by Rachel Reid
“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 i
n 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.
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.