Role Model by Rachel Reid

Chapter Four

“What do you think of Barrett?” Harris asked. It was the morning after Troy’s first game with Ottawa, and for both professional and personal reasons, Harris couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Gen glanced up from her computer. Their desks faced each other in their small office. “According to pretty much everyone in the world of hockey, he’s a dick. And he hasn’t proved otherwise yet.”

“Everyone said Rozanov was a dick,” Harris pointed out. “That turned out to be wrong.”

Gen laughed. “Rozanov is a dick. He’s just a fun one. Troy is the not-fun kind.”

Harris frowned as he scrolled through the replies to his latest Instagram post, not really reading them. “I was thinking that maybe...”

Gen squinted at her screen, then clicked her mouse a few times. “What?”

“I don’t know. That he could use a friend right now? He seems...sad.”

That got Gen’s full attention. She leaned back in her chair, eyebrows raised. “You want to be Barrett’s friend? Wait. Never mind. You want to be everybody’s friend.”

“It’s my job!”

“Sort of.” She went back to clicking and squinting. “He’s pretty,” she said casually.

Harris folded his arms protectively across his chest. “He’s not ugly,” he agreed.

Gen’s lips curved up, though she didn’t look away from her computer screen. “Didn’t you tell me last season that you thought he was the hottest player in the league?”

Harris had definitely said that. “I don’t remember.”

“We were playing Marry, Fuck, Kill and you said ‘fuck Troy Barrett’ three times.”

Oh. Right. “I may have had a few beers in me.”

“Mm.”

“His looks have nothing to do with anything, though. I don’t know if he’s just a jerk, or if he’s being a jerk as, like, a defense mechanism or something. Maybe he just needs people to be nice to him.”

Gen snorted. “NHL stars have it so rough. If only someone would adore them.”

“Have you seen any of the replies on our posts? The fans are vicious to him.”

“No. Looking at replies is your job. All I care about is that you use my good photos and not your shitty iPhone ones.”

“The photo of him on the ice during the anthem before his first game here,” Harris continued, ignoring her. “On both Twitter and Instagram there are about a billion nasty replies.”

“Pro or anti–Dallas Kent?”

“Both. But definitely anti–Troy Barrett. This one says ‘Barrett is jealous that Kent won’t fuck him.’ And then they use some slurs that I won’t repeat.”

“Hockey fans are idiots. What else is new?”

Harris didn’t bother defending hockey fans, and instead asked, “I don’t know why Barrett isn’t a hero right now.”

“Yes you do.”

“But he did the right—”

“Men never believe women. Women don’t believe women. Come on, Harris. You know this. What were you expecting to happen? The whole league rallies behind Barrett, and Kent gets kicked out of hockey?”

“That’s what should have happened.”

“No fucking shit. But instead, Barrett probably regrets saying anything. I’ll bet he didn’t even mean to say it! He didn’t have much to say when I mentioned it to him.”

Harris nearly dropped his phone. “You mentioned it to him? When?”

“When I was taking his official photo. I told him it was good, calling Kent out.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that it was complicated, which doesn’t actually mean anything.” She sighed. “I hate that word. It’s not complicated; Kent is a rapist and Barrett called him a rapist.”

A heavy silence filled the room. Gen was always blunt, but she was also usually right.

“Do you think,” Harris asked, “that Troy, like, knew for sure?” It was the question that had been on his mind for days.

“You mean do I think he witnessed his best friend assaulting women and didn’t say anything until now?” Gen shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I hope not.”

“I hope not too.”

She turned her attention back to her computer. “It’s not my job to like them; it’s my job to make them look good. And Barrett’s pretty face makes my job easy. Hopefully he’s not an accomplice to sexual assault, but if he is, well, he’s not the only player in this league who is, I’m sure.”

Harris chewed his lip. Probably not. For whatever reason, though, he didn’t think Troy was an accomplice. He’d barely met the man, but he wanted to believe Troy was a good person, even if only for professional reasons. Harris liked every member of the Ottawa team, and he didn’t want that to change.

“Okay,” Gen said, pushing back from her desk with a loud rumble of chair wheels against the hard floor. “I have to go take photos of Haas modeling some of the new fan gear.”

“That sounds easy,” Harris said. “Haas is adorable.” Luca Haas was a twenty-year-old rookie from Switzerland with blond hair and a baby face that flushed easily. He’d been the number two overall draft pick a couple of years ago, and Ottawa fans were excited to have him on the team this season.

“I’ll bet I can get him to do some really ridiculous poses. Do you think he’d let me dump a bucket of water on him if I told him we needed a wet look?”

Harris laughed, imagining it. Luca was extremely polite and very eager to please. “Be nice to him. He gets enough shit from his teammates.”

“It’s his fault for being so fun to tease.”

Harris was alone in the office for about five minutes before he heard a knock on the door. “Come in.”

The door, which had already been ajar, slowly pushed open, and Harris could not have been more surprised when Troy Barrett walked into the room.

Troy watched as Harris’s smile was replaced by a confused frown when he entered his office.

“Oh,” Harris said. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Harris stood from where he’d been sitting behind his computer. “This is a surprise.”

“Yeah, um.” Troy rubbed his own neck. He may as well get this over with. “I’m sorry. I was rude last night. You were being nice and I was a dick, as usual.”

Harris raised his eyebrows. “You came all the way here to apologize to me?”

Troy had done exactly that, but now that he was being asked, point-blank, he felt a little silly. “I’m just at the hotel down the road.” Damn. He should have said he needed to be here anyway for something else. That would have been cooler.

Harris’s smile returned. “Apology accepted.”

“Good. Thanks.” Now Troy wasn’t sure what to do. Leave, he supposed.

“Actually,” Harris said before Troy could escape, “I was thinking this morning, about you and social media. I don’t blame you for hating it. I’ve seen how people have been talking about you online. It’s...not nice.”

“I try not to pay attention to any of that.”

“Good plan. But if you wanted to put a different image of yourself out there, I’m very good at my job.”

Troy wasn’t sure what being good at posting shit on Twitter meant, but he was determined to be more open-minded. “I’ll think about it.”

This time he really was going to leave, but Harris stopped him again with another question. “How do you like Ottawa so far?”

Troy’s knee-jerk reaction was to say something bitchy about the dull city he was being forced to call home, or to remind Harris that he lived in a hotel room that was practically attached to the rink, but he managed to be civil. “It’s okay. Haven’t seen much of it.”

“I’ve lived here my whole life, so I can answer any questions.”

Troy had no doubt, even though he barely knew the guy, that if he asked Harris to recommend a restaurant, he would enthusiastically rattle off a hundred options, along with detailed reasons why each were great.

“Have you looked for a place to live yet?” Harris asked.

“No. I’ll do that when we get back from our road trip.”

“Are you thinking downtown, or closer to the rink?”

“Not sure.” To be honest, Troy didn’t care. He was planning on renting something furnished and simple because he had no intention of staying in Ottawa past this season. He would use this year to prove that he was still a valuable asset, then move on to a better team. “Where do you live?”

“The Glebe. Nice little apartment. Nothing fancy.”

Troy had no idea what the fuck the Glebe was. “Cool.”

Harris seemed to take Troy’s one-word response as an invitation to keep talking. “I’ve only lived there for a year and it’s still weird living alone. I grew up in a full house. Forty acres of land and we still had to share a bathroom.”

That sounded awful. “Big family?”

“Two older sisters, Mom, Dad, Grandma before she died, three dogs, a cat, and a ghost.”

Troy decided to ignore that last thing. “Jesus. That’s crowded.” God dammit. No, he couldn’t ignore that last thing. “Ghost?”

“Yep. Grandma used to tell me it’s my great-great-uncle Elroy. He was a quiet guy, and a mostly quiet ghost. Knocks stuff over sometimes.”

That struck Troy as being extremely impossible. For lots of reasons. “You must be glad to be out of there.”

“Oh no, I loved it. The family, I mean. Uncle Elroy I could do without sometimes, but I suppose he’s family too. I still love going home. I help out a lot when I’m not working here. Oh jeez, I didn’t even tell you. My family owns an apple orchard. Fourth generation.” He pointed proudly to a button on his jacket that said Drover Family U-Pick. “So, you know, let me know if you need any apples.”

Harris’s cheeks looked a little like apples, rosy and plump above the line of his trim beard. His near-constant smile molded them into round little balls that Troy had a fleeting, confusing desire to bite. He wouldn’t be surprised if Harris tasted like apples, sweet and wholesome. “I’ll let you know.”

Harris kept smiling at him, as if there was nothing that would make him happier than being asked to gift Troy with apples. He was, Troy considered, almost the complete opposite of Adrian. Where Adrian had been tall, with golden skin, dark hair and eyes, and a physique that was more muscular and defined than even Troy’s pro-athlete body, Harris was compact, pale, and soft. Adrian smiled easily, but at least some of it was performance. He could put on a friendly face no matter his actual mood, if he needed to. Harris’s good humor seemed completely natural and genuine.

Adrian was also a bit of a snob, and would never wear a pom-pom toque, or a denim jacket covered in pins. Or a Wonder Woman T-shirt, which Harris was definitely wearing right now. In fact, Adrian probably would have had something bitchy to say about Harris’s entire vibe, which Troy hated to think about.

Troy wondered if Harris had a boyfriend. He seemed like a good guy. He was probably very affectionate. The kind of boyfriend who bought thoughtful gifts. Or who made thoughtful gifts.

“Hypothetically,” Troy said, “if I did the Q and A video, how long would it take?”

“Not long. Maybe fifteen minutes? It gets edited down to about ninety seconds.”

“Is it something you could do...now?”

Harris beamed. “I could totally do it now.”

“Just easy questions, right? Crunchy or smooth peanut butter? That kind of thing?”

Harris’s eyes went wide in mock horror. “No way. You don’t want the crunchy peanut butter fandom coming for you online. Best to avoid controversial subjects like that one.”

“Maybe I like crunchy.”

“The smooth fans are even worse.”

Troy didn’t laugh, but he felt lighter than he had in days. “Let’s do it.”

“Have a seat. I just need to finish setting this stuff up.”

Harris watched as Troy took one step toward the chair, then stopped. He frowned at the floor and chewed his lip, as if trying to make a decision.

“Something wrong?” Harris asked.

Troy fixed his intense, cobalt gaze on Harris. “No.” He resumed moving to the chair, then stopped again. “I’m not a homophobe.”

For a rare second, Harris was speechless. Then he said, “Good to hear.”

“You’re, um, gay? Right?”

Harris wanted to make a joke about the pin he was wearing that said Big Gay Libra being a subtle clue, but he held his tongue. “I am.”

“That’s cool. I know when we met, I probably looked like I was judging you for your...” Troy gestured to his own chest. “Pins. And stuff.”

“It’d crossed my mind,” Harris admitted.

“I wasn’t. I swear. It just surprised me. I really don’t have a problem with...y’know.”

“Pins?” Harris bit the inside of his cheek. He was enjoying teasing this guy more than he should, probably.

Troy’s cheeks pinked, just slightly. “Right.”

For a moment, Harris was mesmerized by the way Troy’s lips had formed into something close to a bashful smile. His eyes softened, and Harris was reminded that Troy was only twenty-five. The same age as him. “Let’s start over, then.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Harris.”

Troy’s smile grew another millimeter. “Troy.”

His hand was as solid and warm as Harris remembered it being from their first handshake, his grip firm and his skin a bit dry. “Nice to meet you, Troy. Get comfortable there and I’ll make sure this is quick and painless.”

Troy sat in the chair, legs spread and hands folded in his lap. He was wearing loose shorts that draped over his bulging thigh muscles. Harris had seen more than his fair share of perfectly sculpted thighs and asses during his time working for the Ottawa Centaurs, but he still allowed himself a moment to admire Troy’s legs before checking the light levels on his face.

“You know it’s cold outside, right?” Harris teased.

Troy glanced at his own bare legs. “I kind of half jogged over here.”

To apologize to Harris. Which was distractingly sweet and didn’t at all align with everything people said about Troy.

“You’re not down south in Toronto anymore. Winters are brutal here.”

“South,” Troy scoffed. “Toronto has the same winters.”

“You might sing a different tune in January. If you haven’t frozen to death by then.”

“I promise I’ll wear pants in January.”

Harris laughed, then stole one more glance at Troy’s muscular thighs before moving the conversation away from his impressive lower half. “If you decide to set up an Instagram account, I can help you with some content for the first posts.”

“Okay.”

Despite his reputation for being mouthy during games, Troy was definitely not a talker off the ice. Fortunately, Harris had no trouble filling a silence. “You can keep it totally professional, and just post official team stuff. Some of the guys barely use their accounts, and some are super into it. Wyatt posts a lot of comic book stuff. Bood basically does my job for me, with all the videos he posts. Ilya didn’t used to use it, but now he’s super into taking photos of random stuff in different cities.” Harris laughed. “I wish he’d turn the camera around sometimes. The fans would probably rather see their hero than a weird fire hydrant, right?”

“I guess.”

“Sorry. I’m chatty.”

Troy pinned him with that gaze for a moment, his blue eyes sharp but not cold. He almost seemed amused. “I noticed.”

“I’d say just tell me to shut up, but it probably wouldn’t work.”

“It’s fine.” Troy returned his gaze to the floor, his shoulders slumped. He looked tired. Harris decided to move things along.

“I just need to get this mic on you and then we’re all set.” He grabbed a little clip-on mic out of his equipment bag and walked over to Troy. He crouched down between Troy’s widespread legs and carefully clipped the mic to the collar of his Centaurs T-shirt.

When he glanced up at Troy’s face, he found those deep ocean eyes studying him. An unwelcome burst of heat shot through Harris, as his dick noticed that he was wedged between the muscular thighs of a very handsome man.

He stood quickly and walked back behind the camera so he could observe Troy on the little screen, instead of from between his legs. “Ready when you are.”

“Okay.” Troy rolled his shoulders back and sat up straight. He kept his hands folded in his lap, all business and probably not at all distracted by sexual thoughts.

Harris started off with hockey questions, because he found hockey players were the most comfortable talking about their sport. He asked about Troy’s favorite players as a kid, and favorite career memory.

“Who’s your favorite current player?” Harris asked.

Troy didn’t hesitate. “Scott Hunter.”

Well. That was...unexpected. Scott Hunter was certainly one of the best players in the league, but he was also an openly gay man, and an activist. In short, Harris was impressed with Troy’s choice. “He’s pretty awesome.”

“I’m also a big Ilya Rozanov fan,” Troy added. “It’s exciting to have the opportunity to play with him.”

“Jesus. Don’t tell him,” Harris joked. “That guy doesn’t need his ego any bigger than it already is.”

Troy’s lips twitched, just barely. “I won’t.”

Harris felt this was a good point to transition into personal preference questions. “Are you a dog person or a cat person?”

“Uh...dog, I think. I’ve never had a pet.”

“Wow. Never?”

“Nope.”

“Jeez, that’s sad. I love dogs. I don’t have one now, but I want a house in the country someday and, like, five dogs. Big ones.”

“That’s a lot.”

“It’s exactly the right amount of dogs.”

Troy shook his head and made a noise that was almost a snort of laughter.

“Do you have any hobbies?”

Oddly, this seemed to be a difficult question for Troy. After a moment of racking his brain to reveal literally anything he liked to do besides play hockey, he finally said, “I play tennis sometimes.”

Well, at least it wasn’t golf or video games, which were the answers that Harris got ninety percent of the time. “Never played it,” he admitted. “I like watching it, though.” He didn’t add that he mostly watched because tennis players were hot. He would bet that Troy looked really good playing tennis. “What’s your favorite ice cream?”

“Um. Shit. It’s been a while. Chocolate, I guess.”

“Wait.” Harris changed his tone to mimic a reporter asking a very serious question. “When was the last time you had ice cream?”

“I don’t know. A few years ago?”

“How is that possible?”

Troy lifted one shoulder. “It’s not something I crave.”

“So what do you crave?”

Lord above, was Troy blushing? “I—”

“Like, what’s a treat for Troy Barrett? If you could eat anything?”

Again, Troy seemed to struggle with the question. “I like salmon.”

Harris laughed. He couldn’t help it. “I was kinda looking for something that’s not part of your trainer-approved diet plan.”

“I don’t really care about food. It’s just fuel.”

Harris didn’t understand those words at all. “Food is the best thing about being alive! Like, I love fish, but if someone put a salmon fillet and a pile of my mom’s apple fritters in front of me, that salmon is gonna get real cold.”

“Cold salmon is good.”

“You can have it. I’m stuffing myself with fritters.”

“I don’t have a sweet tooth, I guess.”

“Nothing wrong with that. What about something savory, like poutine?”

“Always seemed kinda gross.”

Harris blew out a breath. “I’ll edit that answer out so the Ottawa fans don’t know your shocking views of poutine.”

“Cheese and gravy don’t go together.”

“The fuck they don’t!”

Troy smiled properly at that. A brief and heart-stopping flash of teeth that made Harris light-headed. It changed Troy’s whole face, and Harris wanted him to do it again.

“I’ll take sweets over fries and gravy any day,” Harris said, “but poutine is delicious. Who do you play as in Mario Kart?”

“What?”

Harris grinned. He found he got the best answers when he kept the questions random. “You’ve played Mario Kart, right? Please say yes, or I’ll have to tear up my entire second page of questions.”

“You have a page of questions about Mario Kart?”

“Answer the question.”

The smile didn’t fully return, but Troy’s eyes glinted in a way that suggested he might be having an okay time. “I’ve played Mario Kart. I usually pick Mario.”

“No imagination whatsoever.” Harris sighed.

“He’s the best one, isn’t he? The game is named after him. Why? Who do you pick?”

“I’ve been a Yoshi man since I was, like, six years old.”

“He’s my second choice,” Troy conceded.

“We’re basically the same person!”

“Twins,” Troy agreed flatly.

“What’s your favorite place on earth?”

“It’s really hard to follow these questions.”

“But you’re not bored, right?”

A slight quirk of Troy’s lips. “No. I’m not bored.” Again, he took his time considering the question. “Is on the ice a terrible answer?”

“It’s the worst answer. Where do you spend your summers? Or have you traveled anywhere good?”

“I, um.” All of the amusement left Troy’s face. He looked tortured, like answering this question might actually kill him. Harris took pity.

“On the ice is fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks. Sorry. I’m not good at this.”

“You’re crushing it,” Harris assured him, though it wasn’t exactly true. “Next question: Mountains or ocean?”

“Why choose? I’m from Vancouver.”

Harris grinned. “That’s right! And the team is heading there this week. That must be nice for you.”

Troy frowned. “Sure. Yeah. Of course.” The way he said it implied that he would rather travel directly to hell than home to Vancouver.

Harris was fucking this up. Even the most basic questions were making Troy uncomfortable. Harris was usually so good at talking to people.

He decided to try a ridiculous question, to clear the tension out of the room.

“Okay. This one’s important: What’s your favorite type of apple?”

Troy’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know. Red?”

“Aw, man. Seriously?” Harris placed a hand over his heart, feigning being wounded.

“What? Not all apples are red. I like the red ones.”

“I’m offended.”

“Sorry I’m not a fucking apple expert like you.”

It was a little mean, but it was also a little...warm. Troy’s eyes once again glinted with something close to playfulness, and Harris liked it. “You’re right,” he teased back. “That was a really hard question.”

Troy almost laughed. Harris was sure of it, and for some reason his stomach flipped in anticipation.

But Troy pressed his lips together in what was probably an effort to keep any displays of amusement from escaping. His eyes still sparkled, though. “How about McIntosh? That’s an apple, right?”

Harris shook his head. “The disrespect. Unbelievable. Last question: Would you rather skate sprints for half an hour, or answer questions for five minutes?”

“Sprints. Definitely.”

Harris laughed. Probably too loudly, as usual, because Troy flinched and then quickly stood. “So, we’re done?”

“Done.”

“Okay.” Troy walked to the door, clearly keen to get out of there.

“Wait,” Harris said. Troy stopped, then looked back anxiously. Harris put a hand on Troy’s shoulder, and he heard him inhale sharply. “You still have the mic on.”

“Oh. Right.” He stood perfectly still as he let Harris remove it, which Harris did quickly with as little contact as possible. He could smell the woodsy aroma of Troy’s aftershave, or probably his bodywash since the shadow on this jaw suggested that he hadn’t shaved that morning.

“Good to go,” Harris announced cheerfully, holding up the mic. He took a giant step backward, needing to put some distance between them before Harris did something stupid like sniff Troy’s neck. “You, uh, you might want to make sure you have noise-canceling headphones,” Harris said. “For the flight. Those guys are pretty lively on the plane.”

“You’ve flown with the team?”

“A few times. I usually go on a road trip or two each year to document stuff. It makes for fun content. I’m going on the trip south in January. There’s a day off in Tampa, so it should be fun.”

“Oh. Cool.” It didn’t sound like Troy thought it was actually cool that Harris would be on the team plane. He tried not to feel offended.

“Thanks for doing this,” he said. “I’ll let you know when I post it.”

Troy nodded once, and then he was gone.