Page 52 of Two for Roughing

Phil considered, tapping the steering wheel. “Probably Jax? He’s pretty well-adjusted, and he actually wants to be out.”

“Makes sense.” Kilian had eliminated Tom as a possible role model and had no interest in revisiting their horrific conversation over sushi. The only other option would be Luca, but he was about as approachable as a cactus. “I’ll think about it.”

Privately, he knew he wouldn’t reach out. Six hours ago, or whenever Kilian last imagined a future on this team, he thought he’d earn his way back into the core through improved play and keeping a lock on all his stupid feelings. In that world, maybe he’d have talked to Jax someday. Now? Jax could reach out to him if he had anything useful to say.

Phil pulled up to the kiss and ride. He got out of the car to help Kilian with his suitcase, and then he gave Kilian a hug goodbye.

No one had hugged Kilian since Halloween.

“I’ll see you at our next match,” Kilian joked weakly, and then he turned around and headed for the check-in counter.

He didn’t look back. He’d done a great job of not crying so far; he wanted Phil to think he’d made it onto the plane before having a breakdown.

In reality, he made it all of two steps into the airport.

It was a good thing people flying in and out of SFO in the middle of the night didn’t give a shit about hockey, or if they did, they were kind enough to ignore him. The tears kept coming on and off through the metal detector process, through getting an overpriced bottle of water at a smoothie stand populated by retail zombies working the graveyard shift, through an interminable wait at the gate, and finally through the flight itself.

A flight attendant discreetly offered him a stack of extra napkins and asked if he needed anything, yet another low point in Kilian’s life.

The only part of the trip he was proud of was that he managed to stay off his phone. News of the trade would probably break soon, and then Kilian would be getting calls from his dad, goodbye messages from the guys, and comments from everyone else on social media. None of those were things he could deal with at this moment in time.

He landed at O’Hare at ten in the morning local time on December first, dehydrated and exhausted, his eyes puffy from crying and his head pounding from some combination of alcohol, cabin pressure, stress, and emotion. He was freezing thanks to his choice of outfit and the drafty recycled plane air. There would be someone from the team waiting for him at arrivals, and he didn’t want to face them like this, but he wasn’t game enough to try splashing airport tap water on his face in the hopes it would make a difference.

Whoever they sent would see what the Firecrackers were getting. A mess.

Kilian grabbed his suitcase out of the overhead bin, earning dirty looks from everyone around him since it was technically too big to be stored there, even in business class, then headed for the exit.

He expected a trainer, or maybe someone from the front office, to be waiting for him with a sign and a bunch of platitudes about how the Firecrackers were a family who couldn’t wait to welcome him into their midst.

What he got was a tall Russian Tatar leaning against a pillar in a ludicrously unseasonal leather jacket.

“They sent you?”

“I volunteered,” Damir said. “We got in from Carolina an hour ago, so it wasn’t a hardship to wait for you.”

Of course Denisov wouldn’t purposely come here to pick him up. And as an alternate, it was his job to welcome the new guys. Kilian stomped out the brief spark of hope the sight of him ignited.

“Do we have to go to the arena, or can I catch a nap wherever they’re putting me up?”

“We have a rest day today. I thought we would go home and get you settled in. Have you been up all night?”

Kilian blinked. “Get me settled where?”

“Oh.” Damir pushed himself off the pillar using his shoulder. “You’re staying in my spare room. If you’re all right with it, of course. I’m sure the team can get a hotel room otherwise.”

“That’s…no, that’s fine. I just didn’t think…”

“Hm?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to be seen with me in public or whatever.”

Damir rolled his eyes. “No one knows about you being…you know.”

No one except a half-dozen Sea Lions. Kilian nodded all the same.

“Anyway,” Damir continued. “We’ll be playing on the same team, won’t we? Of course we’ll be seen together. And I thought we were…friends.”

Sure. Friends. Friends told one another how to get off in public bathrooms all the time, right? God, had that really happened last night? Kilian had aged a decade since then, somewhere around the time he received a call from Damir only hours after sending him an explicit voice message in which he accused Kilian of behaving like a child and told him he was about to be traded all in one fell swoop. Exactly what he wanted to hear from the hookup he was trying not to develop feelings for.