Role Model

by Rachel Reid

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

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

  Troy: You should get some sleep.

  Mom: I’ll try. Charlie says hi.

  Troy: Charlie’s awake too?

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

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

  Mom: Love you too. Good luck tomorrow.

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

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

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

  Well, it would have to do.

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

  Barrett’s a fucking disgrace.

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

  Barrett believes lying whores over his own teammates. Trash.

  Ottawa deserves him. Shit team. Shit player.

  I can’t believe we signed this loser.

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

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

  Chapter Three

  “Harris! I’ve got something for ya!”

  Harris glanced up from his phone. He was in the hallway outside the Ottawa locker room, posting some pregame tweets to the team’s account. Wyatt Hayes was jogging toward him with a thick, colorful book in his hand.

  “This is that Thor comic I was telling you about, all collected into one book. I think you’ll like it. It’s fun.”

  “Oh, awesome!” Harris had mentioned to Wyatt once that he used to read comic books a lot, and Wyatt had been eagerly lending him books ever since. So far he’d enjoyed everything Wyatt had given him, even if he always felt pressured to read the books quickly because Wyatt was keen to discuss them with him. “Thanks. Hey, we should do another edition of Hazy’s Heroes! It’s been a while since the last one.”

  “For sure. I’ve got an endless list of books to recommend.”

  It had been Harris’s idea, last season, to film little segments where Wyatt would talk about some of his favorite comic books. The videos were so popular that Harris created similar video series for some of the other players: Riding with Roz, where Harris—bravely—sat in the passenger seat of a luxury sports car that Ilya Rozanov drove, and BBQing with Bood, where Zane Boodram would show off his grill mastery, even in the dead of winter in Ottawa.

  “I was thinking,” Wyatt said, “that I might buy a bunch of all-ages comics when we visit the children’s hospital and give them out. Nothing against signed hockey pucks, but they aren’t a great read, y’know?”

  “They’d love that,” Harris said with certainty. He knew exactly how much hospital visits from NHL players meant to the kids there, and he also knew how exciting it was to be gifted with anything that might pass the time when you were confined to a hospital bed.

  “Don’t tell Roz because he’ll try to one-up me. He’d probably give them all Ferraris or something,” Wyatt joked.

  Harris laughed. He could totally see that, as ridiculous as it was. The last time the team had visited the children’s hospital, Ilya had stayed long after the team bus had left. Harris had heard that he’d taken a cab home after an epic Mario Kart tournament he’d challenged a bunch of the kids to.

  “Maybe if I tell him, he’ll show up in a Batman costume,” Harris said. “That would be worth it.”

  At that moment, Troy Barrett walked by. He had just arrived at the arena, earlier, Harris noted, than most of his teammates. He was wearing a suit that looked like it had been pulled from a suitcase, and a black toque that was pulled down to meet his equally black eyebrows. He was also clutching an enormous Starbucks cup.

  He nodded at Harris and Wyatt, no warmth in his expression. It wasn’t chilly either. It was...nervous, Harris decided. Timid.

  “You found the Starbucks,” Harris said cheerfully.

  “Huh?” Troy reached under his toque and pulled an earbud out.

  Harris pointed to the cup. “You found the Starbucks,” he repeated.

  “Yeah.” Troy didn’t smile. His eyes were wide and uncertain, as if he was unsure if the conversation was over. The hand holding the earbud hovered near his temple.

  Harris almost said something like good luck tonight, but he didn’t want to add to Troy’s nerves. So instead he asked, “Whatcha listening to?”

  For a long second, honest to god, Harris thought Troy was going to say you. His eyes had narrowed and then he blinked, as if trying to force the snark back down inside him. “Uh, just, y’know. EDM.”

  “Cool.” In Harris’s experience, if you asked any NHL player what music he was listening to, the answer was always either EDM, country, hip-hop, or Mumford & Sons.

  With another nod, Troy popped his earbud back in and walked away.

  “He still shows up early,” Wyatt said, once Troy was out of sight.

  “Did he used to in Toronto, too?”

  “Oh yeah. It was one of the things that made him different from Kent.” Wyatt put his hands on his hips. “He’s a fucking dick, but he takes his job seriously.”

  “You think he’ll still be a dick here?”

  “Well, I don’t think he got a personality transplant during the trip from Toronto to Ottawa, but he might be a little quieter here without his buddy.”

  “I don’t think he and Kent are buddies anymore,” Harris reminded him.

  “I’m still surprised about that. Even guys who hate Kent’s guts are taking his word over his victims’.”

  “So you believe the women?”

  “A thousand percent. I played with Kent for years. He’s fucked up when it comes to women. I can’t believe anyone who’s spent a minute with him believes he’s innocent. But even so, Barrett being the one to call him out was a shock.”

  “Do you think he witnessed something?” Harris knew he was being a horrible gossip, but he couldn’t help it.

  “I don’t know. Honestly, I would have assumed Barrett was participating in whatever shitty things Kent was doing at clubs and parties. Thought he was, like, his wingman, y’know? Maybe I was wrong.”

  “I hope so. It’s my job to make him look like a role model.”

  Wyatt huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. Good luck with that.” He held out a fist. “I gotta get back in the room.”

  Harris bumped his fist. “
Have a good game.”

  Wyatt grinned. “Any game I get to start is a good game.”

  He left, and Harris smiled after him. Wyatt had been a backup goalie for years in Toronto, but had not only earned the top goalie spot in Ottawa, he had also become an NHL All-Star. Harris was pretty sure a lot of his success could be owed to the fact that he had more fun than probably anyone else on the ice. He was truly happy just to be there, every game.

  Harris knew the feeling.

  He went back to work. He had promotional tweets from the official team store and from sponsors scheduled throughout the night; he’d posted tonight’s official rosters on Twitter and Instagram. He’d also done a post promoting Troy Barrett’s debut in Ottawa. He checked the comments on that post on Twitter now, and yikes. Barrett was not exactly getting a friendly welcome.

  The comments came from a mix of Toronto and Dallas Kent fans who wanted him dead, and Ottawa fans who were disgusted that their team had traded for him. When Harris checked the same post on Instagram, he saw that the comments were similar.

  The thing was, even though Ottawa had gotten Barrett for far less than he was worth, they’d given up some sweet draft picks to Toronto. Not to mention having to take on the burden of Barrett’s significant salary. The only way Barrett was going to win the hearts of Ottawa fans was if he played the best hockey of his life.

  * * *

  There were a lot of empty seats. That was the first thing that Troy noticed. There were a lot of filled seats, but...there were a lot of empty seats.

  He was standing on the blue line, waiting for his name to be announced as tonight’s starting right wing player. In Toronto, game tickets were hard to get, sold out well in advance of every game. Here in Ottawa it looked like you could walk up to the box office on game day and buy a ticket.

  Troy knew Ottawa had been a pretty terrible team for years, and that a lot of fans had lost interest. He would have thought the addition of Ilya Rozanov and even the unexpected rise of Wyatt Hayes as one of the best goalies in the league would have brought some fans back. And maybe there were more fans than usual, but damn. The energy that Troy was used to in Toronto wasn’t in this building tonight.

  “Number seventeen, Troy Barrett!” The announcer boomed out his name and the crowd went...tepid. There was applause. Some cheers. But also the low buzz that was, likely, the sound of about eleven thousand people murmuring uncomfortably.

  He hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms in Ottawa. Some hockey fans would never forgive him for not blindly supporting his scumbag teammate. And even besides that, until this week Troy had been a Toronto Guardian, a fierce Ottawa rival. Well, fierce in the way that a great white shark and a starfish were rivals.

  Troy shouldn’t be thinking that way about his new team.

  Rozanov’s name was announced and the uncomfortable murmuring turned into a full-blown roar of approval. Ottawa loved their captain. Zane Boodram, the alternate captain who had been playing for Ottawa since his very first NHL game, got a huge cheer as well.

  Would they ever cheer for Troy like that? Did he even care? He’d do his best on the ice, and the fans could do whatever they wanted.

  * * *

  The game did not go well. Not for Troy, at least. He hadn’t been able to connect with his new linemates, and he’d missed passes and had managed to be offside an embarrassing number of times, stopping play when he could have had a good scoring chance.

  He’d had zero scoring chances. His only shot at the net had gone wide. He’d lost the two face-offs he’d taken. He’d accidentally shot the puck over the glass and earned his new team a delay of game penalty. It was a complete shit show from start to finish.

  Somehow, Ottawa had still managed to defeat the superior Pittsburgh team. Mostly due to Wyatt’s outstanding goaltending, and also because of Rozanov’s two goals. Not only had Troy not contributed to the win, his sloppy play hadn’t prevented it. He didn’t matter at all.

  After the game, the dressing room filled with reporters. Of course, they all wanted to talk to Troy after his first game as a Centaur.

  He answered them all as blandly as possible. Yes, Ottawa had a different style of play than Toronto and he would need to adjust. No, he wasn’t distracted.

  His answers were all variations on the same thing: he was focused on hockey and excited to contribute to his new team. Both statements were lies, but he would like them to be true.

  Then some dickbag asked if he regretted what he’d said to Dallas Kent. As if it was a simple question, and not one that would send Troy spiraling. As if he wasn’t asking if Troy wished he hadn’t lost everything that mattered to him within a week.

  Was anyone asking Dallas if he regretted what he did? Definitely not.

  Troy swallowed down his anger and tried to form words. He glanced up and spotted Harris, obviously standing on a chair or something, snapping photos from behind the media scrum. They locked gazes, and Troy thought he saw sympathy in Harris’s eyes.

  “I’m not talking about that anymore,” Troy finally said. He was proud of how flat his tone was, not giving away any of the storm of emotions that were raging inside him. But he also was hit by a fresh pang of guilt and shame. Because he knew in his heart that he should be talking about it. Everyone should be.

  The reporters took the hint, and the scrum broke apart as they went to talk to Wyatt instead. Harris lingered behind. He’d lowered himself from the chair he’d been balanced on, and offered Troy a friendly smile.

  “Not sure what that guy was expecting you to say.”

  Troy could only grunt in response, but Harris kept smiling, and Troy kept looking at him. He had a nice smile, easy and genuine.

  “Well, I should—” Harris gestured toward the reporters that were gathered around Wyatt.

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. For the Q and A. If you’re still available?”

  Right. That thing. Troy had forgotten, and he really didn’t want to do it. “Look, um. I know your job is to, like, make us seem like fun guys or heroes or whatever, but I’d rather just focus on hockey. The other stuff isn’t for me.”

  The light in Harris’s eyes dimmed. “Got it.”

  Troy nodded, ready to be done with the conversation. “Okay. I’m gonna...”

  “Sure.” Harris gave a forced smile that looked all wrong on his face. “I’ve got other hockey players to bother anyway.”

  Troy almost replied. He almost assured Harris that he wasn’t bothering him, even if it wasn’t exactly true.

  But he didn’t, because this was as gently as he could possibly let Harris down. In the past he probably would have just sneered at Harris, or let Dallas Kent do it for him. This was growth.

  But he still felt like a fucking asshole as he watched Harris walk away.

  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 b
e 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?”