Role Model

by Rachel Reid

  It hadn’t all been sex. They’d shared parts of themselves with each other, but Troy had never gotten the impression that Adrian had ever been particularly interested in Troy’s life. Adrian had never been overly interested in anyone who wasn’t Adrian. He doubted he was even very interested in his new fiancé.

  In short, Troy was experiencing all sorts of new feelings with Harris, and it was fucking him up.

  Harris spooned oatmeal into two bowls. “You want maple syrup on it?”

  “Sure.” Troy pointed to the corner of Harris’s kitchen counter. “Is that the slow cooker you told me not to worry about?”

  Harris laughed. “I swear there’s nothing going on between me and the slow cooker.”

  “Hm.”

  “But,” Harris said cautiously, “if the slow cooker asks about you, what should I tell him?”

  Troy’s heart skipped. “I don’t know. What do you want to tell him?”

  Harris glanced at him quickly, then returned his focus to the bowls of oatmeal. “I’d like to tell him that I met someone, and I really like him. And I think he likes me too. And I’d like to see where things go with him, if he also wants that.”

  Troy didn’t reply. He couldn’t. It wasn’t shocking, what Harris was saying. Obviously they were both into each other, but Troy still couldn’t believe what was being offered. And he wasn’t sure if he could allow himself to accept it.

  “Um,” Harris said, his cheeks darkening. “Maybe I’m assuming too much. With this guy. That I like.”

  “You’re not,” Troy said quietly.

  “No?” Harris turned to face him, his expression hopeful.

  “But,” Troy said, because he had to make this clear, “I’m not sure what I can offer. You know I’m not out, and I won’t ask you to hide with me.”

  “I don’t think I could hide,” Harris admitted. “I’m kind of an open book. I’m no good at sneaking around.”

  No, Harris was the most honest and sunny person Troy had ever met. He didn’t belong in the shadows. “I know. And you shouldn’t.” Troy sighed. “I like you a lot, Harris, but I need some time to figure my shit out. Maybe until then we should just, y’know, be friends.”

  Harris’s smile didn’t look effortless. Or real. “Sure. Makes sense.”

  Troy nodded, his head feeling suddenly heavy. “It does. Thanks.”

  For a moment, neither man said anything. Then Harris handed Troy one of the bowls. “Oatmeal’s getting cold. Let’s eat.”

  Troy wanted to throw the oatmeal into the sink and kiss Harris against the fridge. He wanted to take him out for breakfast, and hold his hand while they waited for their food. He wanted to make coffee for him every morning.

  Instead, he silently took his bowl to the table, and awkwardly sat across from his new friend.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Now that Troy had let himself have a taste of Harris, his body burned with sexual frustration. He told himself that he was distancing himself from Harris for the right reasons, and that it wouldn’t be fair to sleep with him if Troy wasn’t brave enough to hold his hand in the light. Troy needed to earn Harris. Maybe he would never deserve him, but he needed to try.

  Truthfully, he wasn’t distancing himself from Harris at all. Over the past two weeks he’d seen as much of the man as their busy schedules would allow. Harris had even helped Troy with his Instagram posts, giving him a list of activists, shelters and organizations to follow, and showing him how to share their posts to Troy’s stories. Harris had been excited about the number of followers Troy had gained, but Troy continued to avoid looking at his account beyond creating new posts.

  He felt good, though. He’d been making sizable donations to the organizations he’d been promoting and, though he wanted to do more, it was a start. For once in his life he was using his privilege for something worthwhile, and, even though he was still a bit terrified, he was excited.

  Ottawa had also won every game since their big win against New York. That didn’t hurt.

  And Harris seemed to be proud of Troy. That didn’t hurt either.

  But Harris’s proud smiles and enthusiastic compliments did nothing to shut Troy’s body up. Every time he was near Harris, he ached to kiss him, to pin him against a wall and tear his clothes away, to go to his knees and suck him off in his office.

  His body had lots of terrible ideas, so Troy was punishing it now in the team gym. He pushed himself through one more set of barbell squats, determined to keep going until he could almost forget the heated look Harris had given him in his office three days ago. It was one that made it pretty clear that he wouldn’t mind being ravaged by Troy.

  “Whoa,” Bood said, grabbing the barbell so Troy wouldn’t have to support it alone with his trembling arms. Together, they set it back in the rack.

  “Thanks,” Troy said. He dropped to the floor, sitting in a heap with his chin against his chest.

  Bood sat beside him. “Is your goal to lift a Zamboni or something?” he teased.

  “No. Just felt like pushing it a bit today.”

  “Did it help?”

  “A little.”

  A phone rang nearby, and both men turned their heads toward the sound. “Is that you?” Bood asked.

  “I think so. Hand it to me? It’s there.” Troy gestured lazily toward the shelf where he’d left his phone. “My legs are toast.”

  Bood laughed as he stood and grabbed the phone. “Unknown number,” he said.

  Troy took it from him. It was probably a telemarketer or something, but he answered it anyway. “Hello?”

  “Troy Barrett?” The voice was gruff and male and vaguely familiar.

  “Yeah?”

  “This is Roger Crowell. I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk.”

  Suddenly Troy found the ability to walk again and was on his feet. Roger Crowell, the commissioner of the entire NHL, was calling him. Troy had never spoken to him in his life beyond a handshake on his draft day. There was no way this phone call was for a good reason, though.

  Troy walked quickly out of the room, ignoring Bood’s questioning glance. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “Good. How are you, Troy? How’s Ottawa?”

  The questions were bland and friendly, but Crowell made them sound like a trap, and Troy’s chest tightened as he walked. “Fine. Ottawa’s good.”

  “Beautiful city,” Crowell agreed. “Cold, I’ll bet.”

  “Yeah.” Troy found a quiet spot at the end of a hallway, and leaned back against a wall, waiting for Crowell to reveal his reason for calling.

  “Probably doesn’t have the nightlife Toronto did. Nothing to amuse you during your free time.”

  Troy didn’t know what to say to that, so he only swallowed.

  “You’re causing quite a stir with your Instagram account, Troy.”

  Oh god. “Am I?”

  “It’s a noble effort. The league wants its players to be engaged in the community, and of course the cause you’re bringing attention to is important.”

  Troy knew better than to relax at this apparent praise. He’d had too many years of experience talking to intimidating men like Crowell to fall for that. “I think it is, yes.”

  “If any other player had been posting about sexual assault, I’d be nothing but pleased, but with you, Troy... Well, I have to wonder about your motivation here.”

  “Motivation?”

  Crowell sighed somewhat theatrically. “I don’t know why you and Kent stopped being friends, and frankly I don’t care. Shit happens, right? Maybe he slept with your girl. Maybe you were jealous of his talent. But this personal vendetta you have against him isn’t good for anyone, Troy. Not the league, not your team, and certainly not for you.”

  “I—that’s not why—” Troy stammered.

  “Those women, the ones who have been saying thin
gs about Kent, I can see why you might jump on that opportunity, if you were mad at your friend. You don’t have a clear head right now because you’re angry. But...” Crowell laughed, and it sounded cold and cruel like Troy’s father’s laugh. “You know those girls are only looking for their five minutes of fame. People can say anything on the internet and they don’t even have to sign their names. It disgusts me because there’s no integrity in it. In the hockey world, and in the business world where I’ve been for decades, integrity is important. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have much respect for anyone who won’t own up to the things they say. Hurling accusations in the dark is cowardly, and creating lies to ruin a talented young man at the pinnacle of his career is monstrous.” Crowell paused, and Troy could imagine a slow, sickening smile creeping across his face. “At least, that’s my opinion.”

  Troy’s heart was racing in his chest. His palms were so sweaty he worried he would drop his phone. He knew every word Crowell was saying was wrong—twisted—but he didn’t know how to defend himself. To defend the women he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.

  “I don’t think they’re lying,” he managed to say. He hated how small his voice sounded.

  “Did you see Kent do any of the things they accused him of?” Crowell asked. His voice was calm, but Troy suspected that this question was the exact reason he was calling. Crowell needed to know if Troy was a real danger.

  “No,” Troy admitted quietly.

  “So you don’t know if these girls are telling the truth.”

  “I think he—”

  “You don’t,” Crowell said slowly and clearly, “know.”

  Troy couldn’t argue. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He just...oh god. What if Crowell was right?

  Except no. He did know. He knew Dallas and he understood enough about how the world treated victims of sexual assault to know that Kent’s accusers had nothing to gain from speaking out.

  “The problem is,” Crowell continued, “that your posts, while admirable, have the appearance of being personal attacks at Kent. Little digs. Obviously the best thing for the league is if this whole ridiculous business faded away, but your posts keep fanning the flames. I need you to stop.”

  Some of Troy’s fear solidified into anger. He was so tired of being pushed around by men like Crowell. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m trying to help people who need it.”

  “There are plenty of causes you can promote, Troy. Homelessness, or poor kids having access to sports. I can have my assistant send you a list of charities and initiatives the league supports.”

  “Okay,” Troy said, because it seemed safer than refusing. “Thank you.”

  “Good,” Crowell interrupted. “I’d hate to have to take this matter further.”

  Further? Jesus, Troy didn’t want to find out what that meant. “No, sir.”

  “I’ll let you go now, Troy. It was nice speaking with you. Good luck tomorrow night against Montreal.”

  “Thank you.” Troy sounded like a child being forced to speak to a stranger.

  Crowell ended the call, and Troy slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. What the fuck was he going to do?

  * * *

  “You surprised yet?” Harris asked Gen the morning after another Ottawa win, this time on the road against Detroit.

  “They should almost die in a plane crash more often,” she said dryly. Then she grimaced. “Sorry. I keep forgetting you were on that plane.”

  Harris waved a hand dismissively. “I’m alive.”

  “Alive and grumpy,” Gen muttered.

  Harris only grunted in response.

  Ottawa was enjoying the team’s longest win streak in over ten years, which should have put Harris in a good mood. But instead he couldn’t stop thinking about Troy. He knew the team had flown back late last night after the game, and he’d felt a ridiculous stab of longing for Troy to drive straight to Harris’s apartment. He wanted to be the man Troy went home to, and he was frustrated by how close he’d possibly gotten to being that.

  Or maybe he was kidding himself.

  “To be fair,” Gen said, “your grumpy is like my very best mood.”

  “Maybe I’m not grumpy.”

  Gen scoffed. “Something is bothering you. The team is on a hot streak and you’re miserable.”

  There was no way Harris was going to tell Gen about Troy. For one thing, it would mean outing Troy. For another, it was too embarrassing to talk about. What had Harris been expecting? For Troy Barrett to want to be his boyfriend? Men who looked like Troy didn’t date men who looked like Harris. Troy’s last boyfriend had been a stunningly beautiful television star with, like, a sixteen-pack.

  Troy probably only saw Harris as a convenient fix. Someone he was comfortable enough to come out to, which was nice, but also someone who wasn’t much of a risk. He’d known Harris was gay the minute he’d first met him, and he also likely assumed that Harris wouldn’t reject him.

  “I’m going take a walk,” Harris said. “I need a break from the computer.”

  He needed a break from these dark thoughts. He knew they weren’t true. Troy had fixed that intense, cobalt gaze on him enough times to let Harris know that he saw something he liked. He had, in fact, told Harris that he liked him when they’d decided to end the physical side of their relationship. He just needed space, and Harris needed to give it to him without pouting about it. And, besides, being friends with Troy was...nice. They got along well, and Troy seemed happier lately, laughing and smiling more easily, and throwing himself into helping victims of sexual assault however he could. In short, he was continuing to be wonderful and handsome, while also maintaining a commitment to friendship without benefits. It was basically killing Harris.

  “Tell Troy I said hi,” Gen said.

  “I’m not going to see Troy.”

  “Sure.”

  Troy probably wasn’t even in the building. Maybe. Harris supposed it was the usual time for him to be working out in the team gym.

  He wished he could stop thinking about their last night together. God, the way Troy had fucked him. He’d given Harris exactly what he’d needed and it had been incredible.

  And then he’d held him all night, and talked to him while they’d relaxed in bed together the next morning. He’d washed Harris’s hair, blown him in the shower, teased him about his slow cooker.

  Harris liked him so much.

  Of course Harris walked past the entrance of the team gym, and furtively peeked inside. He wouldn’t go in, but he wanted a glimpse of Troy. Just a taste.

  Troy wasn’t there.

  Probably just as well. Harris kept walking, pulling his phone out to check Twitter as he rounded a corner.

  And crashed right into Troy.

  “Shit! Sorry,” Harris said. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  Troy had his hand over his heart, and he exhaled loudly. “Jesus. Wasn’t expecting that.”

  Harris held up his phone sheepishly. “You know me. Addicted to my phone.”

  Troy just stared at him, and that’s when Harris noticed how upset he looked.

  “What’s wrong?” Harris asked.

  Troy’s eyes darted from side to side. Then he nodded his head in the direction behind him. “This way.”

  They walked to the end of the hallway, putting distance, Harris noticed, between them and the gym where Troy’s teammates were. Then Troy turned to face him and said, just above a whisper, “The commissioner called me.”

  “The commissioner?” Harris didn’t understand. “Crowell?”

  “Yeah. Like, he actually called me. Roger Crowell himself. On the phone.”

  “When? Why?”

  “A few minutes ago. He’s concerned.”

  “About what?” Harris had a sinking suspicion that he already knew. The NHL’
s commissioner was not, in Harris’s opinion, a force for good.

  “About my Instagram account. About, y’know, everything. Starting with what I said to Dallas.” Troy scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Fuck! I don’t want... I was trying to be good. Instead I’m just pissing people off.”

  Harris put a hand on Troy’s arm. “You are doing good, Troy. Tell me what he said exactly.”

  “He asked me some questions about Dallas, to make sure I hadn’t actually witnessed anything. And based on that, he said I shouldn’t be fanning the flames of...shit. I forget what words he used. But basically he wants me to stop talking about sexual assault victims. He said it was, like, admirable, but also that I shouldn’t do it. I don’t know. I’m really fucking confused now. Have you ever talked to him? He’s intimidating as fuck.”

  Harris had never heard Troy babble before and he didn’t like it. “No, I haven’t. But I get the gist of what he’s like from interviews and press conferences and stuff. Did he threaten you? Offer an ultimatum if you don’t stop posting like you have been?”

  “He said he hoped the matter was settled because he didn’t want to have to take things further, whatever that means.”

  “Fucker,” Harris grumbled.

  Troy blanched like Harris had just blasphemed.

  “Listen to me,” Harris said, placing his hands firmly on Troy’s biceps. “You are playing incredible hockey, and that’s all you owe this team or this league. You aren’t doing anything harmful or illegal. You’re using your fame and influence to help people who often don’t have a voice, and there’s nothing bad about that. Fuck Crowell if he says otherwise.”

  Troy swallowed. “He said Dallas Kent is one of the league’s biggest stars, and that it reflects badly on the entire league if we give credit to his accusers’ stories.”

  Harris felt a very rare urge to punch something. “What else?”

  “He was laughing about it, like we were old friends having a beer or something. Laughing about women trying to get their five minutes of fame or whatever. Can’t believe what they say. Fuck, Harris. The way he says things, he had me doubting myself. Doubting everything.”