Page 57 of Two for Roughing

“I always wanted to work with a figure skater.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Kilian shrugged and laughed. “I’m a shitty skater even for a hockey player. If I can’t improve with our training programs, why would it be different with a figure skater? They’d laugh me out of the rink.”

“Hm.” Damir chopped up the herbs roughly. He got a bowl out from the corner cupboard and dumped the meat, a couple eggs, and his chopped-up aromatics into it. Then he rolled up his sleeves and began to knead. “If I found a figure skater who knows how to work with hockey players, would you join me?”

“You want to split the costs?”

“I’m not hard up for cash,” Damir said derisively. “We’re friends, remember? I thought it would be a fun way to hang out.” And a fun way to show Kilian he was better than his father had led him to believe—better than the stupid internet hockey fans pretending they were experts told him, and better than the fucking San Francisco Sea Lions had let him see.

Damir didn’t look over again in case his expression revealed how badly he wanted Kilian to believe in himself.

“I could give it a try,” Kilian said at last. “Probably won’t work, but it might be fun. I’d love to learn those pirouettes.”

“All right, I’ll look into it and let you know.”

“So tell me about the che—chi—whatever’s for dinner.”

“Chebureki. It’s a fried dough pocket filled with meat. I added some eggs, too, which isn’t strictly traditional, but it makes the meat hold together better, and it gives us more protein.”

“Is it a Tatar thing?” Kilian leaned forward on his elbows, looking more invested now than the entire time they’d been discussing his skating.

“Yes.” Damir got the rolling pin out of the drawer under the stove and began rolling out the first dough ball. If he were really good, he could stretch it with his fingers the way his grandmother used to before the arthritis and the nursing home and, eventually, her death. He wasn’t great at pastry since he made it so rarely. “You can find similar foods all around Russia, Turkey, Georgia, and so on, but my family taught it to me as a Tatar dish.”

“It’s awesome you have stuff like that.”

“Don’t you?”

“Again, broiler, vegetables, meat.”

“Aren’t you Canadian? Canada has a decent national cuisine, doesn’t it?”

Kilian snorted. “Oh yeah. Let’s see, we’ve got poutine, which is a heart attack on a plate. We’ve got bannock, which is deep-fried bread. And where I come from, we’ve got a whole bunch of fish. Guess how many of those my hockey-coach dad let me eat growing up.”

“Fish is good for you.”

“Fish is also expensive. Running a farm and putting three kids through college and one through hockey dev doesn’t leave a ton for fresh seafood. And canned clam chowder makes me gag.”

Damir wrinkled his nose. “I can’t blame you. Fair warning, this also isn’t on the meal plan. But I thought…well, I thought you might enjoy something special.”

He snuck another glance over at Kilian, whose pink lips parted in surprise.

“Me?” Kilian asked.

“Yes.” Damir wondered when his voice had gotten so hoarse. “You.”

Kilian licked his lips, and Damir had to look away. If he didn’t, the urge to toss all his hand-prepared food in the trash and offer to take Kilian out for a three-star meal might overpower him. Thoughts of sitting opposite Kilian by candlelight—of buying him roses and delicate jewelry and any fucking thing he could think of to convince Kilian he was special—spun around Damir’s mind, tempting him.

Which would be insane.

They’d had sex twice. Otherwise, they had nothing in common.

“Are you sure I can’t help?” Kilian asked.

Damir forced himself to take a deep breath. “How are you at making salad?”

“I can cut things and put them in a bowl.”