Page 100 of Two for Roughing

Kilian shrugged. He’d been aware when he chose the shirt that he would get some comments. It was far from the neutral, boring menswear he usually favored. After his impromptu shopping trip with Mom for more expressive game-day outfits, the thought of again wearing the same ill-fitting, off-the-rack blazer and button-up combo repulsed him.

“I thought you liked the lace,” he needled, flattening a nonexistent crease in his blue jacket. It wasn’t as douchey as straight-up not wearing a shirt under the jacket, which he’d absolutely seen Mike Vanderbilt doing in Jimmy Hayes’s wedding photos last summer. But Kilian’s clingy black lace shirt with his blue suit definitely flirted with acceptability. The lace stretched tight across his chest, not transparent but not fully opaque either. He’d seen some variants with sequins or rhinestones embedded in the pattern, but Kilian thought the dark, delicate flowers were classiest without the added glitter.

Damir rubbed at the back of his neck. “I do like the lace.”

Then act like it, Kilian thought. “Let me handle the dumb questions,” he said.

There weren’t many, all told. He got a weird look from Rocky, but Kilian had expected nothing less from a man who thought wearing a toque he never washed solved his greasy hair problem. Kilian had tossed him the hat from his locker room stall once and had to wash his hands three times afterward. Wool should not feel so oily.

He also got a heavy-handed tip from Ketchup to be nice to Damir because, apparently, Damir was stressed. What a shocker. Damir being stressed was stressing Kilian out.

Brianna didn’t pull him for pregame media or for an intermission interview, allowing him to focus on the game. The Monarchs were always a contender, though they never seemed to make it past round one or two of the playoffs. Having a chill, Californian fanbase and a Cup win in the last decade took out some of the sting. They were also a clean team, with no notable instigators on the ice.

Except Kilian.

Midway through the second, with the Firecrackers up by two and everyone on the Monarchs insisting on being nice to Kilian, he lost it.

“C’mon, guys,” he called as he skated past the Monarchs’ bench. “We get you’re not homophobes, but you don’t have to make it easy for us.”

On his next shift, the star center of the Monarchs, Kyle Schultz, elbowed him hard in the ribs to strip the puck off him.

“Nice,” Kilian crowed, giving chase.

They won by a goal, not having been in serious danger until the last two minutes or so when the Monarchs pulled their goalie, but it was good to be taken seriously. Before Kilian could skate off the ice for the locker room, Schultz pulled him into a rough hug and called him a “crazy kid,” but Kilian would take it.

“What did he say to you?” Damir asked as soon as they were in the safety of the visitor’s locker room.

Ugh.

“Nothing important,” Kilian told him and began shrugging out of his gear to avoid Damir’s concerned hovering.

“Kilian…”

“Damir,” Kilian aped.

“Oooh,” Lissy crowed. “Poking the big, Russian bear. Dangerous.”

Kilian promptly choked on air.

“What? What did I say?”

“Howie, media!” Brianna called. Kilian got to his feet, still clad in his compression shirt and leggings.

“What did I say?” Lissy pressed.

“Please enter those words in that order to your porn site of choosing,” Kilian said, then escaped to the much safer grilling by a room full of journalists.

Yesterday, the Chicago beat reporters had already given him a variety of softball questions on how it felt to be out (weird), whether anyone unexpected had reached out to him (probably, but Kilian hadn’t finished sorting through all the messages so he didn’t know), whether he wanted anyone in particular to reach out to him (Chappell Roan, although the guy from Wicked would be pretty cool too). Brianna said he shouldn’t worry too much about his responses. He’d be fine as long as he didn’t say something negative about another player in the league or about the team itself. She hadn’t given him any notes on his media sessions, so he figured he was doing okay.

“Howie, how’s it feel to extend your winning streak?”

“I mean, awesome.”

“What did you shout at the Monarchs’ bench in the second?”

“Oh, um, I think I’d better keep chirps on the ice.”

An LA beat reporter, easily recognizable by her thousand-dollar outfit and beach-blonde wavy hair, raised her hand, and he pointed to her. “What inspired today’s walk-in look?”