Role Model by Rachel Reid

Chapter Thirteen

“Stop working so fucking much!”

Harris grinned up at Bood from his plane seat. “I can’t! A big win like that means I have a ton of work to do.”

Bood clapped him hard on the shoulder and continued down the aisle, already yelling something at Luca Haas.

It was the first week of January, and the Centaurs had started their road trip with a huge 4-1 afternoon win in Raleigh and were now headed to Tampa Bay. Tomorrow would be a day off they were all looking forward to, away from the frigid winter weather of Ottawa. Despite the fact that everyone who’d played in the game was probably exhausted, the plane was a party at the moment.

Harris was joining in as best he could, but he also had his laptop in front of him, and was working hard updating the team’s various accounts, replying to fans, and taking phone videos of the celebrations happening on the plane. He’d edit them so nothing too personal was posted online.

He was sitting alone because he wasn’t being much fun at the moment, but he was enjoying the whooping and hollering all around him. Some people liked listening to rainfalls or birds chirping to relax, but Harris always felt most at ease when surrounded by happy people.

“First star of the night: Troy B-B-B-Barrett!” Bood called out.

Harris turned his head to look behind him and saw Troy walking up the aisle toward him. Troy waved Bood’s revelry aside and sat in the empty seat next to Harris. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Harris said. “You must feel pretty good right now. Two goals.”

Troy nodded solemnly, like he was thinking about whether or not scoring two goals was good. “Yeah,” he finally decided. “It was a good game.”

So everyone was in a party mood except, of course, Troy Barrett.

Who was sitting with Harris. Watching him work.

“Lots to do?” Troy asked.

“I’m afraid so. No one ever thinks of the poor social media guy.”

“That’s not true,” Troy said, then looked like he immediately regretted it. “I mean, sorry. For making you work harder.”

“No you’re not.”

The barest suggestion of a smile from Troy. “Not really, no.”

The plane lurched suddenly, which caused a lot of the guys on board to yelp in alarm, and then laugh. It also caused Bood to fall down in the aisle, which made everyone laugh harder. Harris craned his neck to see if Bood was okay, and when he turned back, he saw that Troy had placed a steadying hand on his laptop.

“Thanks,” Harris said. Troy pulled his hand away quickly, like he hadn’t realized he had accidentally done something thoughtful.

Harris closed the laptop. “I can finish this at the hotel later anyway. We must be getting close to landing.”

Troy, still wearing most of the suit he’d left the arena in, was fiddling with the end of his necktie. “You were right,” he said quietly.

“Usually. But what about?”

“This team. It’s a good group.”

Harris elbowed him. “I told you!”

Troy’s lips curved up a bit. “I’m not a great judge of character. I always pick the wrong people to be friends with. Or trust. I, um.” He rolled the end of his tie up into a tight cylinder, and then released it. “I want to fit in here. With this team. I like them, and I think for once I’m not wrong about wanting them to like me.”

“They do like you,” Harris said. “And so do I.”

Troy’s blue eyes were full of anguish, which was a weird way to react to that statement. Harris tried not to take it personally.

“I like you, too,” Troy finally said. He glanced around them nervously, then dropped his voice even lower. “Harris, I—”

There was a loud bang, and then the plane lurched again, more violently this time.

“Jesus! What the fuck?” Troy yelled at the same time everyone else on the plane yelled a variation of the same thing.

And then the plane dropped.

It was an awful, sickening sensation, made worse by the screams that filled the cabin. Harris didn’t scream because he couldn’t find the breath to do it. They were going to die. They were all going to die, tumbling through the dark somewhere over Florida.

Harris closed his eyes and hoped they crashed far away from any other people.

The plane shuddered and leveled out, with another stomach-lurching swoop. There was total silence on the plane as everyone waited for whatever was about to happen.

A voice came over the speakers. “We’ve lost an engine, but still have control over the aircraft. We have been cleared for an emergency landing in Tampa, but expect it to be a rough descent. Please stand by for further instructions from your flight attendant.”

He heard Troy suck in a breath beside him, then Harris realized that his own hand was being held in Troy’s tight grip. Harris squeezed back and said, as calmly as he could manage, “It’s going to be okay.”

There were panicked cries all around them, and Harris hated that he knew who was making each one. He knew these guys so well and loved them like family, and he didn’t want them to be scared.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and he should be worried about that, but one thing at a time.

“There’s fire out here!” It was Nick Chouinard. “The plane is on fire!”

“Fuck,” Troy muttered. “Fuck.”

Across the aisle, Ilya was frantically typing something on his phone. Harris should probably try to message his parents, but what would he say?

God, his parents. They’d be devastated.

His laptop had crashed to the floor at some point. He put his foot on it to keep it from being tossed around. The flight attendant—a young woman who had a brave face on but Harris could tell was barely holding it together—was coming down the aisle with instructions. “Tables up. Remove your ties, glasses, chains. Anything like that. Get into a position to brace for impact. Duck your heads and rest them against the seatback in front of you. Feet firmly on the floor.”

Harris released Troy’s hand and put the table up while Troy removed his necktie. Then they both braced for impact, as instructed. Harris closed his eyes again and focused on Troy’s heavy breathing beside him. He thought about everyone else on board. About Bood, who was about to become a father. About Wyatt’s wife, Lisa. About Coach Wiebe’s wife and three daughters. About Luca Haas, who had just turned twenty. About Dale, the equipment manager, who had just celebrated being eight years cancer-free.

He turned his head, just slightly, against the hard plastic of the seat in front of him, and found Troy’s face inches away, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes. Harris placed his hand over Troy’s, where it was pressed, palm-down, on his knee. Troy flipped his hand and curled his fingers around Harris’s, holding tight.

Harris managed a weak smile. Either they would live through this, or they wouldn’t, but there was nothing they could do about it now. All he could do was wait, and offer as much comfort as he could. In return, he could enjoy the view of Troy’s beautiful face, which, if it was going to be the last thing he ever saw, well, there were worse options.

The plane was so quiet. Maybe it was because Harris’s heart was pounding in his ears, drowning everything else out, but it seemed like no one was making a sound. He’d bet some were praying—Chouinard, probably. He was Catholic. Or maybe everyone was just concentrating together, as if their combined mental energy might safely guide the plane to the ground.

It felt like the plane was descending faster than usual, but Harris couldn’t be sure. It was shakier, much more turbulent. He tried not to think about the fire. He’d heard that plane engines could put out fires automatically. Maybe it was out already. Maybe it had spread to the wing. Maybe the whole plane was about to explode.

Harris swallowed hard. He needed to stay positive, for himself, and for Troy, who was still staring at him from a few inches away, eyes wild with fear.

“When we land,” Harris said, just loud enough for Troy to hear, “I’m getting ice cream.”

There were tears in Troy’s eyes, but he managed a small smile and said, “What kind?”

The plane shuddered and jerked, and Troy squeezed his eyes closed, his lips pulled tight in a grimace.

“Cookie dough. Definitely,” Harris said quickly.

Troy opened his eyes. They were still wet. “That sounds gross.”

Harris laughed, but it sounded like a sob, and suddenly Troy’s face was very blurry.

The plane made a whirring noise, and oh thank god, was that the landing gear? Maybe they’d survive this. Maybe this would be an adventure they’d talk about for years after. Harris was going to have so much work to do after this. The Ottawa Centaurs would be getting a lot of media attention.

The wheels touched the ground, and Harris had never felt anything so wonderful in his life. It wasn’t even a particularly rough landing. The plane slowed, and an earsplitting cheer rose up from everyone. Even Troy.

Their hands separated—Harris wasn’t sure who let go first—and they both joined in the applause for the pilot, and for their good fortune.

There were emergency lights flashing outside the plane windows, but Harris couldn’t stop looking at Troy. He was wiping his eyes and grinning from ear to ear.

Maybe it was the adrenaline talking, but Harris realized he was maybe a little bit besotted.

“Your laptop is broken,” Troy said, smile disappearing.

Harris followed his gaze to the cracked plastic of the laptop on the floor. “Yeah, I can’t bring myself to care about that right now.”

Troy should have been completely drained by the time the bus finally reached the hotel in Tampa, but he was buzzing with adrenaline. He’d really thought he was going to die. That they were all going to die. That Harris was going to die.

And during those horrible minutes when he’d been grappling with his impending death, he’d kept thinking one thing, over and over:

I want to kiss him.

He wanted it so badly he’d nearly done it. Nearly leaned in and closed those few inches and let the last thing he felt be Harris’s lips brushing his own. What would Harris have done, if Troy had kissed him? Would he have kissed him back? And if so, would it have been out of panic? Would it have been an act of charity, giving Troy what he needed because Harris was a nice guy? Or would Harris have kissed him because he’d wanted it as much as Troy did? Because if they had to die, at least they could have this first?

He hadn’t done it, but he’d taken Harris’s warm hand in his and gripped it like the connection would somehow keep them safe. Taking comfort from Harris had become a habit, and Troy had selfishly needed to do it then, even if giving comfort was the last thing Harris ever did.

He still wanted to kiss Harris. That was the thought that was bouncing around his brain as he followed his teammates into the hotel lobby. It would be easy to say the urge had been a heat-of-the-moment thing, and that it wasn’t something he actually wanted, but it wasn’t true. He wanted. He wanted so fucking much that he could barely stand to look at him.

“Well,” Coach Wiebe said, “I don’t know about you guys, but I could use a drink.”

There were murmurs of agreement, and some scattered laughter that sounded like relief. They had survived together, and now they would get drunk together.

They filled the bar area. Every available table was taken up by players, coaches, trainers, doctors and other team staff. Harris sat at one of the larger tables. Troy went to the bar and took one of the empty stools. He needed to think.

He sat for a while with his whiskey and his thoughts. If the plane had crashed, how would Troy have been remembered? An NHL All-Star? The guy who got in an argument once with Dallas Kent?

Who would even mourn him? His mother, definitely. He expected he would be hearing from her as soon as the news got to her. His dad might care. Adrian would at least feel weird about it.

Jesus, what if he and Adrian had still been together? If the plane had crashed and Troy had died, Adrian wouldn’t have been able to mourn him. Troy had never imagined a scenario where one of them died while they’d been together, but now his stomach twisted thinking about how devastating it would have been if he had lost Adrian when no one even knew what they’d been to each other. How awful it would be to have to hide his grief. It had been hard enough when Adrian had broken up with him.

It wasn’t fucking fair that this was how Troy felt he had to live. To love in secret, to feel everything in secret.

Someone took the bar stool next to him, and he saw in the mirror behind the bar that it was Ilya.

“What are we drinking?” Ilya asked, his words a little slurred. His accent a little heavier, and he smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.

“Whiskey.”

“Perfect.” He got the bartender’s attention, then pointed to Troy’s empty glass and then to the empty space in front of himself. “How are you?”

Troy huffed. “Alive.”

“Yes.”

Their whiskeys were delivered, and Ilya immediately tossed half of his down his throat. He grimaced, set his glass down, and said, “When you think you are going to die, there is...what is it? Important things. In your head.”

“Like a clarity,” Troy said. “Yeah.”

Ilya nodded slowly. “Makes you think about things. What is important. What is not.”

“It does.” Troy found Harris in the mirror again. He was at a different table now, leaning in close to Luca Haas with a hand on his arm. Listening, offering comfort in that effortless way Harris always did for everyone.

Who was taking care of Harris?

“I think,” Ilya said, “that what you think in that moment...it is correct, yes?”

Harris caught Troy looking at him. Their eyes met in the mirror for a second, then Troy looked away. “Maybe.”

“I think so.” Ilya downed the rest of his whiskey, then clapped Troy on the shoulder. “What you wanted on that plane. Go for it.”

Ilya left, seemingly headed for his hotel room. Troy should probably do the same. He needed to get out of this suit, at the very least.

He got to his feet and grabbed his suit jacket off the back of the stool, then stole another glance at Harris.

His heart hurt when he looked at him. He was everything Troy wanted, and everything he didn’t deserve. All Troy had done so far was take from him, but maybe tonight he could give something back.