Role Model by Rachel Reid

Chapter Six

Harris drove his truck under the hanging sign that read Drover Family Orchards late on Sunday afternoon. His family’s home was about forty-five minutes outside the city, but he still tried to make it for Sunday dinner as often as possible.

Tidy lines of bare apple trees stretched out from both sides of the long unpaved road that led to the house, their branches twisting up into the white, late-November sky. The hard-packed frozen dirt crunched underneath his tires, loud and familiar. He loved coming home.

He drove past the newer road that ran from the main drive to the cidery his sisters had built on the property two years ago. He could see the fancy barn-like building in the distance, white Christmas lights lining its gambrel roof. He wondered if Anna and Margot were still working, or if they were waiting for him at home.

The dogs were already running to greet him when the house came into view. Mac—the youngest of the three—was first. Shannon and Bowser followed, barking happily.

Harris got out of the truck and laughed as all three dogs jumped on him, tails slamming against his legs and against each other. “Hey, fellas, how’s it going?”

He crouched to give each of them the rubs and scritches they deserved. Mac, an enormous brown beast, put his paws on Harris’s shoulders. All of the dogs were rescues, and Harris could only guess what breeds they were made up of, but Mac must have some Newfoundland in him.

“Get down, you attention hog.”

“Mac! Come!” Mom had appeared on the front porch, dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and jeans. She slapped her palms against her thighs and called for Mac again. Mac reluctantly released Harris and ran to her.

He grabbed a covered casserole dish from the floor of the passenger seat, then walked to the house. Shannon and Bowser followed, calmer now that they were convinced that Harris still loved and remembered them.

“What did you bring this time?” Mom asked when he reached the porch. She kissed his cheek, and he did the same.

“It’s my brussels sprouts with bacon and balsamic. It just needs a few minutes to reheat.”

Since Harris and his sisters had moved out, the Sunday dinners had more of a potluck structure. The whole family had always pitched in with the cooking when they’d all lived together, so it made sense to continue helping even if it was in separate kitchens.

“I was hoping that’s what it was. Your father got experimental with the asparagus and I think we might need a backup green vegetable.”

He followed her and the dogs into the house, which smelled like roast pork and possibly burnt asparagus. There was no sign of Anna, Margot, or their husbands yet. The Drover house wasn’t large, but Harris couldn’t imagine a better place to grow up in. Or come home to. It was an old farmhouse, white on the outside and mostly dark wood on the inside. Cramped and cozy and full of family photographs and antique furniture that had been in the house for generations.

Harris went to place his brussels sprouts in the oven. Dad was in the kitchen, frowning at a sheet pan of black asparagus.

“You used the broiler, didn’t you?” Harris teased.

“Can’t take your eyes off the damn thing for a second,” Dad grumbled.

“It’s okay, Dad. I’ve got the healthy green vegetable covered.” He opened the oven door and slid his casserole dish in. “It has bacon, but it’s still totally healthy.”

Dad looked like he wanted to say something about bacon and cholesterol, but instead he asked, “You been feeling all right, Harris?”

“I feel great.” Harris patted his chest. “Perfect working order.”

Dad frowned at Harris’s chest, where they both knew the ugly lines of multiple surgery scars marred his skin, then sighed and engulfed his son in a tight hug. “Glad to hear it.”

“You worry too much. You know I’ll go see Dr. Melvin if I feel even the slightest bit off.”

“I know.”

“Here,” Harris said, reaching for the sheet pan. “I’ll take that to the compost.”

Dad gave the asparagus one last look, as if he might think of a way to revive them, then nodded.

Shannon, the oldest and smallest of the three dogs, followed Harris out the back door. The air was crisp and cold and the sun was setting fast. Harris loved this time of year, when the hockey season was in full swing and Christmas was getting close.

He dumped the asparagus into the compost bin while Shannon inspected a rock on the ground. He didn’t like talking about his health. He didn’t like thinking about it. He took it seriously—he hadn’t been lying to Dad about that—but he hated the way his family looked at him sometimes. Like he was fragile. Like he could die at any moment.

Anyone could die at any moment.

Harris had decided a long time ago not to worry too much and not to feel sorry for himself. Ottawa had great hospitals, and he’d had the best of care since birth. There was no reason to assume he wouldn’t live a long and happy life.

After a few minutes of scratching Shannon’s ears and enjoying the quiet behind the house, Harris went back inside. The house was much louder than before, which meant his older sisters, Anna and Margot, had arrived with their husbands.

“Harris!” Anna called out. “What the hell. That Twitter war you were in with Edmonton was hilarious.”

Harris hugged her. “Aw, well. They have a great social media person. Danielle is super funny.”

“Fighting” with other NHL social media accounts was one of Harris’s favorite parts of the job. He wasn’t the kind of guy to trash-talk or say anything mean at all in real life, but when he played the role of the Ottawa Centaurs brand, he could really let loose.

“It was great,” she said. “Jesus, Mac. Calm down. Here, take this to the kitchen for me, would ya?” She handed Harris a wrapped casserole dish.

“Is this apple crisp?”

“Of course it is. You put me on dessert duty, you’re getting apple crisp every time.”

Harris wasn’t sad about it. He brought the dessert to the kitchen, and called for Mac to follow him. Now that everyone had arrived, the house would remain in a state of loud chaos until it was time to leave. Seven chatty adults and three friendly dogs crammed into an old farmhouse made for a lively time. Harris loved it.

There was a cat, too. Somewhere. Ursula wasn’t a fan of the Sunday night dinners, and was probably upstairs on one of the beds.

And, of course, Uncle Elroy. But he wasn’t a reliable presence.

The dinner was animated as always, with lots of teasing and laughter. Harris wasn’t the only Drover with a booming voice and an unnecessarily loud laugh.

“How’s that new guy fitting in?” Margot asked during dessert. “Troy Barrett.”

Harris honestly wasn’t sure. Despite Troy’s prickly exterior, there was something appealing about the man. And not just his god-like beauty. Harris had enjoyed interviewing him. He’d enjoyed trying to make the man smile, even if it had barely worked.

But Margot hadn’t asked about any of that.

“I’m not sure,” he said carefully. “He’s quiet. Keeps to himself, I think.”

“He was kicked out of the game the other night in Edmonton,” Dad said. “Shoved a ref!”

“Yeah,” Harris said. He certainly hadn’t missed that. Hockey media couldn’t stop showing that clip and talking about how Troy had been spiraling out of control these past couple of weeks. “That wasn’t great.”

“I never liked him when he was with Toronto,” said Mike, Anna’s husband. “But he was talented. I hope he can get his shit together because we could sure use him.”

Harris used to talk about hockey that way. The way all fans did, like he was part of the team, but only discussed the actual players as assets or tools. Now that he was working for an NHL team and had become friends with the players and staff, it annoyed him when they weren’t acknowledged as human beings. He wanted Troy to play at the top of his game too, but mostly he wanted Troy to not be burdened by whatever was making him so miserable anymore.

Also, he wanted to stop thinking about him for five minutes.

“We put some more cases in the back of your truck, Harris,” Margot said, snapping Harris out of what was about to be another Troy Barrett daydream. “Thanks for being our unpaid rep.”

“Always. How’s business?”

“Amazing. The new winter spice cider is selling like crazy. And the downtown taproom is booked solid for Christmas parties all month.”

“Of course it is. That’s great.”

“Bring some of your NHL player friends when they get back. That makes us look cool.”

“Conflict of interest,” Harris joked. It wasn’t really, unless he was using the place as a setting for promo stuff.

“Or you could bring a date,” Anna said casually.

“I would never bring a date there. Oh my god. You guys would embarrass the shit out of me.”

“We would not!”

“Nah. We totally would,” Margot said.

“Are you dating anyone?” Mom asked.

“No.”

“Well, that’s a shame.”

“I mean, I go on dates. But—you know what? I’m not talking about this.”

“It’s too bad Scott Hunter doesn’t play for Ottawa. You two could have fallen in love.”

“Mom!”

“And Ottawa might have a Stanley Cup,” said Mike. “Y’know. If we had Scott Hunter.”

“And Harris would be rich,” Dad added, “if he had Scott Hunter.”

Everyone laughed while Harris tried to glare at them all. “You know it’s messed up to assume that two men would get together just because they’re both gay and in proximity to each other, right?”

“Who could resist you, though?” Mom argued. “You’re such a sweetheart.”

“And you have nice hair,” Mike said. “Good beard.”

“You know a lot about apples. Men love that,” said Margot. She turned to her husband, who was the quietest man Harris had ever met. “Right, Josh?”

“Super sexy,” Josh agreed.

“Anyway,”Harris said. “Scott Hunter does not play for Ottawa and is happily married, so I think I’ll keep looking.”

Truthfully, he was getting tired of looking. He wanted to have someone to bring to family dinners and cuddle up with at home later. He blamed the yearnings on his habit of spending too much time with NHL players in their twenties who were married with kids. He should probably make an effort to hang out with his other friends. His non-millionaire, normal friends. His queer friends, for sure. When was the last time he’d gone dancing? Or just met a bunch of friends for drinks at a gay bar, or karaoke? He used to be on a trivia team. Now he was obsessed with his job, and that job didn’t have regular hours.

The dinner remained lively until the last bite of apple crisp, with everyone talking over each other as usual. Harris had been uncharacteristically quiet for most of it, his mind stuck on the possibility that he’d let his job consume his whole life. He really didn’t get paid enough for that.

When he was leaving, Harris’s parents both hugged him like they weren’t going to see him again for months instead of days. The dogs jumped on him, as if trying to stop him from going.

“Take care of yourself,” Mom said. “And tell Ilya Rozanov I said hi.”

Harris laughed. Mom had met Ilya at a team fundraiser and Ilya had flirted shamelessly with her. “I will.”

“And you’ll call the doctor if anything feels...off, right?” Dad said.

Harris swallowed to contain the frustration that flared inside him. He’d been dealing with his busted heart his whole life, and he’d always been careful. “Of course I will. You know I will.” He forced a laugh to cover his annoyance. “Don’t worry so much.”

Dad smiled sadly. “Can’t help it. Sorry.”

That took away Harris’s annoyance in a hurry. “Love you guys. See you next week. Keep Mac out of trouble, all right?”

“Keep Troy Barrett out of trouble,” Dad joked.

Harris turned away before Dad could see him blushing. “I’ll do my best.”