Role Model by Rachel Reid
Chapter Seven
The day after the team had returned from their trip, Troy received an unexpected text message.
Wyatt: BBQ at Bood’s tonight. You should come.
The address followed.
Barbecue? The fuck? It was snowing outside. Not a lot but, like, more than the amount that would suggest it was barbecue season.
Troy: Is everyone going?
Wyatt: Most of the guys, probably. And partners. Bood and Cassie are great hosts.
Troy was not at all in the right headspace for a team party. He was surprised his teammates were either, given the fact that this team fucking sucked. Maybe you got used to sucking when you played for Ottawa and just made the most of things.
Troy: Maybe.
Wyatt: Do you need a ride? Harris said he’s going there straight from the arena so he could probably drive you.
Wait. Harris was going? The social media guy? This team was so weird.
Not that Troy couldn’t see why Harris might be invited. He was...nice. Kind of annoying. Definitely too loud. Laughed too much. Smelled like apples, but that was probably Troy’s imagination because it made no damn sense. Except when he’d been in Troy’s personal space, removing that microphone after the interview, Troy could have sworn he got a whiff of something sweet and mouth-watering.
Wyatt: I’ll get Harris to text you. Bring beer.
Troy: I didn’t say yes.
Wyatt: Get out of that hotel room, Barrett. Get to know your teammates.
Troy scrunched his nose. There was nothing wrong with his hotel room. He was, at the moment, lounging on a perfectly comfy bed. He had plenty of things to do tonight, like staring blankly out the window until he mustered up the energy to jerk off.
Harris texted him within twenty minutes. Wyatt said you needed a ride tonight?
Troy: No.
He didn’t need a ride. He drove his car here from Toronto instead of flying specifically so he’d have a car here. And because he’d felt like driving at the time and also getting the fuck out of Toronto as soon as possible.
Besides, Harris would probably ask him a bunch of weird questions during the drive. Or normal questions that Troy couldn’t answer because he wasn’t normal. Normal people didn’t feel sick when they were asked about their favorite place on earth. It had been meant as an easy question, one that should have been pleasant to answer, but it had only made Troy think about Adrian’s bed. Adrian’s arms.
Harris: You sure? I’m heading there from the rink anyway.
Troy rolled to his side, leaning on one elbow. Despite having a hard time answering some of Harris’s questions, he had actually enjoyed the interview more than he’d been expecting. He liked Harris. He seemed like a good person, and Troy was trying to gravitate toward good people.
Troy: What time are you going?
Not that he was seriously considering going. Even if he were, he would drive himself so he could arrive late and leave early. Harris would probably make sure he was the first one there.
Harris: I’m swamped this afternoon. I probably won’t get out of here until 7.
What the hell work was Harris doing? How hard could being a social media guy be, especially on an off day? Couldn’t he post things on Twitter from, like, anywhere? Troy almost wanted to ask, but if Harris was busy he didn’t have time to explain his job.
Seven didn’t sound so bad. Not for a dinner thing. And Troy could get a cab back to the hotel anytime.
Troy: Fuck it. Sure. You can pick me up.
Harris:LOL love that enthusiasm.
Harris: I’m actually working on a video of your top five career goals right now.
Troy: You have to make that yourself?
Harris: Yeah. It’s, like, my job.
Now Troy felt stupid. He tried to think of something to say, but Harris sent another message.
Harris: I need to get this done, then I have a conference call with marketing and a new sponsor who wants to do some sponsored content. And I’ve got some posts I have to schedule.
Harris: Sorry. You didn’t actually ask for further info. I’m chatty when texting too.He added a happy face emoji to the end.
Harris was a really fast typer. Which made sense, Troy supposed, given his job.
Troy: Ok. Just text me when you’re leaving I guess.
He stared at the message after he sent it. It sounded rude as fuck. Did he always sound this rude? Probably.
Troy wrote, Looking forward to it, then deleted it because that seemed too far the other way. He wrote, Should be fun, but that didn’t sound like him at all, so finally he landed on, I can get you a coffee from the Starbucks in the lobby, if you want. He sent it.
He’d meant that he’d get a coffee and give it to Harris when he picked him up. So he could drink it in the car or whatever. But Harris wrote back, What? Now? That would rule.
Um.
It wasn’t like Troy was busy, but he wasn’t a fucking errand boy either.
Harris: Oh. You meant when I picked you up, didn’t you? LOL
Troy should have been relieved, but instead he just felt shitty. Harris wanted a coffee, and Troy could easily fix that problem. He had nothing but time and money.
Like, literally. Nothing.
Troy: I can bring you one now. What do you want?
Harris sent a string of excited face emojis, and then: Eggnog Latte.
Troy: Isn’t that a Christmas thing?
Harris: It’s November! Close enough! And it’s a DELICIOUS thing.
Troy: Way too early for eggnog.
Harris retorted with a row of Santa face emojis.
Troy: Fine. Are you in your office?
Harris: Yes. Wouldn’t say no to a cake pop either if they have them.
Winky face emoji.
Troy didn’t know what a cake pop was, but it sounded like the kind of thing that Harris would like.
Troy: k. Be there soon.
Cake pops, it turned out, were even stupider than Troy thought they’d be. Especially since they were decorated to look like snowman heads, so apparently it was eggnog season. Troy had never really looked at any of the baked goods on offer at a Starbucks before. He always just ordered a black medium roast without observing his surroundings much.
He knocked on Harris’s office door, balancing a tray with two cups and a paper bag with three cake pops because they seemed kind of small, so Troy bought a few.
“Come in.”
Unlike the last time Troy had been here, Harris’s smile didn’t fade when he saw him. In fact, it grew wider.
“Coffee delivery from an NHL star. I could get used to this.” He locked his fingers and stretched his arms over his head. It lifted the hem of his Carly Rae Jepsen T-shirt enough that Troy caught a glimpse of his fuzzy belly button area.
“Cake pops are supposed to be for kids, I think,” Troy said, forcing his gaze away from the strip of exposed skin. He set the tray on the desk opposite Harris’s, then handed him the paper bag.
Harris relaxed his arms and grabbed the bag with enthusiasm. He yanked out one of the pops and held it up, admiring it. “They’re cute!”
“It looks like an impaled head on a spike.”
Harris laughed way too hard at that. “It does! Yikes.” And then he shoved the whole snowman head in his mouth, wrapping his lips around the base of the ball and tugging it off the stick. It was...something.
He swallowed the ball of whatever the fuck it was—cake, Troy guessed—and grinned. “I love these things. Holy shit, there are more in here!” He pulled a second one out.
Troy settled himself into a chair that was against the wall, near the end of Harris’s desk. “I wasn’t sure what a normal serving of cake pops was.”
“No limit. Here,” Harris said, holding it out to him. “You gotta try one.”
Troy was conflicted. On the one hand, he didn’t want to put that ridiculous thing in his mouth. On the other hand, he didn’t want to watch Harris deep throat another one.
“I’m good.” He took a sip of his black coffee to demonstrate how good he was, and promptly burned his mouth. “Fuck.”
“You know what would cool your mouth down?” Harris asked, making the snowman ball dance around in the air. “A peppermint cake pop.”
“No it wouldn’t. And stop making it be, like, alive.”
Harris turned the snowman so he was looking it straight in the eyes. “I’m naming him Gordon.”
“Fuck off. Just eat it.”
“I can’t. We’re friends now.”
“Whatever. Your eggnog is there.” Troy pointed to the paper cup on the corner of Harris’s desk.
The small office was flooded with the sickly sweet aroma of eggnog and cake. Troy took a deep whiff of his own coffee to block it out.
He supposed he could leave. He’d only come here to deliver a coffee and a snack. Mission accomplished.
“When is your conference call?”
“Twenty minutes.” Harris put Gordon the cake pop back in the bag and, absurdly, pulled out the third identical one and ate it. After he swallowed, he said, “Hopefully it won’t go on forever like the last one.”
“So do the sponsors, like, put their logo on the videos you post or something?”
Harris looked at him curiously. “Yeah. Have you never looked at your team’s social media accounts? Not even in Toronto?”
“No.”
Harris shook his head. “Well, I don’t blame you. Whoever is doing Toronto’s social media sucks at it. It has no heart at all. I don’t know why anyone follows them.”
Troy didn’t know what gave a Twitter account “heart” but he just took a sip of coffee instead of asking. It was still hot, but his mouth was numb now anyway.
Harris took a sip of his latte and made a noise that Troy had only ever made during sex. “God, I needed this. Thanks for bringing it.”
He licked his upper lip, and Troy watched with more interest than was warranted. He’d bet that Harris would taste disgusting right now—his mouth full of sugar and weird coffee.
“I guess I’ll head back,” Troy said, standing. Wondering what Harris tasted like was a definite signal to leave. “You can, um, text me. Later.”
“Cool.”
“Okay.”
Troy hesitated a moment. He wasn’t in a hurry to go back to his lonely hotel room, and he found he didn’t mind being around this weird little apple farmer. He didn’t mind looking at him either, which wasn’t good.
He left.
Harris spotted Troy standing outside the hotel, wearing jeans and his black wool overcoat. Harris wished he’d had a chance to go home himself and change before the party, but he never looked any fancier than he did right now anyway.
“Hi,” Harris said when Troy slid into the passenger seat of his Toyota pickup truck.
“You drive a truck.”
“Farm boy, remember?”
“Right.” Troy’s cheeks were slightly pink from the cold, and he was freshly shaved. Without the dark shadow of stubble on his jaw, he looked younger. He blew on his hands and rubbed them together. “It’s cold. Is Bood seriously barbecuing?”
“Oh yeah. No weather can stop that guy from grilling. He has a sweet deck with heaters and stuff all over it. Wait’ll you see it.”
“I probably won’t stay long.”
“I can drive you back after. I don’t mind.”
Harris had his eyes on the road, but he could sense Troy tense beside him. “I won’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t,” Harris said simply. “But the offer stands.”
Troy didn’t reply, and when they reached a red light, Harris glanced over and saw him chewing on his thumbnail, head turned toward the passenger-side window.
Harris had become used to palling around with NHL players over the past few years, so he wasn’t intimidated by having Troy in his truck. Parties like the one they were going to had become a normal part of Harris’s social life, and it occurred to Harris that Troy was the one who was uncomfortable right now. Who was probably nervous about hanging out with his new teammates, and was trying to hide behind a wall of indifference.
“It’s a great group of guys,” Harris said. “I’ve been working with and hanging out with most of them for a couple of years, and I don’t think there could possibly be a better team in the league when it comes to personalities.”
“Personalities don’t win cups,” Troy said bluntly. It sounded like he was repeating something a shitty coach had drilled into him.
“I don’t know about that. Camaraderie counts for something. I’d think it would be hard to win games if you hated your teammates.”
“Have you ever played hockey?”
A flash of embarrassment shot through Harris. “No.”
Troy made a dismissive scoffing noise, and went back to gnawing his thumbnail.
Harris wished he could have said yes. The fact that he’d never played organized hockey was something he tried not to let bother him, and something he hoped everyone he worked with would ignore. Or not even know about in the first place. Harris had always loved hockey, and he probably could have played, but his parents had been nervous. He couldn’t blame them; when your child’s body is already struggling, hockey seems like an unnecessary risk.
So, as a kid, he’d thrown himself into being a fan, of hockey in general and the Ottawa Centaurs in particular. And now he got to feel like he was part of the team. And that feeling could mostly be attributed to how warmly he’d been accepted by the players as a friend. He’d talked to other NHL team social media managers, and he knew that his friendship with the Ottawa players wasn’t the norm.
“Sorry,” Troy said. It was so quiet, Harris almost missed it.
“For what?”
“I’m being a fucking dickwad. You’re giving me a lift and I’m being...me. Sorry.”
“You brought me coffee,” Harris pointed out. “As far as favors go, we’re even. In fact, since you also brought me cake pops, I’d say I still owe you a favor.”
Troy didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he said, “Should we stop somewhere and get beer?”
“I’ve got it sorted,” Harris said. “Got a few cases of cider in the back.”
“Cider?”
“My sisters make it. One hundred percent Drover family apples. It’s the best hard cider in Ontario.”
“Is that your unbiased opinion?” Troy asked dryly.
“Absolutely.”
“Can I pay you for some of it?”
“Nope.”
“Then I guess that’s your favor. We’re even.”
Harris grinned. “Fair enough.”
There was another minute of silence, and then Troy said, “So, is, like, everyone going to be at this?”
“Probably not everyone. Ilya won’t be there.”
“He won’t?”
“Nah. He’s almost never around on days off.”
“Where does he go?”
Harris shrugged. “No idea. If there’s a team hospital visit or a community outreach thing, Ilya is always available. If not, no one can ever reach him on a day off. I figure it’s his own time, so it’s no one’s business anyway. But the guys like to invent theories.”
“You’re right,” Troy said after a moment. “It’s no one’s business.”
Troy had been to plenty of team parties and outings over the years. Most had been at Dallas Kent’s mansion, and Troy had usually enjoyed them. He’d always thought that Kent’s taste level was questionable, though. His mansion was tacky as fuck.
Now he couldn’t think of those parties without feeling sick. How many women had Kent forced himself on—or tried to—at those parties? Had Troy been in the next room, or one floor below? Had it been happening right in front of him and he hadn’t realized it?
He reminded himself that Dallas Kent wouldn’t be here tonight. This was a new team, with new people, and a very different vibe from the Toronto Guardians.
As soon as Troy followed Harris through Bood’s front door, they were cheerfully greeted by Evan Dykstra.
“Harris! What’s up, bro?” Dykstra wrapped an arm around Harris’s head and pulled him against his chest. He was much taller than Harris or Troy—probably six-three or so—and he looked like a total redneck. When he wasn’t in hockey gear or a suit, he seemed to always have his shaggy light brown hair stuffed into a camo snapback. Troy had only known him for a few days, but he’d already heard him talk about fishing, hunting, snowmobiling, and why his home province of Manitoba was the best place on earth.
“You brought the good shit,” Dykstra said, taking the case of bottled cider from Harris. He frowned and nodded at Troy. “And you brought Barrett.”
Right. No one wanted Troy here. He shouldn’t have come.
Dykstra elbowed Troy and said, “I’m just joking, man. Good to see you. Rule one of being a Centaur: if Bood invites you to a barbecue, you go. Wait’ll you taste his shit. Fucking incredible.”
“Cool,” Troy said. He held up the case he was carrying. “Where should I put this?”
“Bring it to the patio. Bood’s got a beer fridge out there that might still have some room in it. I’ll show you.”
Harris had already wandered off to talk to a woman Troy was pretty sure was Wyatt’s wife, so he followed Dykstra to the back of the house. They passed the living room, where a group of the younger players were engaged in a lively Super Smash Bros. battle.
Bood’s back deck was enormous, with a slatted wood ceiling that was lined with lights. It gave the illusion of being indoors, except for the flurries of snow that caught in the light. Despite the weather, the space was warm with electric heaters, people, and the mouth-watering aroma of grilled meat.
People lounged on cushioned furniture, some in a circle around a firepit, some on the built-in benches that lined the perimeter of the deck. Most of the people were Troy’s teammates, and some were women who were probably their partners. The party seemed very laid-back and intimate; nothing like Kent’s ragers that were packed with young women, live DJs, and party drugs. Everyone was friends here.
“Bood!” Dykstra called out. “Harris brought cider.”
Bood was standing at a massive grill, turning chicken parts with some tongs. “Awesome. I love that shit. Oh hey, what’s up, Barrett?”
“Not much.”
Zane Boodram was a little taller than Troy, a little shorter than Dykstra. He had warm, light brown skin and dark curly hair. His muscular arms were both covered in tattoo sleeves that incorporated nautical stuff, tropical flowers, and the Trinidad and Tobago flag.
“Make yourself comfortable. Grab anything you want from the fridge. I got a fuck ton of food out on the table over there.” He gestured with his tongs. “And this chicken is going to be done soon. You like spice?”
“Say no,” Dykstra warned. “Bood takes it as a challenge.”
Bood laughed. “Nah, you’re just a lightweight, D.”
Troy and Dykstra went to the beer fridge and unloaded the bottles of cider. Then they each took one and Dykstra said, “My wife, Caitlin, she’s not here tonight, but she loves that you yelled at Kent. She volunteers at a charity that helps women who are, y’know. Victims. Of that sort of thing.”
It made so many hockey players uncomfortable to talk about sexual assault. Troy wasn’t particularly comfortable talking about it either, but he appreciated Dykstra making this unexpected effort to reach out.
“That’s cool that she does that,” Troy said, and Dykstra shuffled his feet uncomfortably for a moment, then nodded.
“I know a lot of the guys in the league don’t believe what those women are saying about Kent, or don’t want to. Not that long ago, I probably would have thought they were lying too, honestly. But I’ve learned a lot from Caitlin, and from, y’know. Reading stuff. Plus, I figure you know Kent pretty well, so if you believe those women, then I sure as fuck do.”
Warmth filled some of the emptiness that Troy had been made of for the past week. “I believe them,” he said firmly.
“Good enough for me.” Dykstra took a sip from the bottle he was holding, and changed the subject. “You try this cider yet?”
Troy hadn’t, so he took a sip from his own bottle. The cider was crisp and not as sweet as he’d been expecting. Refreshing. “It’s good.”
“Harris’s sisters know what they’re doing, that’s for sure. But you can get surprisingly fucked up on this shit, so be careful.”
Troy only planned on having one drink tonight. Given his mood, he knew two drinks could easily turn into too many. “I’ll go easy.”
Another defenseman—Nick Chouinard—called Dykstra over to the firepit area. Troy didn’t follow, instead heading for the food table. He got there just as Bood plunked down a huge platter of grilled chicken.
“Okay,” Bood said, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically, “I’m gonna give you a tour. We’ve got jerk chicken here, and that’s the real shit, so don’t fuck with it if you don’t like spice. We’ve got chicken with my secret recipe barbecue sauce over here.” He gestured to the platter he’d just added to the table. “It’s more sweet and smoky than spicy. It’ll go fast, so grab it now. Ribs, obviously, over there. Peas and rice, slaw, callaloo. Got some of my homemade pepper sauce. That’s hot as fuck, but if you like it, I can give you a bottle. I make tons of it.”
“Wow. Jesus. This all looks great.” Troy grabbed a plate and a jerk chicken leg, which made Bood grin.
“Going for the heat. I love it.” He clapped Troy on the shoulder. “And, listen. I played junior with Kent, same team, and I hated the little fucker. I’ll be totally honest and say that I always thought you were a piece of shit too, by association.”
What was Troy supposed to say to that? He was a piece of shit by association. And maybe just on his own too. “Makes sense” was what he came up with.
“I’m hoping you prove me wrong, is all I’m saying. We’ve got a good group here. Don’t fuck that up.”
“I won’t,” Troy said weakly.
“Cool. I gotta clean the grill.” Bood grinned and nodded at Troy’s plate of chicken. “Enjoy.”
Troy found a quiet bench seat in one corner. The patio was filled with the happy chatter of a group of people who obviously knew each other well. Before he’d gotten here, Troy had assumed that the Ottawa players must be the most miserable bunch of people in the world. How could you have fun together—or even like each other—when you couldn’t win on the ice? When your arena was only half full most games? How were you not completely embarrassed all the time?
But this group loved each other. Troy hadn’t even been on this team for two weeks yet and he could see it clearly. He just couldn’t see himself being a part of it, even if his teammates had been decent to him so far.
The food was delicious. Troy hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he tore into the jerk chicken, and, yeah, it was spicy, but it was so fucking tasty too. He cooled his mouth with more of the cider.
As if summoned by the cider, Harris was suddenly in front of him. “Hey.” He was holding his own plate of food and a bottle. “Mind if I sit?”
“Go ahead.”
Harris sat next to him. “Having fun?”
“I guess. It’s a nice patio.”
“It’s property porn, is what it is. I’m glad Bood likes to entertain so much.” He picked up a rib and sank his teeth into it.
Troy went back to his own food, eating in silence until Harris asked, “You talk to anyone?”
“Um. Dykstra a bit. Bood.”
“You meet Cassie yet? That’s Bood’s wife.”
“No.”
Harris gestured to a tall blond woman standing near the firepit. “That’s Cassie. She’s supercool.” When she turned, Troy could see that she was pregnant.
“Is this gonna be their first kid?”
“Yup! They’ll be the best parents.” Harris nudged Troy. “Don’t tell any of the other dads I said that.”
“I don’t even know who the other dads are.”
“Dykstra has a daughter, Susie. She just turned one. Chouinard has three kids, Boyle has twins...” He went on to name every dad on the team, and all of their kids’ names and ages. Then he proceeded to list and detail everyone’s pets. Troy tried to retain at least some of it.
“Wow. Do you know all their allergies too?”
Harris laughed. “I like people. And I like my job.”
“What if the player is a fucking dick, but you still have to do promo shit to make him seem great?”
“It’s never happened. This team only ever has good people.”
He seemed awfully sure of himself, considering Troy was sitting right next to him as hard evidence that Ottawa did not only sign good people.
“Did you like being home for a couple of days?” Harris asked. “I’ve only been to Vancouver once. It lives up to the hype.”
“It’s not bad.”
“Wyatt loves the Vancouver trips. His sister lives there with her wife and their son.”
Troy’s attention snagged on one word. “Wife?”
“Yeah. You didn’t know? He talks about them all the time. I assumed he did in Toronto too.”
Even if Wyatt had talked about his family when he’d played for Toronto, he wouldn’t have talked to Troy about his queer sister. Not the way Troy had radiated homophobia. Given the culture of the Toronto team, there was a good chance Wyatt hadn’t talked about his sister to anyone.
Maybe to Ryan Price. Wyatt had been friends with Ryan. Probably because no one else had been.
“I didn’t know. That’s cool, though.”
“I’ve never met his sister, but she sounds awesome,” Harris said.
They both finished their food, and then Harris stood and said, “I see seats available at the firepit. Let’s check it out.”
Troy glanced at the happy group of people who were chatting and laughing in the glow of the fire. He didn’t need to intrude on that. “Oh, uh. That’s okay.”
Harris grabbed Troy’s mostly empty paper plate and stacked it on top of his own. “Come on.”
The plates got tossed into a giant garbage can that was strategically placed near the door. Then Harris headed for the firepit and Troy, not sure of what else to do, followed.
“Harris! Come sit,” Wyatt said cheerfully. “Hey, Barrett.”
“Hey.”
Harris sat in the empty chair next to the love seat Wyatt was sharing with his wife. Troy sat in a chair across from them.
Bood was perched on the arm of the chair that his wife, Cassie, was sitting in. Nick Chouinard was next to them, and next to him was a woman who Troy had not met before but guessed was Nick’s wife.
“Wyatt was talking our ear off about his nephew,” Bood said to Troy.
“Yeah. Because he’s amazing,” Wyatt said.
“How old is Isaac now?” Harris asked.
“Three. Cute as hell too. I can’t wait to see him again, but it won’t be for a long time. Kristy and Eve, too. But mostly Isaac.”
And there it was. Wyatt talking easily about his sister and her wife. Without fear of his teammates judging his family because no one on this team was a bigot. Once again, Troy felt like an intruder.
“You’re from Vancity, right, Barrett?” Nick asked.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Did your family go to the game?”
“Yeah.” Everyone stared at him, probably waiting for him to elaborate, but Troy just stared at the fire.
He hadn’t spoken to his father after the game. Dad had sent him a text that had basically made fun of how shitty the Centaurs were, and how terribly Troy had played in particular.
But Mom had texted too. She’d sent him a photo of his little action figure on the table of a restaurant in Tokyo, and had also said, Next time you’re in Vancouver I’ll make sure I’m there too.
God, he missed her.
Loud laughter jolted Troy out of his thoughts. The conversation had clearly moved on without him.
“Oh, shit, Barrett,” Bood said. “You haven’t met my wife, Cassie.”
Cassie waved at Troy from across the fire. She was stunningly beautiful, with hair and skin that suggested a lot of professional care. “Hi, Troy. Welcome to Ottawa.”
“And this is Selena,” Nick said.
“Hi,” Troy said. Nick’s wife was tiny compared to her husband, almost disappearing under the giant arm he had wrapped around her. She was blond and beautiful like Cassie, and Troy couldn’t believe she was the mother of three children. Nick was only in his mid-twenties like Troy, and she looked about the same age.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. She had a Quebec accent like her husband. “We know how hard being traded can be.” She shared a look with her husband.
“At least you don’t have kids, Barrett,” Nick said. “Easier to move when it’s just you.”
“Are you with someone?” Selena asked. “Wife or girlfriend?”
Troy ignored the ache that pulsed in his chest at the reminder of being recently dumped, and of being different. “No one right now.”
“You remember Lisa, right?” Wyatt asked, gesturing to his own wife.
Troy had completely forgotten her name. He’d probably only talked to her once in Toronto. “Of course. Yeah. Hi, Lisa.”
“Good to see you again, Troy. You settling in okay?” Lisa looked very different from the other two women in the circle. She had dark hair, cut short, and she didn’t seem to be wearing makeup. She was very pretty, but where a lot of Troy’s teammates’ wives over the years had looked like models, Lisa looked more like a fitness instructor.
Or, he supposed, like a doctor. Because that’s what she was.
“More or less. Never been traded before, so it’s all kinda weird.”
“Never Been Traded Club,” Bood said, extending his arm and offering Troy his fist. Troy bumped it. “Well, I guess you’re out of the club now.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you still at the hotel?” Lisa asked.
“For now. I need to figure out a place to live.”
Lisa nudged Wyatt. “Give him the details of that building we lived in when you got traded here. You’ll love it, Troy. Fully furnished, right downtown, concierge service for cleaning and laundry. It was perfect for us, while we were waiting to see if Wyatt would be staying in Ottawa after that season.”
“I’ll email you about it,” Wyatt said. “You should definitely check it out.”
“Okay. Thanks. Sounds good.” It sounded perfect, actually. Although the proximity to the arena was nice, Troy was getting really sick of the hotel. And he needed something easy and temporary, just to last him until he could figure out how to get off this team.
“Okay, let me address something real quick,” Bood said abruptly. “We need to talk about how last season, I scored the prettiest goal of the fucking year against Buffalo. Grabbed that puck from McCord, split Buffalo’s D like a fucking knife, then faked out their goalie. Beautiful. Showed it like a thousand times on replay.”
“I remember,” Wyatt said. “Why are we talking about it, though?”
“Oh, Jesus,” Cassie said. “I know exactly why. Let it go, babe.”
“No. It should have been the highlight of the night.” Bood’s voice got louder, and he pointed a finger directly at Troy. “But then this fucker scores the goal of the fucking century against Philly on the same night.”
Everyone laughed, and even Troy had to smile. “Sorry, man.”
“Oh shit! That goal,” Harris said. “I was just watching it again this afternoon when I was making that video of your best goals, Troy. How’d you even pull that dangle off? It was like magic.”
Troy shrugged one shoulder. “Skill.” The goal had been incredible. Even he couldn’t believe he had done it when he’d watched the video.
“I wasn’t impressed,” Bood grumbled.
“He complained about it for weeks,” Cassie said, then patted his arm. “Now you can score some pretty goals together.”
“I guess. Hey!” Bood stood up and yelled in the direction of the beer fridge, “How many is that, Haas?”
Troy turned to see Luca Haas, frozen like a deer in headlights with his hand on the beer fridge door handle.
“I don’t know. Five?” Luca said. His eyes were wide behind his glasses. Troy knew he was twenty, but he looked fifteen. He also looked flushed and tipsy.
“Uh-uh. There’s iced tea in there. Drink that.” Bood sat back down. “Fucking kids.”
“You’re gonna be a hell of a dad, Bood,” Wyatt said.
“I’m tough but fair,” Bood said. He gazed lovingly at his wife, then stroked her hair. “Besides. Our kid is going to be smart and cool as hell.”
Cassie leaned in and kissed him quickly. Troy noticed that Lisa had snuggled in a little closer to Wyatt, and Nick had his arm wrapped even more tightly around Selena. Troy missed Adrian so much in that moment, even though he had never done anything as public as snuggle next to him at a party. Would he ever be able to? With anyone?
Harris caught Troy’s gaze from across the fire, and smiled. Troy managed to curve his lips a bit in a weak response.
Harris’s golden hair and beard were glimmering in the firelight. He was handsome, even if he was a bit goofy. Rugged in an authentic way that Troy found surprisingly appealing. He was wearing a wool-lined corduroy jacket tonight, with a button that said Ottawa Pride and a pin in the shape of a hockey stick with rainbow tape.
Harris must not have a boyfriend. If he did, Troy was sure he would have brought him, or at least mentioned him by now. Harris wouldn’t be ashamed to have his arm wrapped around a man at a party. He would probably stroke his hair and kiss him lovingly. Troy would bet Harris was absolutely disgusting in love, always touching his partner in fond, familiar ways. Smiling at them. Making them laugh.
For the past week, Troy hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how things might have been different if he’d been brave enough to come out when he’d been with Adrian. Maybe they could have been a real couple. They could have gone to parties and movie premieres and the NHL Awards together.
Would Troy ever have that with anyone? Would he ever stop being such a fucking coward and be at least as brave as his team’s social media manager? As brave as Scott Hunter, who had gotten married to the love of his life over the summer. As brave as Ryan Price, who Troy hoped was happy wherever he’d ended up.
He couldn’t imagine it. Not really. Even the idea of it made his stomach twist. His father would never speak to him again, and even though that shouldn’t bother Troy, it did. Curtis was a fucking asshole, and someone Troy probably should have cut out of his life years ago, but he was still his dad. And Troy was still scared of him.
The rest of the party, which until that point had been more enjoyable than Troy had been expecting, passed in a blur as he sank deeper into his private misery. By the time Harris asked if he wanted a drive back to the hotel, Troy was shocked by how late it was. He’d planned on leaving hours ago.
“Thanks,” he said, when he was back in the passenger seat of Harris’s truck.
“No problem. I like driving.”
“I mean, yeah. Thanks for the drive. But also for getting me to go. And making me mingle a bit. It was a good idea.”
Harris beamed at him. “I’m full of good ideas.”
Quiet music played from the truck stereo as they drove. Troy didn’t recognize the artist, but the songs were haunting and sad and not what he would expect Harris to listen to. “No country music?”
Harris chuckled. “Sometimes. I like all sorts of music.”
The conversation distracted Troy from his misery, so he kept asking questions. “Who’s this?”
“Fabian Salah. You don’t know him?”
There was a note of surprise in Harris’s question, as if he expected Troy to know who the random singer was. “Nope. It’s nice, though. Pretty.”
“He’s Ryan Price’s boyfriend.”
“What?”
“Yeah. They’ve been dating since Ryan was playing with the Guardians.”
Jesus. Troy didn’t know a fucking thing about anyone, apparently. “I had no idea.”
“Next time Fabian plays a show here, you should go. He’s amazing live. Ryan usually travels with him, which is completely adorable. They must be super in love.”
“Must be.” Troy was happy to hear it, but it was also hard to hear about anyone being in love. Still, thinking about Ryan Price—a mountain of a man who was best known for punching hockey players—dating a musician with the voice of an angel was surprising. And nice.
They reached the hotel, which was a pretty long drive from Bood’s and probably well out of Harris’s way. He was way too fucking nice.
“Have a good sleep,” Harris said. There was a note in his voice that suggested that he knew Troy wouldn’t. That Troy hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in two weeks.
“I’ll try.”
Troy found it surprisingly difficult to leave the truck. It was warm and had pretty music playing and a handsome man smiling at him. Flurries danced into the lights of the hotel parking lot outside, reminding Troy that, once he opened the door, there would be nothing but cold and loneliness.
The world felt very still for a moment. Harris was studying Troy’s face, green eyes glinting in the dim light, as if he expected Troy to say something important.
“Drive safe,” Troy said. He opened the passenger door and stepped into the world he belonged in, closing the door firmly behind him.