Role Model by Rachel Reid

Chapter Two

Damn. Troy Barrett was a looker all right.

Harris was in his office, staring at a headshot Gen had just taken of the newest Ottawa player. He had always thought Troy was one of the hottest players in the NHL, and meeting him in person today had only reinforced that belief. Troy’s intense blue eyes, glossy dark hair, and pouting lips made him look more like a pop star than a hockey player. His narrow face had a razor-sharp jaw, shaded with dark stubble, and his cheekbones were frankly astonishing.

But it was his eyes that Harris couldn’t look away from. Glinting like blue flames from under dark, heavy brows and long, full lashes.

Harris remembered the bare contempt that had been in those eyes when he’d been staring at Harris’s pin collection. Harris knew the look. He got it in grocery stores, on the bus, and sometimes, yes, at work. None of it would stop him from wearing his queerness proudly on his chest, or on his wrist, or on one of several pro-queer T-shirts he owned. He always felt disappointed, mostly, when he received looks like the one Barrett had given his rainbow flair.

Extra disappointed in this case, because Harris had been hoping that Troy Barrett was a better man than rumors had described him to be.

Still, though. He was pretty.

Harris had never hooked up with an NHL player because he was determined to keep things professional. Also because the opportunity had never presented itself.

NHL players were basically gods, with spectacular bodies and loaded bank accounts. And Harris was... Harris. Short, a little pudgy, unathletic, and definitely not rich. He earned less in a year than some of the players did in a day. So Harris’s personal pledge to never sleep with a member of the team he worked for showed about as much resolve as pledging not to take too many trips to the moon.

But if Harris ever went to town on an NHL player, he wouldn’t mind if that man looked something like Troy Barrett.

Gen’s email had mentioned that she’d included one photo of Troy smiling, but she’d also suggested not using it. As soon as Harris opened that one, he barked out a laugh. Gen hadn’t been kidding; Troy’s smile looked like it had been trampled on. Not only did it not meet his eyes, it barely met his mouth.

Harris imagined if he’d been able to play in the NHL—if he’d been able to play hockey at all—he’d never stop smiling. Hell, he barely stopped smiling as it was.

Harris picked one of the stern-faced photos of Troy—they all looked more or less the same—and dropped it into the frame he’d created for posts that introduced new players.

“There you go, buddy,” he said as he posted it to the team’s Instagram account. “You’re officially a Centaur.”

Next he opened up the document that was a running list of questions he’d thought of for player Q and A videos. He began cutting and pasting a few into a new list that he titled Questions for Troy Barrett. In a few minutes, he had a decent list, but it contained none of the questions that Harris really wanted to ask. Questions about Dallas Kent that would definitely not be appropriate for a friendly promo video. But damn, Harris had so many questions.

When the first post about Kent had shown up on Reddit, Harris had been horrified, but not especially surprised. The woman, posting anonymously, described being raped by Kent at a party at his house. The post was long, and detailed, and very hard to read, but Harris had read every word. He’d also read every word of the infuriating replies that mocked, dismissed, or threatened the original poster. He’d read the equally dismissive conversations between hockey fans on social media. He’d watched and read the mainstream hockey media’s response, which was largely to defend Kent. And Harris had noted the way the league and its players were determined to either ignore the whole thing, or to loudly complain about how easy it was for people to make shit up on the internet.

More posts appeared online. More women with horrific stories of their own about Kent. Harris read them all, wishing there could be formal accusations that could lead to an arrest. He understood why the women were choosing to remain anonymous, though. He didn’t need to look any further than those awful replies to see why Kent’s victims weren’t pressing charges.

While there were plenty of guys in the Ottawa locker room who were disgusted by Kent, and wanted to see him in jail, none of them said anything publicly. Overall, the hockey world stayed silent about the Dallas Kent situation. The accusations made hockey players uncomfortable, and most were happy to ignore it.

Troy Barrett hadn’t ignored it. He’d been the only one who had stood up to Kent. Actually got in his face during team practice and called him a rapist. Clear as a fucking bell. Had Troy been a witness, or did he just know, after years of being Kent’s teammate and friend, what he was capable of? What had made him snap like that?

Arguments and even fights happened between teammates, and many had been caught on camera over the years. But hockey players had a tendency to stand behind their teammates when accusations of abuse or assault emerged. If Troy believed Kent’s victims, that was a pretty big deal. This sport, as much as Harris loved it, had a horrible track record when it came to punishing players for, well, anything, really. Troy couldn’t be all bad.

Though, Harris considered, you could be horrified by the actions of a sexual predator and still find time to be grossed out by gay men. So maybe he still sucked.

For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Harris opened the photo of Troy trying to smile again. Instead of laughing this time, Harris contemplated Troy’s eyes. They were so striking that Harris hadn’t noticed the anxiety they held. He noticed it now, and couldn’t help wondering what Troy would look like if he smiled for real. Would his eyes crinkle? Would there be dimples? Maybe Harris could make him laugh...

Except, right. Probably a homophobe.

He shook his head and closed the image. Enough of Troy Barrett for now. He had puppy photos to post.

When Troy got back to his hotel room, he logged into his secret Instagram account. He’d barely posted anything on it; he just used it to follow Adrian, mostly. And maybe Troy shouldn’t be doing that anymore, but he still couldn’t quite believe that things were over between them.

When they’d first been introduced at a party in Vancouver two years ago, Troy hadn’t been able to stop looking at him. And Troy was good at not looking at attractive men. Adrian Dela Cruz, the star of a popular superhero television show, was firmly in the closet himself, and had been just as taken with Troy. Through some miracle combination of pheromones, silent communication, and luck, both men had clued into the fact that they’d wanted the same thing. Later that same night, they’d given it to each other.

A recent post by Adrian showed the reason he had ended things with Troy. The real reason, not the bullshit ones he’d given him about how they weren’t really in love, or that they’d only been together because it was easy.

Troy hadn’t understood that argument at all because there was nothing easy about their relationship. Living in constant fear that someone would find out about them wasn’t easy. Living three time zones away from your boyfriend wasn’t easy. Not being able to talk about your favorite person in the world with your friends, family, and teammates wasn’t easy. Going fucking months without sex wasn’t easy.

No. The real reason was Justin fucking Green, the director of a Netflix movie Adrian had filmed ten months ago. Which was, Adrian had admitted, when he’d started to fall in love with Justin. And now, as of four days ago, Adrian was out and proud and engaged.

And Troy had no idea how he was supposed to continue existing. He had no one to talk to about this. No one knew about Adrian. No one even knew that Troy was gay.

And of course Troy’s first road game with his new team was in Vancouver. As if everything wasn’t terrible enough, he’d soon be in the city that had always been his refuge. This time he would be completely alone.

He stared at the photo of Adrian and his fiancé, hoping if he looked for long enough the surreal wrongness of seeing Adrian in someone else’s arms would fade.

God, he was beautiful. Obviously he was attractive; he played a superhero on television. But Troy had gotten to see him when he wasn’t made-up for the camera—rumpled and sleepy in the morning, or crashed out on the couch after a long day of filming—and he’d been even more taken with him then. Troy had loved every precious moment they’d had together.

And now they were over. Now Justin Green was enjoying those sleepy smiles and unhurried morning sex while Troy was staring at a fucking photo. Alone. In Ottawa.

Troy’s life had imploded so quickly he hadn’t had a chance to fully absorb it yet. He was going through the motions of being an NHL player on autopilot, knowing that if he paused to examine his shattered heart he may never move again. Two days—two days—after being dumped, Troy had seen the first of the accusations against Dallas Kent online. The words on his laptop screen had blurred through his damp eyes, and his throat had burned with the need to scream or cry or maybe throw up. Every detail of the woman’s account was so familiar. Troy hadn’t been a witness, but her description of the things Dallas had said...

It had been easy to believe. By the time Troy had read the fourth account, two days later, his blood had boiled with rage.

The comments beneath each of the posts were full of people defending Kent, and saying vile things about his accusers. When Troy had gone to his next practice, he’d heard his teammates saying similar things about them. During the practice, he’d watched Kent laughing and having fun, completely unbothered, and Troy had just snapped. He’d gotten in his best friend’s face and unloaded all the rage that had been churning inside him. All of the disgust that Kent should have been getting from everyone on the ice. From everyone on earth.

Not that it had done any good. Hockey media was rallying behind Dallas, seemingly only concerned about the mental strain this unfortunate business would cause the young hockey star.

Mental strain. Jesus fuck. If anything, Dallas was probably more angry at Troy than bothered by the accusations. He certainly wasn’t burdened by guilt or shame. He probably wasn’t even a little bit afraid of repercussions. Because why would he be?

Troy was suddenly very tired, and thought about going to bed early even though he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Except, shit. He was supposed to set up an Instagram account. A real one that wasn’t just a burner account for looking at hot men.

So, maybe a less real one.

He deleted the burner account. Maybe he’d set up another one so he could follow hot men again, but he’d start fresh. When he was ready. For now, he would do his homework and start a professional account.

He was in the process of deciding on a password when he got a text message from his mother.

Mom: Look at where you are!

A photo quickly followed that showed a Funko Pop! figure of Troy—in his Toronto uniform—balanced on a balcony railing. Behind it were beautiful misty mountains blanketed in thick blue-green forest.

Troy: Wow. Where are you?

Mom: Hakone. That’s the view from my hotel room! I took it this afternoon.

Troy’s heart lifted a bit. There was no one he wished were here with him now more than his mom. Unfortunately, she was on the other side of the world.

Troy:Isn’t it the middle of the night in Japan?

Mom:Can’t sleep. Ready for your big debut tomorrow night?

Troy: I want to get it over with.

Mom: Has it been bad?

Troy chewed his lip. Mom only knew a fraction of why his life had been hell lately. Hers had been the first supportive voice he’d heard after the video of him yelling at Dallas had hit the internet, and it had been hard not to break down crying as she’d assured him that he’d done the right thing. That he was a good person.

She didn’t know about Adrian. Not only that Troy had just had his heart broken, but that he’d been dating someone at all. He’d never introduced Adrian even as a friend. He’d been so scared that his parents would see them together and know.

Especially his dad. Troy could almost imagine coming out to his mother, but not his dad. Never.

Finally, Troy wrote, Not too bad. Just different.

Mom: Sometimes bad things happen so better things can happen.

Mom would know that more than most people. After Troy’s father had left her for a much younger woman three years ago, Mom had been devastated. She’d told Troy, one night over a shared bottle of wine, that the worst part was the embarrassment.

“It’s not just that he replaced me with an upgrade,” she’d told him. “It’s that I’m ashamed of having ever been with him in the first place. Do you know how many people have told me that they always thought he was an asshole?” Then she’d apologized for talking about Troy’s father that way in front of him. Troy had waved her apology away. Curtis Barrett was an asshole.

And now, because of Dallas Kent, Troy knew the shame of standing beside someone for years who was, well. A villain.

Troy: You should get some sleep.

Mom: I’ll try. Charlie says hi.

Troy: Charlie’s awake too?

Mom: No, but if he were awake he’d say hi.

Troy chuckled quietly and typed, Good night, Mom. Love you.

Mom: Love you too. Good luck tomorrow.

He fell back on the mattress, letting out a long sigh of exhaustion and frustration. He should probably finish setting up his new Instagram account and maybe post something, but he didn’t feel like it. His last team had barely involved players in their social media outreach, and Troy had been extremely fine with that, but this was a new team with a new vibe, and he should make an effort to fit in.

He opened Instagram again, created a password, and then hit a roadblock when it asked for a profile picture. All he had saved on his phone were promo shots of himself in a Toronto uniform.

He wondered if the team had posted one of the photos Gen had taken today yet. He went to the team’s official account and found his own too-cool-to-smile face staring back at him.

Well, it would have to do.

He was about to take a screenshot, but then he made the mistake of scrolling down to read the comments.

Barrett’s a fucking disgrace.

Always thought he was overrated. Now I think he’s a fucking scumbag.

Barrett believes lying whores over his own teammates. Trash.

Ottawa deserves him. Shit team. Shit player.

I can’t believe we signed this loser.

Troy put the phone down, screen pressed against the mattress. He was used to being hated by opposing players and their fans. But that had been because of his skill and, yes, because of his mouth. He’d always been good at getting under people’s skin, if he wanted to. But this time he was hated for using that mouth to say something that was actually, maybe, right. Something he should be proud of.

The Instagram account could wait. Maybe if he stalled long enough, Harris would drop it. It’s not like Troy would be posting anything interesting anyway. Troy didn’t want to be interesting; he just wanted to play hockey.