Role Model by Rachel Reid

Chapter Five

Troy didn’t know what was causing the loud banging noise, but he really needed it to stop. Gradually, he became aware that he was in a Vancouver hotel room, and that the banging was on his door. He groaned and pulled a pillow over his throbbing head, hoping the person would go away.

The person did not go away.

“Barrett. Wake up.” The voice was unmistakably Rozanov’s.

“What is it?” Troy’s voice sounded like it had been sanded down to nothing. He tried to clear his bone-dry throat and said again, “What?”

“Open the door.”

Defeated, Troy dragged himself out of bed and, after making sure he was wearing at least underwear, opened the door. Rozanov strode into the room, uninvited, and made a face. “Smells terrible. You got drunk last night.”

“A little.”

“Not good, Barrett.” He thrust a bottle of Gatorade at Troy. “Drink this. Sit down.”

Troy was more than happy to do both. He collapsed on the bed and cracked open the Gatorade, wondering how Ilya even knew he had been drinking alone last night.

“I saw you in the lobby with a liquor store bag,” Ilya said, as if he could read minds. “Heading for the elevators. You were in a hurry, it looked like.”

In a hurry to not feel anything, Troy thought.

“This is something you do a lot?” Ilya picked up the mostly empty bottle of cheap vodka from Troy’s dresser and frowned at the label.

“No.”

“We play tonight.”

“I know. It was stupid.”

“Yes.” Ilya studied him until Troy was forced to look away.

“It won’t happen again,” he said, though he wasn’t sure that was true because now his reasons for drinking were all rushing back. After a long, lonely plane ride of listening to his teammates laughing and joking like the tight-knit friends they were, all Troy had wanted was to retreat to his boyfriend’s arms. He missed Adrian so fucking much and he couldn’t even call him. On top of that, he’d been ignoring his dad’s phone calls and texts since yesterday because he could not fucking deal with that guy right now.

This was the first time in Troy’s career that he hadn’t enjoyed returning to his hometown. He’d never liked seeing his father, but until this trip, he’d been able to see his boyfriend, or his mother, or both.

Now his dickhead father was the only one left.

The shit with Dallas had happened so quickly after Adrian had dumped him, and then the trade, that the heartbreak had been kind of a vague emptiness that had hovered over Troy like a cloud. Now that he was in Vancouver, the cloud had descended, filling him with rage and despair. The breakup hadn’t seemed real before now, because he and Adrian barely saw each other anyway. Being in the same city and not being able to hold him, kiss him, take him to bed and truly be himself for a few hours, was killing him.

And no one could ever know.

“I’m sorry. It was—”

If Ilya noticed the way Troy’s voice broke, his face didn’t show it. “This is your town, yes? Where you are from?”

“Yes.”

“Your personal life is personal. If it does not affect your game, it does not matter to me. Coach will say the same thing.”

Troy closed his eyes. “Are you going to tell him?”

“Not this time.”

It was a warning, and one that Troy silently promised to heed. Hockey was all he had left. He needed to make the most of things with this Ottawa team or he’d fall apart completely.

“You look like shit,” Ilya said. “Practice is optional this morning. You are opting out.”

Troy almost protested because he had planned on skating this morning, but it would be ridiculous to argue. He was in no condition to do anything more strenuous than take a shower. “Okay.”

“Also, your dad is in the lobby.”

“What?”

“Yes. He introduced himself to me.” Ilya made a sour face that Troy completely understood. “He is still there, but I can tell him you are...”

Fuck. “No. I need to talk to him. Otherwise he’ll just—” Troy stopped himself. His messed-up family was none of Rozanov’s business. “I’ll shower and go downstairs. I’ll text him. Let him know.”

“Yes, okay.”

Troy finished the Gatorade. “Thanks. For this.” He held up the empty bottle.

“Rest today. Play good tonight. Don’t do this again.”

“I won’t.”

Ilya went to the door, then paused before opening it. “Family can be hard. Fathers.”

It was a weird thing to say, and Troy didn’t know how to respond. He went with, “Yeah. Sometimes.”

Ilya nodded, then left. Troy blew out a breath and headed for the shower.

Troy did his best to make himself look presentable, but he shoved an Ottawa Centaurs ball cap on his head to partially obscure his face just in case his eyes were still red-rimmed. On top of being hungover, he felt dangerously close to crying.

Troy couldn’t believe his dad was here. Except it also completely made sense; a rotten cherry on top of the trash sundae that his life had become.

He saw Curtis Barrett right away, lounging in one of the armchairs in the middle of the lobby. He stood when he spotted Troy, and the two men sitting in the chairs opposite him stood too.

Of course Dad had brought friends. He loved to show off his NHL star son.

“Troy! Jesus, you look like you were up all night.” Dad clapped Troy hard on the shoulder. “I hope she was worth it.”

Curtis’s laugh was as aggressive as everything else about him, and Troy struggled not to flinch. As Curtis’s friends joined in, braying like ignorant donkeys, Troy had a brief, wild urge to say, “Actually my boyfriend dumped me for another man,” but of course he didn’t.

Instead, he settled himself into one of the chairs, done with standing. “Hi, Dad.”

“This is Brad, he owns Condor Construction. And Darryl, from Harper Demolition. You remember Darryl, right?”

“Sure,” Troy lied. “Of course.” All of Dad’s friends looked kind of the same: middle-aged men with builds that suggested they’d once been athletes, but had grown flabby over the years. Troy would probably look like that himself one day.

“So.” Curtis inspected his son’s Centaurs hoodie and ball cap. “You got downgraded to Ottawa.”

“I got traded.”

“You got punished, is what you got. I don’t know what Kent did to get under your skin, but you’ve gotta watch your mouth, kid. Bad fucking luck having it caught on video.” He made a face. “Practices should be private. What’s said between teammates should stay there. I remember back when I was playing in Kamloops...”

And off he went, sucking all of the oxygen out of the room with tales of his glory days as a junior hockey player. Troy tuned him out. Troy being an actual NHL star had never stopped his father from trying to one-up his every hockey story. Eventually, Troy had just stopped sharing stories at all.

“Of course, you can’t say anything these days,” Dad was saying when Troy became aware that he was still talking. “Social justice warriors lurking everywhere.”

“You got that right,” Brad or Darryl agreed.

“Look at poor Dallas Kent,” Dad said, as if Troy wasn’t sitting right there. “People can say anything on the internet, trying to ruin a man’s career. His reputation.”

Troy wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. His head hurt and his throat was still precariously tight. Dad was now looking directly at him.

“Fortunately no one took what you said seriously,” Dad continued. “Obviously Toronto had to get rid of you, which is a damn shame, but anyone who knows hockey knows that things get said in the heat of the moment.”

Was that what people were telling themselves? That Troy had lost his temper over something during practice and hurled a cheap shot at Kent? That Troy didn’t actually believe that Kent was a sexual predator?

Dad chuckled. “If you’d been opponents instead of teammates, I think using the bullshit those women were accusing him of would be a smart strategy on the ice. Get in his head, y’know? But not your teammate. You two were like brothers. I hope you’ve at least tried to apologize to him. I don’t blame him if he tells you to get fucked, but you’ve gotta man up and try.”

Brad and...the other one...made noises of agreement.

Troy took a long, steadying breath. “You coming to the game tonight?”

“You bet. Bringing these guys with me. Not sure they’ll be cheering for fucking Ottawa, though.”

The three men laughed. Troy didn’t. He almost asked why Dad wasn’t bringing his new wife, but decided he didn’t care. He didn’t care about any of this, and he’d used up his ability to appear fine. It was time to seek refuge in his private hotel room so he could cry until he fell asleep. “Well, like you said, I didn’t sleep much last night, so I should try to rest up before the game.”

“You’re not leaving already, are you? Here, I’ll get you a coffee.” Dad laughed. “You should be buying us coffees, with your millions of dollars.”

Curtis Barrett also had millions of dollars. Maybe not as many millions as Troy, but the crane company he had started over twenty years ago had certainly made him a rich man.

“I think sleep would be better than coffee right now,” Troy said. He stood up.

“I guess.” Curtis frowned at his son, and Troy knew he’d been expecting him to do more to dazzle his friends than mumble a few words through the painful grip of a hangover. He did not look happy when he reluctantly stood and gave Troy another shoulder clap. “All right, well, good luck tonight.”

“It’s good to see you again, Dad.” Troy was an excellent liar. “Enjoy the game,” he said to Brad and Darryl, then turned quickly and left.

His eyes were already burning by the time the elevator doors closed.

Troy played terribly that night. Obviously. It had taken all of his focus to keep himself from bursting into tears in the locker room, or on the bench. Either would have been, of course, unthinkable. He wasn’t known for his sunny disposition at the best of times, and his teammates didn’t know him anyway, so it was easier to hide his agony than it might have been otherwise.

By the third period, Troy had been replaced on the front line by Luca Haas. Coach drastically reduced Troy’s ice time, which only gave him more time to wallow in misery on the bench. His team lost.

In the dressing room, Troy’s teammates didn’t speak to him. They barely looked at him. Well, Ilya looked at him, but it was in a way that managed to say you get to drink all night and play like shit the next day exactly once before I tell Coach without any words at all. It was impressive. The rest of the team was probably only thinking one thing: Why the fuck did we sign this asshole?

Everything fucking sucked, and now hockey wasn’t even working. What did Troy have left?

“All right, boys,” Coach Wiebe announced. The room went silent, the air thick with shame and frustration. “We’ll be practicing in Edmonton tomorrow after we land. Obviously, there are going to be some changes.” He didn’t look directly at Troy, but he didn’t have to. “Edmonton has a stronger team than Vancouver, and we can’t play like we did tonight against them. So get a good night’s sleep—I don’t want anyone going out tonight, I don’t care what city we’re in—and tomorrow get ready to work hard, okay?”

There was a chorus of “Yes, Coach,” then Wiebe nodded and left the room.

Troy wished they were flying right now. He couldn’t wait to leave Vancouver behind.

Troy wasn’t on the top line when his team faced Edmonton. He’d been bumped down to the third line, which he couldn’t blame the coaches for, but it still hurt.

He needed a goal. He’d never been so desperate for something in his life. As far as hockey players went, he wasn’t particularly superstitious, but he thought maybe, if he scored a goal, things would turn around for him.

So he played hard every shift, using his speed to get to the net for a chance at a rebound or deflection. He played a physical game, taking his aggression out on anyone who got close to him. He would score tonight.

In the third period, Coach tried Troy out on the power play line. Edmonton was two goals ahead, and an Ottawa goal now would be a huge momentum boost. The face-off was in the Edmonton zone, and Rozanov won it, sending the puck back to Dykstra.

Troy darted to the net, right as Dykstra took a slap shot from the blue line. The Edmonton goalie made the save, but couldn’t control the rebound. The puck landed on Troy’s stick, inches away, just as the goalie fell backward on the ice. Troy fired it over the goaltender’s sprawling body, into the wide-open net.

Troy celebrated like he’d won the Stanley Cup.

Then he registered that his teammates weren’t celebrating with him, and he heard Dykstra yelling, “No fucking way that was interference, ref!”

But the ref was making the hand signal for “no goal,” and Troy could not fucking believe it.

“I didn’t touch the guy!” Troy yelled. “The clumsy fuck fell over!”

“No goal,” the ref said. “You hooked the back of his skate, Barrett.”

“The fuck I did.”

One of Edmonton’s defensemen, a giant doofus named Nelson, shoved Troy’s chest, causing his back to slam into the boards behind the net. “We all saw it, you cheating little shit.”

“How’d you see it? You were too busy doing fuck all to stop me. I walked right into your house and scored. Sorry you’re bad at your job, you dumb fuck.”

“At least I’m not a fucking traitor.”

Troy shoved Nelson back, even though Nelson had about half a foot of height on him. Rozanov stepped in, face calm, and said, “You have to have friends to be a traitor, Nelson. So, no. You will not ever be one.”

Nelson glared at him. “You better hope no chicks you bang make shit up about you online, Rozanov. This one will turn on you in a second.”

“Yes. Could you ask your wife not to post about me then?”

“Fuck you, Rozanov!”

“Everyone back to your benches now,” the ref barked.

Troy turned his fury on the ref. “That was a goal.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“It was a fucking goal! Have you ever seen a hockey game before? He fucking fell.”

The ref got up in his face. “Go to your bench. Last warning.”

Troy was full of rage that had been simmering for over a week and he needed to let it out. The ref was probably the worst possible target but, well, he happened to be the one standing in front of Troy.

“Fuck you.” And then he shoved the ref, and, yeah. That wasn’t a good idea.

Troy was immediately handed a game misconduct. He continued hurling insults at the refs, the Edmonton players, the fans, and possibly God as he left the ice. In the tunnel, Troy smashed his stick to pieces on the wall, screaming profanity until he was holding a short chunk of carbon fiber in his glove. Then he threw the chunk at the wall.

He still hadn’t showered or even undressed by the time the game ended. He’d just sat in his stall, seething.

Ottawa didn’t score again, and ended up losing by three goals. The mood in the room was solemn after the rest of the team got there. Coach came in and gave another speech about how they needed to be better. Troy was starting to wonder if he only had one speech. Lord knew he only needed one, the way this team played.

After Coach left, and most of the guys were headed to the showers, Rozanov sat next to Troy. “Okay?” Rozanov asked.

“Fucking great.”

“Yes, I can tell.”

Troy didn’t reply. He’d had his head down, but now he glanced over at his new captain. Ilya had stripped to his boxer briefs, and had his long legs stretched out in front of him. Troy’s gaze caught on the famous tattoo of a snarling grizzly bear on Ilya’s left pec. It was absolutely ridiculous up close. He noticed a second tattoo, less famous and probably more recent, on Ilya’s arm, near his shoulder. It was a bird of some sort. A loon, maybe. Kind of a weird choice.

“You are a good hockey player,” Ilya said.

It was so abrupt and unexpected that Troy fumbled his response. “Uh, okay. Thanks.”

Ilya sighed and tilted his head back against the wall behind him. “I am tired of losing, Barrett.”

“Well, you came to the wrong fucking team.” Troy, like pretty much the entire NHL, had no idea why Ilya Rozanov had chosen to sign with Ottawa when he’d become a free agent. He could have gone almost anywhere. Instead he chose one of the worst teams in the league, in a quiet city that got about a billion tons of snow every winter. For a guy who loved sports cars, nightclubs and women, it seemed like a weird choice.

“I think we can win,” Ilya said. “We have a good goalie. We have young talent, and solid defense. And we have me. Should be a good team.”

Everything Ilya was saying was true. They should be a better team. “Then why aren’t we?”

Ilya locked eyes with him. “Because we don’t believe it. No one who comes here expects to win.”

Well, Troy couldn’t argue with that. He certainly didn’t come here expecting to be a part of a winning team.

“Tonight,” Ilya continued. “What did you want to do?”

“I wanted to score a goal.”

Ilya nodded. “For you. Not for the team.”

“I—” Okay. Troy couldn’t argue that either. “I needed to score. I still need to, even though that goal should have—”

“Yes. I know.” Ilya stood up, then turned and stared down at Troy. Even in his underwear, Ilya managed to make Troy feel embarrassed and ridiculous. He’d thrown a tantrum over a disallowed goal. A goal that wouldn’t even have mattered, probably.

Also, Ilya looked really damn good in his underwear. But that wasn’t a useful train of thought.

“Score a goal for you if you need to,” Ilya said, “but think about what you can do for the team. You are, I think, what we have needed.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and crossed the floor to his own stall, sliding his underwear off in the middle of the room. Troy huffed out a laugh. Rozanov was a piece of fucking work.

There were years of Troy’s life when the locker room was the most stressful place in the world. When the conversation that had just happened, with a man as attractive as Ilya displaying himself as brazenly as he’d just done, would have been terrifying, because what if Troy gave something away? An involuntary glance or, god help him, an involuntary boner. He’d been miserable and alone, until one day, before he started his second season in the WHL at eighteen, he’d decided to start hiding behind a wall of aggressive macho bullshit. It hadn’t been difficult; his dad had given him years of macho bullshit to emulate. So had most of his teammates and coaches.

And then he’d gone to Toronto and met Dallas Kent, the perfect loud, shithead shrub to hide behind. At some point, it had become easier to stay in character as a hetero bro who was, shamefully, pretty homophobic.

Troy had worn that mask full-time until he’d met Adrian. At that party two years ago, Troy had been utterly defenseless in the face of all of Adrian’s beauty and charm. It had been difficult, every time, to put the mask back on after leaving Adrian’s apartment, but Troy had needed to go back to his life as a hockey player, and he’d been nowhere near ready to be out and proud like Scott Hunter. He still wasn’t ready.

But he didn’t want to wear the fucking mask anymore either.

He thought about Ryan Price, a former teammate who had been on his mind a lot over the past year. Ryan had played with Troy in Toronto the season before last. He’d been traded a zillion times; Toronto had been, like, his ninth NHL team or something. Troy had been a complete dick to him because he’d been following Kent’s lead. And because Troy was, admittedly, a complete dick.

Now Troy knew how fucking uncomfortable it was to be traded, and he was ashamed at how he’d treated Ryan when he’d been struggling to fit in. Instead of doing anything to help, Troy had laughed at how nervous Ryan had been on airplanes, and had made homophobic jokes right in front of him. Not after he’d learned Ryan was gay, but that didn’t matter.

Ryan had been a perfectly nice guy. Shy, maybe. Awkward, definitely. But he’d been fierce as hell when he’d stomped on Dallas and Troy’s immature jokes by clearly stating that he was gay, and that he wasn’t going to stand for their homophobia anymore. That was a moment Troy would never forget.

It had been the single bravest thing he’d ever seen. And it hadn’t even seemed like a big deal to Ryan, who had just calmly returned to his stall after and started putting on his gear like he hadn’t just simultaneously humiliated and inspired Troy. Because Troy had been hiding behind homophobic jokes for so long that they’d become effortless to make. Effortless to laugh at. But Troy had had an actual gay teammate and he hadn’t even tried to get to know him. To reach out. To help him feel accepted and welcome.

What a wasted fucking opportunity.

Troy liked that Ilya had taken a few minutes to talk to him just now, even if it wasn’t exactly pleasant conversation. He knew Ilya was vocal about the importance of inclusion in hockey, and that he didn’t just talk the talk. He and Shane Hollander ran charity hockey camps in the summer that celebrated diversity and had an inclusive staff to match. Troy heard that Ryan Price was one of the coaches. He’d also heard the rumors that Shane Hollander was gay. He wasn’t sure if they were true, but he secretly thought it would be cool if they were. He certainly didn’t blame Hollander for not announcing it.

He wondered if Ilya knew. Somehow those two rivals had become tight over the past few years, and Troy would be impressed if Ilya was best friends with a gay man. Maybe when you’d hooked up with as many women as Ilya had, you didn’t have to worry about having your own sexuality questioned.

Ilya would probably support Troy if he knew Troy was gay. If Troy wanted to come out and just...be himself. Finally.

Troy let out a long breath, and began tugging off his gear. This was a lot to be thinking about while still wearing sweaty, disgusting hockey gear. Troy needed food and sleep and to score a fucking goal and maybe get laid someday.

Maybe he should ask Ilya for Shane Hollander’s number. Shane was a fucking babe.

The thought made Troy smile, and that was at least something.