Page 56 of Two for Roughing

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.”

Being observed as he put together ingredients and mixed up the dough sent prickles of self-awareness down the back of Damir’s neck. Cooking was how he decompressed from stressful interviews or talked himself into letting go of bad reffing calls. But with Kilian watching, he couldn’t enter his usual meditative state.

This was largely because Kilian was incapable of shutting up.

“Oh my God, you’re making your own dough? How did you learn?”

“Did your parents never cook?”

Kilian shrugged. “My mom was too busy, and my dad was kind of shit at it. There was a lot of meat and even more vegetables since we lived on a farm, but they pretty much stuck to putting those in the broiler for every meal.”

“You lived on a farm and didn’t learn to cook?” Damir shook his head. Unacceptable.

Kilian laughed. “This may come as a shock to you, but not all of us are naturally good at everything. Most of us kinda suck.”

Damir paused mid-knead. Was that how Kilian saw himself? He remembered their conversations about hockey and Kilian’s skating skills specifically. He’d taken Kilian’s self-effacing statements as modesty and humor with a hint of low self-esteem. But if he truly believed he “sucked,” perhaps Damir ought to take him more seriously.

“I’ve been thinking about getting a skating coach,” Damir said when enough time had passed that it could feasibly count as a subject change.

“The team has four.”

Damir tipped the dough out onto the floured counter and began separating it into balls. “The team has skill and strategy coaches for all of us,” he corrected. “But my defensive game needs improvement, and the coaches don’t have time to work with me alone and in as much depth as I need.”

Kilian didn’t respond beyond a hum. They both knew the coaches didn’t have time for detailed solo training with one of the few good players on the team. Not when the second, third, and fourth lines all needed improvement on their offensive game, and the D-core needed drilling on their defensive game, and the special teams needed practice on their specialness.

Damir actually did fairly well for himself, but he didn’t get to be a first-line winger by being satisfied with “fairly.”

“Your skating’s fine though,” Kilian said.

“Eh.” Damir pulled the meat from the refrigerator and put it next to his dough balls. He got out parsley and cilantro from the crisper and set them on his cutting board alongside two onions and a few cloves of garlic, and then went for the big knife. “I could do with some improvement on my edgework. Might make me quicker in reverse.”

“You and me both, buddy.”

Buddy. They weren’t buddies. They were—perfectly normal and platonic roommates.

“What kind of coach do you think I should look into?” Damir asked.

A long pause followed as he minced the onions and got started on the garlic before peeking over at Kilian, who was looking down at the granite countertop, tracing lines on it with his fingers.