Chapter Eighteen #3
He examined the contents of his suitcase.
On the bright side, being a hockey player meant Damir always packed plenty of formal wear for road trips.
On the downside, all of it felt like work clothing.
He also packed sparingly, only one suit jacket for a three-game road trip and two pairs of pants.
He’d included a nice shirt, intending it for the New Year’s Eve walk-in—a deep emerald silky number that would complement the Sea Lions’ teal-and-navy color scheme without emulating it.
He could wear it again tomorrow. Damir shrugged the shirt on along with black pants before strapping on his watch.
It was gold, a tad ostentatious, but it looked good.
He checked the weather report on his phone.
San Francisco didn’t really have seasons.
If he wore his peacoat over the outfit, it would work without a suit jacket.
He slid the gift he’d picked up before their flight into his coat pocket and ordered an Uber.
Damir was about to head down the hall to pick up Kilian when a knock sounded on his door.
Behind it, Lissy, Rocky, and Ketchup all waited for him. Damir suppressed a groan. “Now isn’t a good time.”
Lissy pushed through into Damir’s room. “We need to talk about last night, Denny. We can’t have the best players on the team fighting, not when we’re finally getting out of our slump.”
Damir turned to Ketchup, betrayed. “I told you everything was fine.”
“You would say the same thing if you were literally on fire,” Ketchup told him. “No offense, but you’re not who comes to mind when I think of open, honest communication.”
Remembering that morning, with Kilian still under the sheets—how tender and flayed open Damir had felt ever since—he scowled. “I do fine.”
Lissy made a disbelieving sound.
Damir turned to Rocky. “Come on. Surely you don’t want to be doing this.”
“’Course I don’t,” Rocky said heavily. “It’s the A, bro. Gotta take care of the team’s emotional well-being and shit.”
All three of them at once? Overkill, in Damir’s opinion. “Kilian and I are fine,” Damir said. “No cause for concern.”
“Not believable, try again.” Lissy crossed his arms over his broad chest.
“How is it not believable?”
“You keep calling him Kilian!”
Damir stared at Lissy. “It’s his name.”
“Yeah, well, my name’s Jacques, and you never call me by it.”
Damir checked his watch. Six twenty-five. They had to be downstairs for the car in five minutes, and he was stuck here talking about hockey nicknames? No. Absolutely not. “Look, I have to go. We can talk about this later.”
“Where are you going?” Ketchup asked. “There’s a 10:00 p.m. curfew. You care about those.”
“Out,” Damir snapped.
“He’s all dressed up,” Rocky pointed out, examining Damir from head to toe. “Is it a sponsorship thing? Or is he meeting the coaches?”
“Shit, Denny, you did ask for a trade, didn’t you?” Ketchup asked. “I hoped I was wrong.”
Lissy frowned, his eyes going large and liquid like an overgrown puppy. “Is it that bad? I thought you and Howie were bros after how you—”
“No, I didn’t ask for a trade, you—”
Another knock on the door mercifully interrupted Damir before he could insult his team captain.
Damir opened it to find Kilian with both hands in his pockets.
The hallway lights reflected on the shiny curls of his hair.
He must have done something special with it.
A thrum of excitement shot through Damir at the thought of getting to witness the full extent of Kilian’s hair care routine.
He’d like to know what all the bottles were for and maybe massage shampoo into Kilian’s hair someday.
He’d dressed similarly to Damir in suit pants, though his were gray. His dress shirt, crisp white, was unbuttoned far enough that Damir could see the raised bump of his clavicle, which he had absolutely done on purpose. Damir would live to regret telling him how much he liked to bite there.
He smiled at Damir, and Damir noted how the plush curve of his mouth glistened. His eyelashes looked darker too.
Damir licked his lips. Kilian must have read his mind about the lip gloss, or he wanted it badly enough himself to buy some. Next time, Damir would get it for him. He wanted to choose what color Kilian would use to drive him insane.
“You look…”
“You, too,” Kilian said. “Sorry. Was I supposed to wait for you to pick me up? I’ve never really done the whole date thing.”
“Me neither,” Damir admitted. “I was going to pick you up, but…”
Kilian peered over Damir’s shoulder. “Oh. Any chance they didn’t hear me?”
“No,” Ketchup called.
In wondering tones, Lissy added, “Oh my God, they were never bros.”
Damir patted down his pockets. He had his wallet and his phone. He had his gift. “We’re leaving,” he decided. “They can show themselves out.”
He plucked the keycard out of the slot in the wall, dousing everything behind him in darkness. Then, he reached for Kilian’s hand and pulled him toward the elevator, the door clicking shut behind them.
“So,” Kilian said after the elevator doors whooshed closed. “Good work so far on keeping this low-key while your visa stuff happens. Ten out of ten. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Ketchup would have found out sooner or later; he lives with us.”
“True.”
“You think they’ll be…okay?” Kilian said it casually, but Damir could see the tense line of his shoulders.
“They’ll be fine,” he said. “Weird, but fine.”
If they weren’t, he would glare at them until they were.
On the ride into town, Kilian pointed out landmarks as they passed.
Some of them were culturally relevant, like the vague direction they would have to take to get to the Castro or Chinatown.
Others were “the sushi place Tom took me to last year” or “Phil lives over there somewhere.” It was endearingly Kilian, the wild mix of things he had researched and been interested in and places he happened to have frequented while he played for the Sea Lions.
By the time they pulled up to the restaurant overlooking the bay, Damir had forgotten the evening was meant to be special and not just another day spent with Kilian as he chattered and thought up new ways to make Damir smile.
Inside, their coats were immediately taken by an overly polite ma?tre d’ before they were led to a table overlooking the water.
The restaurant had enough stars that it didn’t need many tables, and elegant plants shielded the few patrons there were from one another, creating a sense of privacy.
As Damir had requested, their table resided in the furthest corner from the door, well-shielded from any observers.
The menu was limited and lacked prices, which made Kilian raise his eyebrows.
“This place is fancy, huh?”
“Fancy enough we were lucky to get a table,” Damir admitted. “Is that a problem?”
Kilian gave him a look. “Of course not. This is awesome. What should I order?”
“I’m going for the seven-course preset dinner.” Damir turned his menu around so Kilian could see. “You can choose between different options for most of the courses.”
Kilian nodded slowly, perusing the choices. “We get small portions, right?”
“Yes, or seven would be far too many.”
“Nice.”
The napkin sat slightly off-center on Damir’s plate. He righted it. “You’re welcome to get the wine pairings, if you want.”
“Seven glasses of wine with dinner?”
“I suppose?”
Kilian snorted. “No, thank you. We’re playing a hockey game tomorrow, remember? Anyway, I’m not much of a wine guy. I’ll have a glass or two if that’s cool with you, but no more.”
“Of course it’s cool with me. I don’t want to—to tell you what to do. I shouldn’t have—”
“Shhh.” Kilian put a finger to his lips, emphasizing how shiny and pink they were. “We talked it out; we’re good. But you don’t drink, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“If being around people drinking made me uncomfortable, I should have chosen a career as an accountant.”
“I hear they get pretty crazy around the end of the fiscal year.”
Having taken a sip of his water a moment before, Damir coughed around his laugh.
“There you are.” Kilian’s mouth quirked upward. “We’re having a nice first date, okay? Don’t get all in your head about shit.”
Under the table, Damir let his legs spread out a bit farther so he could knock his knee against Kilian’s. “All right.”
They ordered, with Kilian choosing the fish over the rabbit for the fifth course and parsnips over beets in the second, baffling choices in Damir’s opinion.
“Beets taste like dirt,” Kilian said. “Change my mind.”
“They do not. They’re sweet! And a beet carpaccio is a totally different experience than a stew or a soup.”
“Oh, great, thinly sliced dirt with truffle oil. Dirt with more dirt. Yum.”
“You’ll have to try some of mine,” Damir said with a shake of his head. “You’ll see.”
“Will you feed it to me off your fork?”
“If you want me to.”
Kilian’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow, you’re taking this romance thing seriously, huh?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, I just…didn’t know what to expect, I guess. You’re all older and experienced, so I figured you’d be over the cheesy stuff by now.”
A waitress, young and dressed immaculately, brought a tray with two tiny glass jars. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, smiling brightly. “I’ll just start you off with an amuse-bouche from the chef. It’s a smoked salmon mousse on wild rice risotto with dill cream.”
She set the jars in front of them. Damir reached for the outermost fork on his left, and Kilian followed suit. As he took his first tiny forkful, he closed his eyes, a guttural sound leaving his throat.
Damir paused his own progress to watch his boyfriend. “I haven’t done this part before,” he admitted. “Dates and romance.”
Kilian scraped out the little jar, licking every last scrap off his fork with relish. “No secret ex-boyfriend in Russia, then?”