Role Model

by Rachel Reid

  Harris shook his head. “He’s wrong. You know he’s wrong.”

  “Do I? I didn’t see anything. Maybe I just wanted to believe them because Dallas was getting on my nerves.”

  Harris kept his voice steady. “Is that really what you think?”

  Troy took two slow breaths. “No. I think Dallas did it. I know he did it. All of it.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s not like he’s the only one. I’ll bet this league has been protecting predators for a hundred fucking years.”

  “Probably,” Harris agreed.

  “I know I can’t fix everything, but I just want to help. A little. If I can.”

  Troy slumped back against the wall, looking so defeated Harris wanted to hug him. So he did. Troy returned it immediately, pulling Harris close.

  “I keep dumping all of my shit on you,” Troy said into his shoulder, his arms tight around Harris’s back. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I want to help. We’re friends, right?”

  Troy took a slow breath that tickled Harris’s neck. Then another, as if he was inhaling Harris’s scent.

  “Apples?” Harris teased gently.

  “Mm.”

  Troy stayed there for a minute, then pulled back. Their mouths were inches apart. It would be wrong to kiss Troy here, especially now that he was so vulnerable.

  “I should get back,” Troy said, stepping back.

  “Right. Okay.” Harris regained his senses. “But we should talk more about this when you have time.”

  “All right. If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I might stay off Instagram for a while.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Troy nodded, then took a step toward the gym.

  “What are you doing Friday night?” Harris blurted out.

  Troy turned back. “I don’t know. Nothing. Why?”

  “Fabian Salah is playing a show in town that night.”

  Troy’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

  “The musician. We were listening to him in my truck once. He’s dating Ryan Price.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “I have two tickets. I bought two because I knew it would sell out and I wanted to make sure I could bring someone, and it just occurred to me that you might like to go. Maybe.” Harris was lying. He’d bought the second ticket with Troy in mind. “Anyway, you should come. If you want. With me.”

  “It’s this Friday?”

  “Yep. The first night of your week off.”

  Troy seemed to think about it. “Sure. Okay.”

  Harris lit up. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. It will be, um, nice. Hanging out with you, away from here. I’ve kind of been...wanting to.” Troy’s shy smile was devastating.

  “Me too,” Harris said.

  Troy looked at him seriously. “I honestly don’t know how I would have dealt with anything this season without you.”

  Oh.

  Harris managed a shaky smile. “Happy to help.”

  “I know. It’s one of the things I love about you.” His eyes went wide. “I mean—thanks.”

  He jogged away before Harris could reply.

  “Oh man,” Harris muttered to his patched-up heart. “I think this guy might destroy us.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Shane Hollander shoved Ilya hard against the glass, and Troy almost laughed at the way Ilya was grinning about it. Ilya shoved Hollander back, which made Hollander’s linemate, Hayden Pike, step in.

  Which made Troy join the pile. He got there just in time to hear Ilya roasting Pike.

  “You still play hockey?” Ilya asked.

  “Don’t even start, Rozanov.”

  “Why are you even here?” Ilya pushed Pike’s chest, forcing the other man away. “I am talking to my friend Hollander.”

  “Leave him alone, Rozanov,” Shane growled. “And back the fuck up.”

  Troy was holding Pike’s arm, but Pike wasn’t making any moves toward Ilya. Troy heard him mumble, “I’m so sick of this weird bullshit.”

  Troy wasn’t sure what that meant.

  Ilya moved away from Hollander and said, “We can catch up at the All-Star game this weekend.” He turned to Pike. “The All-Star game is a special match played between the best players in the league.”

  Troy snickered, and Pike gave Hollander a look that Troy would call pleading. “Can I please stab him?”

  “No one is stabbing anyone,” the ref barked.

  “Not yet,” Ilya said, somewhat silkily and in Hollander’s direction.

  Hollander’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything. Just skated away, taking Pike with him. Ilya watched him go.

  “I thought you guys were friends,” Troy said.

  “Off the ice, yes.”

  Troy supposed it wasn’t that different from how Ilya treated Scott Hunter when they played against each other. Maybe it was a sign of respect if Ilya gave you shit on the ice. He mostly used to ignore Troy, when they’d played against each other.

  In the end, Ottawa beat Montreal 5-3, adding another win to their streak that was now a team record: nine straight games. It felt incredible. Once again, the dressing room was a party, this time with the added excitement of a whole week off ahead of them.

  “Ilya’s in a good mood,” Troy observed.

  Ilya was sort of half dancing to the loud hip-hop music that was playing in the dressing room, randomly clapping his hands and cheerfully congratulating everyone.

  “Oh yeah,” Wyatt agreed. “He’s always in a good mood when we beat Montreal. I guess being Shane Hollander’s friend doesn’t stop him from loving to destroy him on the ice.”

  “Guess not.”

  Ilya and Wyatt were heading to the All-Star weekend in Anaheim tomorrow. Troy hadn’t been invited to the All-Star game this year, obviously. Based on the commissioner’s feelings about him, he’d probably never be invited again. But he really didn’t care. Harris had basically asked him on a date, and that was a much more exciting invitation.

  In truth, Troy didn’t even want to watch the All-Star game, let alone participate in it. Dallas Kent would be there, and the commissioner. And probably a bunch of players who thought Troy was a traitor.

  “Looking forward to the All-Star game?” he asked Wyatt.

  “I am. I know a lot of guys hate it, but I never thought I’d be invited, y’know? Now I’m going for the second year in a row. Plus, I’m heading to Vancouver for the rest of the week to hang out with my nephew. I can’t wait. Lisa is going to meet me there.”

  “Nice. Is Ilya excited, do you think?”

  “He seems to like All-Star games,” Wyatt said. “I think he enjoys the opportunity to annoy all of the biggest stars at once.”

  Troy smiled at that.

  Later, when he was walking to his car, Ilya caught up with him. “Big plans for the week off?” Ilya asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Just hanging around Ottawa?”

  “Yep.”

  Ilya smirked. “Interesting.”

  Troy narrowed his eyes. “No it isn’t. It’s the opposite of interesting.”

  “You could make it interesting. With Harris.”

  “Shut up!” Troy glanced around frantically, but they seemed to be the only ones in the garage. “I’m going out with him tomorrow night.”

  “Holy shit, Barrett. That is adorable.”

  Troy scratched the back of his head nervously. “It’s a date, I guess. I mean, I think it is. I hope it is.”

  Ilya poked his shoulder. “He is a good guy. Treat him well.”

  “I know. I will.”

  “Yes,” Ilya agreed sternly. Then his face softened into a crooked smile. “Where are you taking him?”

  “He’s
taking me to a concert. Fabian Salah.”

  “Fabian! I did not know he was in town.”

  “You know him?”

  Ilya stared at Troy like he was an idiot. “Yes. He is Ryan Price’s boyfriend. Ryan Price who coaches at my camps.”

  “Right. I forgot.”

  “I saw Fabian play once,” Ilya said. “In Montreal. He is very good. Very...pretty.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Ilya grinned. “Fabian and Ryan is like Beauty and the Beast. Wait until you see.”

  Troy nodded, and hoped his face didn’t show how anxious he was about the possibility of seeing Ryan Price again.

  “Speaking of beasts, I will be making Dallas Kent’s weekend very uncomfortable.”

  Troy huffed. “I can’t believe he’s a fucking All-Star this year.”

  “I know. I am sorry you weren’t invited.”

  “I’m fine with it. I don’t want to see Dallas, and the commissioner is pissed at me, so—” Troy cut himself off. He hadn’t meant to tell Ilya—or anyone besides Harris—about the call from Commissioner Crowell.

  “Crowell? What do you mean he is pissed?” Ilya asked.

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  Ilya’s expression turned serious. “No. What did he say?”

  Troy sighed. “He called me, and he warned me about, y’know, implying that Dallas Kent was guilty. He doesn’t like the stuff I’ve been posting on Instagram.”

  “You are serious?”

  “He called my cell phone. Talked to me for like fifteen minutes. I was scared shitless.”

  “I don’t like this,” Ilya said grimly. “This is bad.”

  “I know. That’s why I stopped posting.”

  “No. Is bad that Crowell said these things to you. I might talk to him in Anaheim.”

  Panic surged through Troy. “Please don’t. Seriously. Don’t. It will only make things worse, and then you’ll get dragged into it.”

  Ilya’s jaw tightened, and he was quiet a moment before saying, “Don’t stop posting. Unless it is your choice, and not Crowell’s.”

  And just like that, Troy felt like a coward. He had, once again, been bending to the will of aggressive, overbearing men with questionable morals. “I just need some time to think.”

  “You will have a whole week to think. Use it.”

  “I will.”

  Ilya pulled his phone out, glanced at it, and smiled. “I have to go.”

  “Sure. Have a good time in Anaheim. And a good week off.”

  “I will.” Ilya began walking toward his Mercedes SUV, then called over his shoulder, “Harris could use a break from work. Maybe you can distract him.”

  Troy let out a weird sputter of laughter, which probably gave more away than he wanted to. “Whatever.”

  Ilya’s laugh was much more dignified and controlled. He winked as he got in his SUV and drove away, leaving Troy standing alone in the garage with a lot to think about.

  * * *

  Troy thought he was doing a remarkably good job of remaining cool, all things considered.

  On the outside, at least.

  He was on a date, sort of. With a man. In the city where he played hockey. With someone who worked for that hockey team. At a performance by an openly queer musician who was dating his former teammate.

  Oh god.

  Harris’s arm brushed his. “You okay?”

  Troy had noticed that Harris had been carefully not touching him since they’d walked into the packed club. Troy pressed back against him, just slightly, to silently let him know that he wanted to be brave. That he really wanted this to be a date. He wanted to hold Harris’s hand tonight, or maybe even kiss him, here in this club. He just needed to find the courage.

  “I’m okay,” Troy said. “I haven’t been to this kind of concert in a long time. In a club and, like, standing up.”

  “It’s my favorite way to hear live music. I love being part of a crowd.”

  Troy didn’t normally mind it, but he felt like everyone was staring at him. Plus, it didn’t really seem like his usual crowd. He couldn’t spot any obvious jocks. Everyone looked artsy, with loud hair colors and outfits that were maybe ironic? Definitely ugly, but probably intentionally so. Others were dressed very stylishly, but in a way that Troy’s former teammates would have scoffed at. They would have used slurs to describe the people here. And, not long ago, Troy might have used them too.

  Someday, he hoped, he would be among openly queer people and feel that he belonged. Because, yes, he was a jock, but he was also gay, and he needed to figure out a way to be both.

  “Can we get a drink?” Troy asked. The room was already so warm.

  “You read my mind. Let’s go.”

  They squeezed through the crowd, Harris pausing to smile and say hello to several people. Not for the first time, Troy wondered why Harris had invited him and not one of his many friends who wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb. Unless this was a date, which it might be.

  The bartender—a very attractive young man with dark hair and light brown skin—gripped Harris’s hand and pulled him in for an over-the-bar hug. “What’s up, Harris?”

  “Not much. Looking forward to the show.”

  “It’s going to be amazing,” the man agreed. Then he turned his attention to Troy. His gaze was blatantly assessing, and Troy had difficulty not squirming. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Troy. He moved here from Toronto. Troy, this is Manu, a friend from college.”

  Troy almost laughed at Harris’s dull description, but he was also grateful that he hadn’t mentioned his last name or that he played for the Centaurs. He shook hands with Manu. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You too. Damn, Harris always gets the pretty ones.”

  “No I don’t,” Harris scoffed. “I mean,” he glanced nervously at Troy, “we’re not togeth—”

  “Always, huh?” Troy teased.

  Harris blushed adorably. “I barely have time for dating! You know what my life is like. Manu is exaggerating.”

  Manu laughed. “Whatever you say, Harris. What can I get you? Wait. Let me guess.”

  “Drover Cider, please.”

  “I don’t know why you pay for them here when you could get it for free.”

  “Because I want to support my local economy,” Harris said with a grin.

  “What about you?” Manu asked Troy.

  Troy glanced at Harris. “Would you be mad if I ordered a beer?”

  “Of course not. Do you like pilsners? My buddy Johnathan runs Portage Brewery and they make a killer pilsner.”

  “Are you friends with everyone?”

  Harris shrugged. “I like people and I’ve lived here my whole life.”

  “Sure,” Troy said to Manu. “I’ll try one of the pilsners.”

  Manu went to get their drinks, but not before a parting glance at Harris that seemed to say a lot of things Troy couldn’t translate. He recognized Harris’s bashful smile, though.

  “Is this a date?” Troy blurted out.

  Harris’s eyes went wide. “Huh?”

  “You said you just had an extra ticket, but...is this a date?”

  “Do you want it to be?”

  Troy narrowed his eyes. “Do you want it to be?”

  Harris leaned one elbow on the bar. “This game sucks. Let’s just be honest.”

  “Okay,” Troy said, as if that were an easy thing to do.

  “I’m trying to give you space, like you asked. But I lied about the ticket. I bought it for you. I want this to be a date.”

  Troy’s heart did a little shimmy. “So do I.”

  Harris beamed. “Well, okay then. We’re on a date.”

  Troy smiled back at him. “Let’s do it.”

  * * *

  Fabian Salah knew how to
put on a show. Troy had never seen anything like it. Fabian stood alone on stage, but somehow created a wall of sound all by himself using his violin, various pedals, an electric piano, a laptop and who knew what else. You could hear a pin drop in the packed club when he was singing, his voice clear and ethereal.

  He was also wearing wings. Huge, black, elaborately feathered wings. And a black minidress. And gold, strappy sandals that went all the way up to his knees. And, like, a lot of makeup.

  This was Ryan Price’s boyfriend. Ryan Price. One of the fiercest enforcers in NHL history. Quiet, socially awkward, enormous Ryan Price.

  It was blowing Troy’s mind.

  But mostly he was watching Harris, who was watching Fabian with rapt admiration. Troy understood; the music combined with the spectacle of a man performing it was pretty incredible.

  And sexy as hell. There was something profoundly erotic about the entire experience, though Troy’s confused brain couldn’t quite sort out exactly what it was. Maybe it was Fabian’s confidence—his courage to present himself so openly and shamelessly. The lyrics were sexy, too. Were they about Ryan? Jesus.

  In the middle of one of Fabian’s songs, Troy brushed his fingers over the back of Harris’s hand. He’d been wanting to touch him all night, and Fabian was inspiring him to be brave.

  Harris smiled at him and then, suddenly, they were holding hands. A warmth seemed to radiate from their joined palms and it filled Troy’s whole body. He could do this. He could hold this man’s hand in public because he wanted to. Because Harris made him happy and Troy was so fucking tired of being miserable.

  They stayed like that, fingers tangled together, for the rest of the song. They broke apart to applaud, then automatically took each other’s hand again.

  After the encore, and the applause had died down, Troy tugged Harris toward him. “Thank you for inviting me. That was amazing.”

  “Right? He’s, like, life changing. I can’t believe he’s a real person.”

  “I can’t believe he’s dating Ryan Price.”