by Rachel Reid
Harris stopped dead. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Never had one, never looked after anyone else’s.”
“Well? What do you think?”
“It’s all right.” The way Troy was looking at Chiron—not smiling, of course, but with definite amusement in his eyes—told Harris that he was enjoying the experience more than he was letting on.
It was a reasonably nice day for Ottawa in early December. Cold, but sunny and calm after a drizzly, windy night. Harris spent way too much of his life indoors these days. Mostly in front of a computer, or looking at his phone. “Has anyone ever said anything to you? About being gay?” Troy asked out of nowhere.
Harris had no idea why he was asking, or even what he was asking, but he said, “You mean given me shit about it?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course. But no one I care about. Why?”
Troy didn’t reply, seemingly as interested in a soggy McDonald’s straw wrapper as Chiron was. Then he said, to the straw wrapper, “Anyone on the team? Or in the organization?”
“No one,” Harris said. “Like I said, this is a good group. I’ve never hidden being gay, and no one here has ever made me feel like I needed to.”
“That’s good.”
They walked to the end of one side of the parking lot, then turned the corner and started on the next. “I’m guessing things were different in Toronto?” Harris asked.
Troy’s jaw clenched, and he nodded. “A lot of slurs and stuff. I can’t pretend I wasn’t contributing to it.”
Harris was disappointed to hear it, but he wasn’t surprised. “You gonna keep contributing to it?”
“No.” Troy stopped walking. Chiron seemed confused, and walked back to bump his nose against Troy’s sneaker. “I was a complete fucking asshole in Toronto. I know it. Everyone here seems so, like, good... I shouldn’t be here.”
Harris was tempted to put a hand on his arm, so he shoved his hands in his coat pockets instead. “Do you hate it here?”
“Not as much as I thought I would.”
Harris chuckled at that. “Glad to hear it.” He started walking again, and Troy joined him. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ll fit in just fine.”
“You don’t think I’m an asshole?”
Harris bit the inside of his cheek, then said, “Not as much as I thought I would.”
Troy made a huffing sound—not quite a laugh—and Harris nudged him playfully. Troy didn’t return it, but his mouth was fighting a smile.
Then Troy handed him the leash. “I should go. Gotta nap, y’know. Before the game.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure. I’ll see you—”
But Troy was already jogging away, toward the hotel. And Harris was left to stare after him, wondering what exactly Troy’s deal was.
Chapter Nine
Troy wasn’t sure why he was doing this. The last thing hospitalized children needed was to be forced to spend even five seconds with him.
But here he was, at a children’s hospital in Ottawa, wearing a Centaurs jersey and ball cap and holding a small stack of postcards of himself and a Sharpie.
He’d been paired up with Wyatt, which was good because the kids would probably be way too excited about meeting the star goaltender to even look at Troy.
“They’re probably bored of me,” Wyatt said, contradicting everything Troy was thinking. “The long-term patients anyway. I’m here a lot because Lisa works here.”
Right.
Troy followed Wyatt into the first room they were visiting. It had two beds, both occupied by very young children who were hooked up to machines, and Troy wanted to leave immediately.
He focused on the parents who were standing beside the beds. They were smiling, obviously thrilled to see Wyatt and Troy, so maybe things weren’t so bad, right?
“Jenny,” Wyatt said, giving one of the women standing beside one of the beds a hug. Then he turned his attention to the little boy in the bed. “Danny. What’s up, man?” He held out his fist, and Danny bumped it more heartily than Troy would have expected.
Wyatt went to the other bed, all smiles, and said, “We haven’t met yet. I’m Wyatt. Would you like to tell me your name?”
“Nathan.”
“Nice to meet you, Nathan. Would you like a fist bump?”
“Okay.” The kid held out his fist—the one that didn’t have an IV connected to it—and Wyatt gently bumped it. He turned to the father and shook his hand, chatting pleasantly with him for a moment before turning his attention back to both kids.
Troy was happy to linger near the door and just watch Wyatt put on a clinic on how to talk to sick kids. He noted the way Wyatt asked permission directly from the kids before he did anything.
“Would you like to meet my newest teammate?” Wyatt asked, and both kids nodded.
Nathan’s dad said, “Yeah!”
Troy held up his hand in an awkward wave. “Hi.”
“This is Troy Barrett,” Wyatt said. “He used to play for Toronto like me.”
“Boooooo!” said Danny.
Wyatt pointed at him. “Exactly! Boo, Toronto! Right, Troy?”
Troy managed something close to a smile. “Yep. Boo.” He took a step toward Nathan’s dad, because he seemed enthusiastic about meeting him, and extended his hand. “Troy. Nice to meet you.”
“Greg. I’m a big fan. We’re excited you’re here in Ottawa now.”
The pleasure that fizzed through Troy’s body at this basic compliment was startling and ridiculous. “Excited to be here,” he mumbled, then turned to the kid, Nathan. “Are you a hockey fan, Nathan?”
“Yeah,” Nathan said quietly.
“Do you, um, want an autograph? I have postcards.” Troy held up the stack. Christ. Could he have sounded more like he wanted to get this over with?
But Nathan looked thrilled by his offer. “Okay!”
Troy’s handwriting was terrible, but he tried his hardest to write legibly when he scrawled To my friend Nathan. Then he added his mess of a signature and, after a moment’s hesitation, a little happy face. Because maybe he could be the kind of guy who drew little happy faces next to his autograph.
He handed the postcard to Nathan, who smiled and immediately showed it to his dad, Greg. “Wow, that’s awesome, Nate,” his father said, as if he hadn’t just watched Troy sign the thing. Jesus, what that man was probably going through.
“Would you like one?” Troy asked him.
“Oh.” Greg looked embarrassed, but Troy could also tell he really wanted to say yes. “You should save them for the kids. Y’know.”
“I have tons. Here.”
Troy signed the next postcard. He wasn’t sure if he should write anything else. He wanted to write a whole essay telling Greg he was a great father, and Troy was in awe of him. And he wasn’t jealous of a hospitalized kid, but he couldn’t imagine his own father looking at him so lovingly. His own father had, in fact, come to the hospital to detail all the ways Troy could have avoided breaking his leg when Troy had been hospitalized at eleven. He’d also had some racist things to say about the kid who’d accidentally caused Troy to fall on his twisted leg. Then he’d taken a work call and abruptly left.
Troy decided to add Greg with a cheerful exclamation mark before his signature, then handed the postcard to him. “Thanks so much,” Greg said, beaming at the little piece of card stock like it would solve all of his problems. Troy wished it could.
Wyatt crossed over to Nathan’s bed and reached into a large tote bag he’d brought with him. “Do you like comic books, Nathan?”
Nathan nodded.
“Who is your favorite superhero?”
“Ninja Turtles.”
Wyatt grinned and rooted through the bag, producing two colorful Ninja Turtles comics. “You’ll share with Danny, right?” he said as he handed them to him
. “I gave him Teen Titans Go! comics.”
“I love Teen Titans Go!” Nathan said, smiling at Danny across the room. “Who’s your favorite?”
“Beast Boy,” Danny said.
“Me too!”
“If Luca Haas comes in here, you should get him to draw you Beast Boy. He’s a good drawer.”
“Really?” Danny asked.
“Luca Haas is here too?” Nathan gasped.
“Oh yeah,” Wyatt said. “We’re just the opening act. Ilya Rozanov is here, and Zane Boodram. Evan Dykstra. All the important guys.”
Troy huffed a laugh at the way Wyatt was selling them short. He and Wyatt were both at the All-Star game last year, and Wyatt was probably going to go again this year.
“And,” Wyatt said in a theatrical whisper, “Chuck is here too.”
The kids’ smiles grew even wider. Chuck was the official Ottawa Centaurs team mascot, and he was, for whatever reason, a beaver. But, like all team mascots, he was a bigger celebrity with kids than the players.
“Did somebody say Chuck?” asked a cheerful, booming voice. Troy turned and saw Harris standing in the doorway, a giant beaver wearing a hockey jersey standing behind him.
Troy stepped aside to make way for Chuck. Harris smiled at him, and Troy couldn’t help but smile back. There were now way too many people crowded into the room, but no one seemed to mind. Chuck did his thing with the kids, silently offering high fives and doing big reactions that looked ridiculous with his huge, frozen, bug-eyed face.
“How’s it going?” Harris asked Troy quietly.
“Not bad. Wyatt is good at this.”
“He’s the master.”
“Chuck’s good at this too,” Troy said. He might be uncomfortable, but at least he wasn’t wearing an awkward, heavy beaver costume.
“Oh yeah. I’ll introduce you to Theo sometime. He’s great.”
“Theo?”
“The guy in the suit.” Harris narrowed his eyes playfully. “You do know there’s someone in that suit, right?”
“Shut up.”
“We tried to hire a seven-foot beaver for the job but, let me tell you, it did not go well.”
Troy snorted, then tried to cover it up. “You suck.”
Harris nudged him. “Let’s take some pictures.”
* * *
Troy smiled—really smiled—in every photo Harris took at the hospital that day. Harris found himself hesitating to return the phones to the parents, hoping they appreciated the rare gift of Troy Barrett’s full, effortless smile.
It was a hectic couple of hours, Harris darting from room to room to help with photographs, and capturing some candid shots and videos for the team’s social media as well. He wanted to make sure he got at least one photo of each of the players.
But he kept gravitating to the rooms where Troy and Wyatt were. Sometimes he would watch silently from the door for a minute, sneakily observing Troy with the kids. He was doing great, despite being unpracticed in this sort of thing.
Harris remembered the Ottawa Centaurs visiting the hospital when he was twelve. It had been thrilling to meet real NHL players. It had been thrilling to do anything other than sleep, or read, or stare at the ceiling. At least one of his family members had been beside his bed at all times, usually more. Friends had visited too, but meeting his heroes—in particular the team captain, who he’d had a bit of a crush on—had given him a high that he’d ridden for days after. He knew now that NHL players were just people, but back then they’d seemed like gods. He couldn’t believe they were actually in his hospital room, talking to him.
Now, in the patients’ lounge, Harris watched Troy and Ilya battle each other and two kids at Mario Kart. Ilya was trash-talking—without profanity—and making everyone laugh. Troy had just barely stopped himself from swearing several times.
“I have a present for you, Barrett,” Ilya said.
“F—” Troy cut himself off. “I don’t want it, Rozanov.”
“It’s red.”
“Shoot it at a computer player!”
“Nah. It’s for you.” Everyone laughed as a red Koopa shell slammed into Troy’s car. Mario went ass over teakettle and Troy, again, struggled not to swear.
“You’re the worst,” Troy grumbled.
“Didn’t I hit you like that last year?” Ilya teased. “In Toronto. You did the same thing Mario just did.” He rolled one hand in a tumbling motion, then quickly returned it to the controller.
“No,” Troy said.
Within seconds one of the kids found the hit on YouTube and gleefully showed everyone her iPad so they could see it.
“Thank you, Grayson,” Ilya said. “See, Barrett? Just like Mario.”
Ilya won the race, and he stood with his arms above his head in victory. “Undefeated!”
Gloating about beating a bunch of hospitalized kids at video games should be rude, but somehow Ilya made it charming.
Troy stood and handed his controller to Wyatt. He shuffled awkwardly to the side, and glanced around the room as if unsure what to do now. When his gaze landed on Harris, he smiled in that same genuine way that Harris had been enjoying all day.
This time, Troy’s smile was just for him, and Harris couldn’t help the way his stomach flipped in response. Developing a crush on Troy Barrett was a terrible idea, but Harris was way past the point of being able to stop it.
Late in the afternoon, the players boarded the team bus that would take them back to the arena. They’d left directly from their morning practice.
Harris caught Troy before he boarded the bus. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”
“Before the game. Definitely.”
Harris wanted to ask him what he was doing tonight, but that wouldn’t do anything to help quell this ridiculous crush. So instead, he offered some reassurance. “You did great, by the way. With the kids.”
Troy’s lips curved into a soft smile at that. “Yeah?”
“Trust me. I’m an expert.”
Something warm glowed in Troy’s sapphire eyes. “You drove yourself here?”
“I got a ride in the van with Theo and Rebecca.” Troy’s blank expression told Harris that he didn’t know who he was talking about. “Chuck, I mean. That’s Theo, like I said earlier. And Rebecca is basically his handler. She’s a marketing intern.”
“Ah.” Troy glanced around. “Does Chuck—I mean Theo—have to get changed somewhere or...how does that work exactly?”
Harris laughed. “Very carefully. We can’t let anyone see him half dressed, y’know? Ruins the magic. He’ll wear the costume in the van until we’re out of the parking lot at least.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Theo’s got it down to a science.”
Troy glanced at the bus, which seemed to have everyone but him on it now. “Well. I should...”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
For a moment, both men just stared at each other, Harris beaming and Troy’s lips curving slightly upward. His gaze dropped to Harris’s mouth, then back to his eyes.
Then he blinked and said, “See you later, Harris.”
He got on the bus without looking back, and Harris sauntered over to the van, where a giant beaver was probably waiting for him.
Chapter Ten
Over the next week, Harris was visited by Troy three times. He felt like Ebenezer Scrooge, except instead of spirits, he got a sullen hockey player who was, like, the Ghost of Christmas Mixed Messages.
He appeared and disappeared as suddenly as a ghost, that was for sure. But he always brought coffee, and Harris didn’t mind having him around. Even though he continued to be distractingly hot.
Sometimes Troy would ask questions. Sometimes he would ask weird questions out of the blue that had nothing to do with Harris’s job.
“Have you ever brough
t, like, a date to any hockey stuff? Team parties or whatever?”
That was today’s random question. Harris paused, mid-email. “Usually I’m pretty busy working at official team events, but there were a couple of house parties where I brought someone.”
Troy didn’t reply, so Harris went back to writing his email.
“Like, a boyfriend? You brought a boyfriend?”
Harris turned in his chair. “More like guys I was hoping would be my boyfriend. Why?”
“Everyone was cool with it?”
Troy seemed to ask a lot of variations of this same question. “As far as I could tell. It’s not like we were making out wildly. I might have kissed them quickly. Maybe sat with an arm around them.”
Troy was absolutely destroying his coffee cup lid. He’d folded it in half twice somehow, and Harris was worried he was going to cut himself on the jagged plastic. “Do you worry about it? People judging you. Like, when you’re in a group of straight people?”
Harris wanted to say that he didn’t worry about it at all, but it wasn’t exactly true. “Sometimes, I guess. I’ve been lucky with the support I’ve gotten from my family and friends, so I don’t worry about it as much as some people, but sure. There’s always something in the back of my head that puts me on edge a bit. Especially if I don’t know everyone in the room.”
Troy let the coffee lid pop back out into a rough-looking circle, then began folding it again. “How do you—” He sighed. “Do you just tell that thing in the back of your head to shut up or something?”
“Basically.” Harris carefully reached out and took the lid from Troy’s hands. He tossed it into the trash can by his desk. “I try to do what feels right to me. What’s honest, y’know? And if someone has a problem with it, well, we were never going to be friends anyway.”
Troy was staring at his empty hands, frowning. “That’s good,” he said, though he sounded miserable. “Why didn’t they want to be your boyfriend?”
Harris was beyond confused now. “Who?”
“The guys that you brought to parties. That you said you’d hoped would be your boyfriend.”