Chapter Eighteen #2
Kilian slipped down the hall to his own room to get dressed, and Damir took a seat on one of the chairs by the window. He picked up his phone, turned it over in his hands a few times, and then he opened his contacts and made the call.
“It’s not Thursday today either,” his mother said by way of greeting.
“Yes,” Damir agreed.
“Did you know Sofiya down the hall cleans at your agent’s office?”
Damir hadn’t.
“It might be a good idea to find an agent in America,” his mother told him. “If you’re staying.”
“I’m sure American agents gossip as well,” Damir said in lieu of a response to the question she hadn’t asked.
“So you are staying, then,” his mother said. It still wasn’t a question except in all the ways it was.
“I think it’s better I do,” Damir told her. “I wish… I should have come home once more, first, but things change so fast.”
A rusty laugh left her throat, robust and sad all at once. “Try having children sometime and tell me how you feel then.”
Damir laughed as well and didn’t think about children, the possibility of them suddenly existent in a way it never had been before. “Yes, well.”
“Well.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
She made a dismissive sound, guttural and sharp. “I want what is best for you.”
He nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “Could I…is it all right if I still call on Thursdays?”
“Damyasha.” There was such chiding hidden in her voice that he felt stupid for asking.
“Right. Yes. Maybe someday you could visit?”
“That would be nice,” Mama said. “Not right now, I think. But maybe someday. And maybe some other day, you can bring your boy here.”
Emotion closed Damir’s throat. “He would love seeing Moscow.”
“Good. He looks like a nice boy.”
Damir wanted to tell her about Kilian’s earnest, fumbling desire to care for him and his surprising competence in the driver’s seat or with a toolbox.
He wanted to tell her how much Kilian loved figure skating, how hard he tried in the face of Valeria’s disdain, how teasing and prodding on the ice only encouraged his joy in the game, how he asked questions about Damir and his life and listened, really listened, to the answers.
He wanted to tell her he’d started to pray again because the emotion Kilian awoke in him reminded him the world was a beautiful place he could be a part of without sacrificing any aspect of himself.
“He is,” he told Mama.
“I’m glad.”
He swallowed hard, then asked, “Is Baba there?”
To her credit, she didn’t so much as pause before saying, “Yes, of course. Would you like to speak to him?”
Damir nodded and then realized she couldn’t see it. He tried to speak but found his throat too dry. Fortunately, Mama knew him too well because there was rustling on the other end of the line and then:
“I hear you are not coming home to us.”
He’d never heard Baba’s voice on the phone before. He sounded both so familiar and so far away, the voice Damir knew so well but had never brought to America with him.
“Yes.” Damir ran his thumb across one of the whorls on the arm of the chair. “I—” he began, and then cleared his throat. “I’ve thought about it a lot. Prayed about it.”
Baba gave an interested hum.
“Praying… It helped me make a choice. Do you think that’s…right?”
The richness of Baba’s laugh warmed his soul. “I certainly don’t pray because I think Allah will answer me one day. If it gives you peace of mind, that is all we can ask for.”
“Even though…”
“Son, you do know I’m not an Imam or a theologian, right?”
“You’re my father though.”
Baba remained silent for so long Damir would have been worried if he hadn’t known his father his whole life and learned from a very young age the way he chose his words like the best praline from the chocolate box, deliberating with care.
“I don’t know that it’s a father’s place to judge how his grown son lives his life.
Not because I think anything about you is wrong, Damyasha, but because you know your own mind and heart better than I ever could, and I trust you to make your own choices.
If religion can help you with that, it makes me happy since it’s one of the few things we share. ”
After they hung up, Damir stared out the window at the pink-purple-beige of dawn in Los Angeles until disgust at the air pollution won out over the desire to cry. Then, he put on his clothes and went downstairs for breakfast.
He had plenty of time to make reservations for dinner and find a store for what he wanted before the team left for their flight.
It was a short trip and easily spent listening to over-the-top tales about last night’s debauchery.
Kilian was hailed as a miracle worker by both rookies for his abilities as a wingman, and even Rocky had managed to score a phone number.
“Hey, man, you okay?” Ketchup asked Damir, sliding into the seat next to him while Kilian loitered in the aisle, asking for more information about Matheson’s night for reasons Damir could not fathom.
“Fine,” Damir said.
Ketchup squinted at him. “You sure? You were pretty pissed last night.”
“Yes. I think it is stupid for you to—” Damir squinted up at the area of the plane where the coaches sat. “—do what you were doing last night, but it isn’t my decision.”
“And you and Howie are cool?”
Damir tried to fight it, but the smile at the mention of Kilian was unavoidable. “Yes. We’re good.”
Ketchup drew away with a concerned frown. “Stop making that expression. It’s freaky.”
“You’re a child. The Sea Lions have invited us to join their New Year’s festivities tomorrow. Can you ask around if people are interested?”
“And you’re planning parties? Denny, are you sure you’re okay?” Ketchup reached out and touched his forehead. “Do we need to call the team doctor?”
“No, I need you to ask the team if they’re all right partying with the enemy,” Damir said with exaggerated patience.
“Why don’t you do it?”
“Because they’ll all say they are if I ask.” The burden of being a role model. His teammates, especially the rookies, would agree whether they wanted to or not if he suggested it.
Ketchup continued to eyeball him suspiciously, and Damir didn’t want to stoke any further trade rumors, so he asked how the rest of Ketchup’s night went and made a series of listening grunts while he described the unparalleled experience of dancing at a pretentious club when you were high as fuck.
To Damir, it sounded awful, but what did he know?
Ketchup didn’t enjoy planning ahead or being in charge, so it stood to reason sensory overstimulation was fun for him in a way it wasn’t for Damir.
After the flight, the bus drove them straight to Cyberian Arena for practice.
They had to get a session in today since the New Year’s Eve game was a matinee, and they wouldn’t have enough time to practice beforehand.
In a rare instance of good NHL scheduling, by the time they hit the ice, most everyone’s hangover was gone, leaving the team energized and buoyant.
From the corner of his eye, Damir caught sight of Ketchup skating between groups, chatting to everyone.
He often did that, being disgustingly gregarious, but Damir could tell Ketchup used the chats to estimate people’s interest in spending the holiday with another team.
He shot Damir a thumbs-up on their way to the locker room.
“The team will go to whatever party the Sea Lions throw tomorrow,” Damir told Kilian. It was the first they’d spoken since that morning, not because Damir hadn’t wanted to but because he’d been saving it like a rare sweet treat.
Kilian beamed. He was in the middle of unbuckling his chest protector, and he smelled of the rank combination of melted ice on hockey pads and copious amounts of sweat. Damir wanted to kiss him regardless.
“Cool, I’ll text Breezy. I should probably warn him. The Sea Lions are a lot more laid back than the Firecrackers when they party.”
Damir tried to imagine Tom Crowler doing cocaine in a bathroom and failed. “Sounds believable.”
“And, um.” Kilian bit his lip. “We’re still on for tonight?”
“Our reservation is at seven. Wear something nice.”
Kilian’s eyebrows shot up. “Something…nice?”
“Something you’ll be comfortable in at an upscale restaurant,” Damir corrected himself. He wouldn’t mind if Kilian showed up in more lace, or possibly one of those crop tops that exposed his whole stomach, but it would be distracting.
“Upscale, huh?” Kilian grinned the whole way to the shower, and Damir considered whether he could add more dates to their already-hectic schedule. Maybe after their next skating session with Valeria, when they were weak from exertion and ready to be spoiled.
The team was staying at a hotel near the arena, which meant it would be a half hour’s drive up to the city.
After getting out of practice, Damir had an hour to get ready.
He trimmed his beard over the hotel room sink, making the lines as sharp as possible, and patted it down with oil afterward.
He leaned in close to pluck a few strays from his eyebrows, then dampened a towel to wipe off the stray hairs on his neck and chest. Would Kilian notice?
Maybe. He paid such careful attention to his own appearance.
Either way, knowing he looked as good as he was capable of buoyed Damir’s confidence.