Page 44 of Two for Roughing

Ketchup pressed play on the video.

“So anyway, if you really believe hockey is for everyone, next time you hear someone call a player weak, or a…um…a bad word for women’s parts, when they don’t wanna fight, say something. When you see people giving Denisov grief for his religion, tell them it isn’t cool. When you hear people talking about a player of color disrespectfully, ask them if they’d say the same thing if he was white. I’m gonna. It’s not enough to say we welcome everyone in this sport; we have to actually do it.”

The video ended, and Ketchup clicked back to his front page. “He means it too. Check this out.”

On a post by the official NHL account showing a legal check Damir had executed in the game before last, every single comment calling Damir a terrorist or a goon now had a comment of its own by Kilian that read, “anyone can play hockey, bro.”

“Wow,” Damir said thickly.

“Yeah,” Ketchup agreed. “He’s a cool dude.”

He wasn’t a cool dude, Damir wanted to argue. He was an insecure, scared young man barely out of his first season who so desperately needed someone to stand up for people like him that he had done it himself. His word choice might have been clumsy and juvenile, but his intentions were so sweet. Kilian had made a choice to be the person Damir never had a chance to be, to set the example Damir had always wished existed in hockey, and it both touched and insulted Damir that a man six years his junior felt the need to defend him.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and though he knew he shouldn’t, Damir pulled it out.

He angled it away from Ketchup and the other teammates and clicked the notification.

A voice message.

He fumbled for the volume control, turning it up again before clicking play.

At first, he could barely hear anything besides muffled thumping. After a few seconds, he placed it as the bass line of some obnoxious club remix of a pop song he recognized.

Then the moaning started.

It wasn’t loud, not as loud as Damir knew Kilian could be, but it was unmistakable—rhythmic sounds of pleasure, interspersed by panting breaths.

He squirmed in his seat, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting visibly.

On the recording, he heard more breathless moans and then one drawn-out “Ah!”

Then there was nothing but silence in Damir’s ear.

Fuck.

Ketchup asked him something. Damir grunted noncommittally in response, unable to parse words or thoughts or anything but the knowledge that he’d just listened to Kilian come after following Damir’s instructions to the letter.

Kilian, who had gone on the internet specifically to defend Damir multiple times.

Kilian, who at all of twenty already felt responsible for the kids coming after him.

Kilian, funny and goofy and insecure and needy and perfect in bed.

Damir was in way over his head.

Ketchup said something else, a question, and Damir hummed in agreement, hoping no one would notice he’d checked out of the conversation.

A cheer went up around him.

“Nice, man, I didn’t think you’d agree!” Ketchup slapped Damir on the back.

“Huh?”

“Boys! We’re headed to the club, and Denny’s buying the first round!”

Perfect. Exactly what Damir didn’t need tonight.

“I will buy you all mineral water,” Damir threatened, but they didn’t seem to care.