Page 15 of Two for Roughing

She ushered him out of her office with a disappointed sigh.

Whatever.

They played Chicago next, which meant Kilian would continue to suck as per usual—or maybe Denisov would get all up in his space again, and Kilian could prove to Lindy that he could do his job as a pest. If Kilian got really lucky, Denisov would touch him again, press him to the boards or rough him up a little. However the game went, the next day they were headed to Canada, so if Kilian got benched, he could eat his weight in Timbits and ketchup chips guilt-free. And they would be on the opposite end of the country to Vancouver, so his dad wouldn’t come watch in person.

As if summoned, Kilian’s dad called him as he drove home from the rink, interrupting Chappell Roan in the middle of “Red Wine Supernova,” which had to count as homophobia. Kilian had ignored his last three calls, so it was about time to pick up.

“Finally,” Ryan Howard said once Kilian had fumbled through accepting the call on the console touchscreen. He’d bought the car, a fancy convertible, with his first-year bonus. Sometimes he struggled with how sleek and easy it operated. It was nothing like the only other car he’d driven, his oldest sister’s twenty-year-old stick shift pickup.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Are you okay?”

Kilian blinked. “Why do you ask?” Had his dad noticed he wasn’t sleeping well? When Kilian watched his last couple media availability sessions back on Insta, he had bags under his eyes and he looked pale. Well, paler than usual.

“Grandpa noticed you’ve been babying your left side. Was the hit Denisov took on you harder than you said?”

Right. Dad didn’t care about Kilian’s emotional well-being. He wouldn’t want to know how Kilian’s closest friends on the team had been hiding shit from him, or that he was so lonely in San Francisco he could scream for twenty minutes straight and no one would notice. Dad didn’t give a shit why Kilian was tanking his career. He cared about hockey, and he cared about making sure Grandpa didn’t worry.

“It’s fine,” Kilian said. The bruise on his shoulder had faded from red to blue to green to yellow, leaving only sensitivity and occasional twinges in its wake. It lingered because he hadn’t had an opportunity to rest it, and he probably had been babying it, which explained why he’d been playing so badly. Maybe he should have seen the trainers, but he didn’t want to talk to anyone about Denisov’s hit. After it happened, Kilian kept refreshing the comments on his postgame interview, terrified he’d accidentally revealed the secret thrill of Denisov touching him at all.

“If you say so.” Dad’s doubt was writ large in his tone. “What about your SOG though? You’ve missed every shot you took in the last couple games.”

“Oh really, I hadn’t noticed.”

“Howie, don’t take that tone with me.”

Kilian snorted. As a kid, when his dad started coaching him, he did this whole spiel about how he’d be calling Kilian “Howie” at the rink and “Kilian” at home so no one would think he was playing favorites. After about a practice and a half, no one would have thought so anyway, but the nickname stuck. He couldn’t remember the last time Dad had called him “Kilian.”

“Howie.”

“I’m driving home right now, Dad. Was there something you wanted to talk about? Or is it okay if I hang up to concentrate?”

“Look, about your shot…”

Kilian drifted off while Dad gave him a series of tips he’d heard about twenty times from Coach Edwards over the last year and a half. He knew what he had to do to improve his game. But he couldn’t make it happen because he was a shit hockey player. No surprises there. At least when Lindy scratched him, he could get drunk on the company’s dime while watching from the box.

Finally, when he reached the narrow, steep entrance to the parking garage under his building, Kilian interrupted. “Hey, Dad, this has been great. Thanks for all your help, but I’m about to lose signal. Talk soon, yeah?”

He hung up before he could hear the response.

“Red Wine Supernova” filled the car again as Kilian descended into the garage. He jabbed the button to fold in the side mirrors just in time, then drove to the far corner, where he parked right next to the motorcycle that never came out from under its protective cover. Finding this parking place was his first stroke of good luck all day. Otherwise, he’d have to go for the dick move and park right on the line between two spots. The garage had been built back when cars were much smaller, and while Kilian’s wasn’t huge, if he parked in a single spot, he’d spend so long trying to get out he’d be late to practice again tomorrow.

On his way up, he dumped a week’s worth of disgusting, damp workout gear he’d accumulated in the bottom of his bag into one of the washers in the laundry room, then dug a bunch of quarters out of his pocket.

He really needed a place with its own washer and dryer. Breezy had been after him all year about moving. And Kilian had tried—he had. He’d had a few viewings. But the only part of town he’d be interested in moving to was the Castro. Explaining that to the team had seemed like an insurmountable obstacle. Now he knew they probably wouldn’t care, but Kilian’s energy for apartment hunting had waned.

In the elevator, Kilian checked his phone. His dad had sent three messages. The preview for the first started with, “And about your backcheck…”

He rolled his eyes and opened the thread with his sisters.

Kilian: SOS how do I get dad off my back a full year after moving out?

Jeannie: change your name and dye your hair

Josie: quit hockey and go into interpretive dance

Lacey: Are you okay? Do you need me to talk to him?