by Rachel Reid
“Well,” Harris said, sitting back in his chair, “time to promote his posts.” He made a show of cracking his knuckles, then got to work.
He hadn’t spoken to Troy since they’d returned from the Florida trip two days ago, though they’d parted on friendly terms. Harris had just assumed that Troy, like everyone else on the team, wanted some alone time after that road trip.
It was so hard to read Troy. He’d told Harris, clearly, that their hookup hadn’t meant anything. But Harris also got the impression that the only other man Troy had been with was his ex-boyfriend, Adrian. Which, to Harris, meant that their hookup must have meant something.
It had meant something to Harris. He’d had plenty of hookups—guys he met in clubs or at parties or online—and he usually enjoyed them. He liked meeting new people, however briefly, and he liked sex. He liked comforting people and making them happy, and sex, he’d found, made a lot of people happy.
The encounter with Troy hadn’t been the stuff of erotic legend—they hadn’t even removed their clothes, and there hadn’t been any real skill involved. It had just been burning, unchecked need and desperation, and Harris had never experienced anything quite like it before.
And those kisses. Wowzers. Troy knew how to use those pillowy lips of his. Harris would bet they’d feel great on his—
“Why wasn’t Rozanov at practice yesterday?” Gen asked.
Harris blinked as he followed his coworker’s voice back to reality. “Huh?”
“Ilya wasn’t at practice. Unusual for him. It wasn’t an optional practice, and he wasn’t doing therapy either. Do you think he’s sick?”
Ilya had seemed a bit off since the airplane incident. Everyone had, really, but Ilya was always cool and unflappable, so his anxiety was more noticeable. “I don’t know.”
“I hope he plays tonight. The Admirals are going to wipe the floor with us if he’s out.” She rolled her neck, stretching it. “They’ll probably destroy us either way, but it’ll be worse without Rozanov.”
“They might surprise you.”
Gen huffed. “When has this team ever surprised me?”
* * *
The mood in the locker room was heavy. The Centaurs were fresh off the harrowing, and disappointing, road trip where they’d lost two out of their three games, and now they were about to face the top team in the East, the New York Admirals.
It felt like they’d already lost.
Coach Wiebe came in and tried to pump them up. He was, Troy had decided, a good coach. He didn’t have a lot of experience, but he had a good sense for what each of his players needed at any time. And he was nice, which some people might see as a flaw in a hockey coach. Troy might have felt that way too, not long ago, but he liked Coach Wiebe a lot, and wanted to win for him.
Easier said than done.
After Coach left, the mood lightened a bit. There was no confidence in the room, though. In Toronto, the Guardians’ locker room had always been loud and often aggressive before games. There’d always been an assumption among the players that they were going to win. That anything less was unacceptable. Here in Ottawa, the locker room energy felt more like an acceptance that they probably wouldn’t win, but maybe they wouldn’t embarrass themselves completely.
It was fucking annoying.
“Everyone listen.”
Troy’s head shot up and he was surprised to see Ilya standing in the middle of the room. He was team captain, but he wasn’t one for speeches.
“The New York Admirals are not a better team than us.” There was some scattered scoffing and laughter. Ilya cut it off. “They are not. They have Scott Hunter, we have me. They have Tommy Andersson—a good goalie. Young, talented, yes. We have Wyatt Hayes—a great goalie.” He grinned at Wyatt. “Old, talented.”
There were some enthusiastic whoops and claps around the room.
“Experienced,” Wyatt corrected him jovially.
“They have Carter Vaughan, Hunter’s right-hand man and one of the best forwards in the league. We have Zane Boodram and Troy Barrett.” Ilya stretched his arms out. “I have two hands. Who is on Scott’s left? Does anyone even know his name?”
It looked like Luca Haas wanted to supply the name of New York’s top-line left wing forward, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.
“New York has Matti Jalo, but we have Evan Dykstra and Nick Chouinard.” More cheering. Sticks were being drummed against the floor with each name that Ilya listed. “We’ve got Boyle, Holmberg, LaPointe and Young.”
He proceeded to name every player in the room, sometimes adding something that was specifically impressive about them. “I am fucking tired of losing,” Ilya said. “Enough. We are going to win this game tonight, and we are going to keep winning. We are going to fill every seat in this fucking arena. We are going to surprise everyone and we are going to the playoffs this year. Not next year. Not in the future. This fucking year.”
Everyone roared their agreement. Troy was astonished. This was exactly the energy he was looking for.
“We went through something together,” Ilya said, more soberly. “It was fucking scary. But we are alive. We are all alive and I don’t plan on wasting another second of it. Let’s fucking go.”
“Fucking right, Roz!” Dykstra yelled, over the deafening noise of cheering and banging sticks.
“Hell yes,” Bood agreed. “Let’s fuck up some Admirals!”
* * *
Troy bent for the puck drop to start the game. He was back to regularly playing right wing on the top line, and he was going to make sure he fucking stayed there.
He was facing the starting left wing player for New York, and he did, in fact, know who he was, but Ilya had inspired him.
“Hi. I’m Troy. What’s your name?”
The man—Cale Wagner—narrowed his eyes. “Fuck you.”
“Nice name. Pretty.”
“Do you know how embarrassing it is that we even have to play against your shitty team?”
“Gonna be more embarrassing when you lose.”
The puck dropped, and the game started with Wagner trying to knock Troy down. Troy was too fast, though, and was already charging toward the Admirals’ zone, because Ilya had won the face-off.
There were no goals on the first shift, or even the second, but the Centaurs’ third line came through and deflected the puck past Tommy Andersson less than two minutes into the game.
“Yeah!” Troy yelled, hammering the boards with his stick. “That’s how you fucking do it!”
The crowd, which was a little bigger than usual—possibly as a show of support for their hometown players managing to not die in a plane crash—was on their feet. It was a great start.
Later into the first period, Scott Hunter tried to tie the game with an incredible wrist shot that Troy was sure was going to go in, but Wyatt gloved it down.
Ilya burst out laughing. “Wow, Hunter. That sucks. That should have gone in, right?”
Troy bumped Wyatt’s blocker pad with his glove. “That was beautiful, Hazy.”
“I’m not sure how I did that,” Wyatt said.
“Because you’re awesome.”
Wyatt grinned at him from behind his goalie mask. “I almost forgot. Thanks for the reminder, Barrett.”
Troy smiled as he skated toward the face-off circle. It was nice to feel like he might be friends with Wyatt now.
Ilya grabbed his arm outside the circle. “We’re going to score on this play, okay?”
Troy laughed. “Sounds good. You got a plan?”
“Yes. Keep up with me.”
Troy shook his head, still grinning as he bent down across from Cale Wagner. “Hi again,” Troy said. “Wilson, right? Or Wagon? Sorry, I keep forgetting your name.”
“Why don’t you ask your mom?”
“Nah. There’s no way she’s heard of you.”
Troy had no problem keeping up, leaving Wagner in his dust. He made sure he entered the New York zone first, carrying the puck, then passed it to Ilya, who dropped it back to Bood while Ilya got himself past the Admirals defenseman. Bood passed to Troy, and Troy found Ilya in front of the net. The goaltender never had a chance.
The goal made it 2-0 for Ottawa. Troy jumped on top of Ilya against the boards, and Bood crushed up against both of them.
“Good job,” Ilya said, tapping each of them on the forehead with the front of his helmet. “Let’s do it again.”
“No way,” said Bood. “Next one’s mine.”
The next one, it turned out, came from Luca Haas in the second period. Unfortunately, it was after the Admirals had scored two goals to tie it up, but Haas’s goal gave Ottawa the lead again.
By the third period, things were pretty intense. The Admirals were desperate for a goal to save their pride, and the Centaurs were determined to keep them from getting it.
There was some shoving after Wyatt made an easy save midway through the third period. Tempers were high, and Ilya had, as usual, been antagonizing Scott Hunter all night.
“I’m going to fucking kill you, Rozanov,” Scott growled in Ilya’s face. Troy was sort of holding Scott’s arm, but it was mostly for show. Scott was roughly twice his size.
“You have been saying that for years,” Rozanov said with a big grin. “But I am still here.”
Scott turned away from him, briefly locking eyes with Troy, who let go of his arm immediately. Then Troy noticed Scott fighting a smile as he began to skate away.
“I think he likes you,” Troy told Ilya.
“Of course he does. I’m great.”
The score stayed at 3-2 for Ottawa for most of the third period. New York battled hard, hungry for the tying goal. But the Ottawa team worked together like they never had before, and kept their one-goal lead. It was stressful, trying to keep the Admirals from scoring, and the Ottawa bench was nervously watching the clock tick down the final minutes of play.
With three minutes left, getting close to the point where New York was probably going to pull their goalie for the extra attacker, Troy got a breakaway. Dykstra put the puck on his stick in the Ottawa zone and Troy took off. He was one of the fastest skaters in the league, and a skilled stick handler. He poked the puck between the legs of the New York defenseman in his way, picked it up on the other side, and then he was all alone, closing in on the goalie.
Tommy Andersson was a good goalie, but Troy faked him out easily, dangling the puck and getting it over Andersson’s outstretched leg.
It was a highlight reel goal for sure.
His linemates were on top of him a second later. Bood jostled his helmet and said, “I like those show-off goals of yours a lot more when we’re on the same team.”
* * *
After the game, most of the team went to celebrate at a bar called Monk’s that Troy learned was a team favorite. It was an older tavern in the Glebe, not far from Troy’s apartment.
Troy was sitting at a table with Evan Dykstra, Wyatt, and Wyatt’s wife, Lisa. Quite a few wives and girlfriends had shown up at the bar, which Troy thought was cool. In Toronto, there’d been an unspoken no-partners rule for most team celebrations.
“I just ended my shift and I’ve never needed a beer more,” Lisa said after her first sip. “If I fall asleep in a minute, just ignore me.”
Wyatt wrapped an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “Let me know when you want to leave, champ. We can continue the celebrations at home.”
She shoved his chest lightly. “My celebrations involve a shower and bed.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Mine too.”
Evan laughed. “I think Caitlin fell asleep hours ago. She said she was going to watch the game, but her texts stopped after the first period.”
“I don’t blame her,” Lisa said sympathetically. “How is Susie doing?”
Evan lit up and started talking at length about his one-year-old daughter. Lisa smiled as she listened, but Troy noticed her snuggling closer into Wyatt, her eyelids growing heavier.
Troy scanned the bar to see what everyone else was up to. Ilya was loudly trash-talking Bood as they played pool. A rowdy table full of the younger players was littered with empty pitchers, which probably wasn’t good.
Then he spotted Harris at the bar, and he stopped looking anywhere else. He hadn’t noticed Harris come in, but he wasn’t surprised that he was here. He was wearing a denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms.
And he was talking to a very tall and attractive dark-haired man. Smiling at him. Laughing. And the other man was smiling and laughing too.
Troy’s jaw clenched. He had no claim on Harris, obviously, but seeing him with another man made Troy realize that he’d been hoping to go home with Harris himself tonight.
He pushed back from the table and went to the bathroom. Maybe by the time he returned Harris would already have left with Johnny Handsome.
The bathroom was empty when he walked in. He parked himself at a urinal, and as he was opening his fly, the door opened behind him.
“Barrett,” said Ilya Rozanov’s voice.
Ilya sidled up to the urinal next to Troy, which was...cozy. Ilya was a weird guy, though, so it made sense.
“Having fun?” Ilya asked.
“Um.”
“At the bar. Not in here.”
“Yeah, sure.” Troy tried to finish up as quickly as possible, but he’d drunk a lot of beer.
“Feels good to win.” Ilya finished first, zipped himself up, and headed for the sinks. “To have something to celebrate.”
“Hey, uh.” Troy got himself tucked away and followed Ilya. “That speech before the game... I don’t think we would have won without it.”
“Everyone worked hard tonight,” Ilya said as he inspected himself in the mirror. “You did a good job today.”
“It was a pretty nice goal,” Troy admitted.
“Not the goal. The posts you made. Instagram. It was good shit, Barrett.”
“Oh. I didn’t know you saw those.”
Ilya’s lips quirked into a teasing half smile. “I follow you. Did you not see?”
“I didn’t really check after I posted those.”
“You should. People like them. Especially after I shared them.”
Oh god. Didn’t Ilya have like hundreds of thousands of followers? Troy knew that the point of social media was to get your thoughts and photos seen by as many people as possible, but he still felt anxious. “So lots of people have seen them then?”
“Yes.” Ilya clapped him on the shoulder. “Like I said. Good job.”
Ilya left the bathroom, and Troy stared at the door, unsure if he was ready to go back out there. Unsure of who he even was anymore. He’d never felt so uncomfortable in his own skin. It had been easy, being an asshole. It had been safe. Now he was suddenly standing up for shit, and putting himself out there online, and thinking about publicly coming out as gay, and maybe seeing if Harris wanted to kiss him again.
He had no one to hide behind anymore, and the mask was so full of cracks he may as well throw it out.
Troy left the bathroom and, though he knew it was a bad idea, made a beeline toward the bar. And Harris. And the hot man Harris was probably flirting with.
“Troy!” Harris called out happily as soon as he spotted him. “Amazing goal tonight. Holy shit.”
“Thanks.” Troy’s gaze was fixed on the smoke show Harris was practically holding hands with. How many amazing goals did you score tonight, buddy?
“This is Alain,” Harris said. “Alain, this is Troy Barrett.”
Alain stuck out his hand and Troy, after frown
ing at it for a second, shook it. Alain’s hand was warm and strong, and his dark eyes were so beautiful they were hard to look at directly.
“Hi, Alain,” Troy mumbled.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Alain said with a heavy Quebecois accent. “Gen was telling me about your Instagram.”
“Oh?”
“Alain is Gen’s boyfriend,” Harris supplied.
It was embarrassing how relieved Troy was by that. “That’s cool. Gen seems great.”
At that moment, Gen came up behind Alain. “Gen is great. Oh, hi, Troy. Nice goal tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“The gif I posted of it has a zillion likes already,” Harris said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yup. And so do your Instagram posts now that the team accounts’ve shared them.”
Troy felt a confusing mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. “You saw those, huh?”
“No thanks to you.” Harris punched his arm playfully. “You didn’t tell me you created an account! Or that you were going to use it to be a fucking hero.”
“As if.” Troy’s cheeks heated. “I had to, um, watch some tutorials, figuring out how to do some stuff, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
“I love your posts, Troy,” Gen said. “That’s how you be an ally. Keep it up.”
An ally. Troy supposed that’s what he was, or what he was trying to be. Not a hero, certainly. “Thanks. I will.”
Gen turned to Alain and said something to him in rapid French. Then she said, to Harris and Troy, “We’re going to head out.”
Harris gave each of them a hug while Troy stood awkwardly to the side.
“So,” Harris said, after they left, “you want a drink?”
“Nah, I had a couple of beers already. I think I’m good.” He gestured to Harris’s pint glass. “Is that your sisters’ cider?”
“You bet. They have it on tap here.”