, as if he hadn’t described his own extensive hookup history mere minutes ago.
“Luca does well for himself.” Kilian scoffed, looking out the window. “But he doesn’t need a nightclub. He could meet a girl at the airport and take her home. I think he got sick of it though. He hasn’t been doing much tail-chasing this year.”
“Sick of hooking up?” Ketchup’s tone indicated this was an unimaginable fate.
“It only takes one venereal disease to put a man off it forever,” Damir intoned, though he wasn’t sure that was true. Rocky had had two so far, and it hadn’t slowed him down any.
Ketchup twisted in the passenger seat to look at Damir, pushing his seatbelt down so far as to be useless. “Is that what happened to you?”
Kilian laughed instantly and loudly.
Ketchup contorted himself further to look at the back seat. “What?”
“Look at him. He could get whoever he wanted with or without an STD.”
Damir’s eyebrows shot up before he could school his facial expression into neutrality.
He drew to a halt at a red light and peeked into the mirror again.
Kilian had gone blotchy red all up his neck and into his cheeks, too cute for his own good.
Damir should probably work up some consternation at how bad Kilian was at pretending to be straight, especially given it implicated him as well.
But after Kilian’s summary rejection of continuing their…
whatever, now they were on the same team, hearing his continued attraction soothed Damir’s bruised ego.
Heedless of what Kilian had admitted, Ketchup guffawed. “Hear that, bro? Howie thinks you can score even with your diseased dick.”
“It’s not diseased,” Damir muttered, knowing it was futile as he said it.
“I’m picturing boils. Big, pus-filled boils. Think you can get a girl to suck the pus right out—”
“Gross.” Kilian wrinkled his nose. “Please stop.”
“Bet she’d be like, oh, Denny, I want your pus, give it to me—”
The light turned green. Damir stalled out and cursed as the driver behind him honked loudly while he restarted the motor.
Ketchup laughed.
“I won’t cook you dinner if you keep going.”
That shut him right up.
“I forgot you cook,” Kilian said.
Damir grunted instead of reminding Kilian he had once watched as Damir prepped an entire meal while edging him at the same time. Ketchup might be as oblivious as they came, but he’d notice something if Damir reminded Kilian of that incident.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” Ketchup asked. “And can it be something with pasta?”
“You want the first meal I cook for Kilian to be the thing you can eat literally every day at the practice rink?” Damir scoffed.
The week had been too crowded with practice and games to show off his cooking skills.
A small part of him was insulted enough by Kilian’s sex embargo that he’d avoided cooking on Friday, claiming his need to go to the mosque as an excuse.
Damir could admit he was being childish, and since today’s game had been a matinee, he had plenty of time and no excuses.
Also, he owed Kilian for canceling a fun night out using reason and logic.
“Absolutely not. We’re having chebureki. ”
“Chebu what now?”
“Dough with meat in it.” The descriptor covered a good 70 percent of Damir’s favorite Tatar foods. He rarely made them because, while delicious, they were not on the meal plan. Today was a special occasion.
He’d never cooked for a lover before.
Not that Kilian was his lover.
But he’d wanted to cook for him last time, after their tryst in Kilian’s apartment.
He’d been cookblocked by Kilian’s utter lack of supplies.
This was a remedial meal. Or a welcome to Chicago.
Or something. Damir could cook whatever he wanted for whomever he wanted, and they could all shut up and be thankful for it.
He was distracted enough by his thoughts to stall out the motor twice while entering the apartment building garage, meaning Ketchup once again began extolling the virtues of automatic transmissions.
Fortunately, Kilian gamely chose to debate him on the topic, letting Damir concentrate on parking.
In all honesty, he sided with Ketchup. An automatic would be much better for Damir’s needs, but he’d never driven one before, and it hadn’t occurred to him when car shopping.
Admitting as much meant Ketchup would never let him live it down.
So Damir was satisfied to let Kilian argue in favor of stick shifts until they got to the apartment, at which point Ketchup disappeared into his room, citing a need to check in on his gaming friend.
Kilian, on the other hand, followed Damir to the kitchen. He slid into place on one of the stools behind the kitchen island and grimaced at his phone before laying it face down on the countertop.
“Who’s calling?”
“Beat reporter from San Francisco. I think she wants to hear dirt about the trade or something.” Kilian shrugged uncomfortably. “At least I don’t have to talk to her anymore. I’m gonna have to actually call my agent back someday though. That’s gonna suck.”
Damir frowned. If Kilian’s agent wasn’t any good, he could get a different one. He’d been traded against his will with no notice. The agent ought to be in deep shit. He opened his mouth to say as much, but Kilian interrupted.
“Can I help?”
Damir eyed him warily. “Do you cook?”
“Um. I eat?”
“You can sit there and keep me company.”
“Deal.”