Work Text:
December 2021
The locker room after the last practice before Christmas break was pretty chaotic- sweat soaked jerseys filling the laundry basket, the faint smell of Gatorade mixed with artificial pine from the sad little fake tree some rookie had jammed into the corner, skates and sticks scattered. The Centaurs were riding high. The were first in the division with Ilya barking orders like the proud captain, Shane looking like he’d finally settled into the new team and Troy realizing there was no more Dallas Kent’s macho bullshit poisoning the vibe. Just hockey, boys, and the found family energy that made road games feel like summer camp for grown ass men who still ate cereal for breakfast thinking that spoon of protein powder will make it super food.
Troy strolled out of the equipment room a little bit shyly. Santa hat perched at the top of his head, massive red velvet bag slung over one shoulder. The hat’s white pom-pom bobbed with every step.
Harris leaned against the whiteboard with his phone already rolling. “Look at him,” Harris addressed the room, voice dripping with joy. “Troy is like a crow. All dark and broody on the outside, but the second he loves you, he’s dropping shiny little gifts at your feet.” Troy glared at him not amused. “Pal, you’re not fooling anyone with the resting murder face. We all know you cried watching those puppy videos last week.” Harris continued.
Troy flipped him off without missing a beat, cheeks already pinking under the hat. “Shut up, Harris. You’re not helping. You spend way to much time with Rozzy. He’s rubbing off on you.”
“I’m here for prime PR content,” Harris deadpanned, zooming in on Troy’s face. “The internet’s gonna eat you alive.” The guys laughed.
Ilya, already in his sweats, towel around his neck, grinned with spark of curiosity in his eyes. “Barrett, you’re softer than my husband’s cashmere socks. Now show us what you got in that big bag of yours.”
“Fuck all of you,” Troy said cheerfully, dropping the bag with a theatrical thud. “We don’t do Secret Santa because you’re all emotionally constipated hockey neanderthals. Fine. But I appreciate you assholes. Santa Troy is here to remind you that you’re not just my teammates- you’re my idiots.”
More chirps erupted. Zane, the team’s resident BBQ king, fake-gagged. “Jesus, Barrett, did you write that in your diary?”
Young, the baby-faced rookie still battling acne and imposter syndrome, snorted. “Let’s hope he’s not buying us socks like my grandma.”
Troy ignored them and started handing out packages, one by one, ripping open the chaos like a goddamn Christmas miracle. The wrapping paper flew. Harris kept filming, occasionally pausing to mutter, “This is gold. Pure gold. Troy’s gonna kill me later but the likes will be worth it.”
Ilya got first dibs because best friend privileges. Troy tossed him a box neatly wrapped in paper with tiny dogs wearing reindeer antlers on it. Ilya shredded it with too much energy. Russian snacks- real sushki, sunflower seeds, varenye that smelled like his grandmother’s kitchen. Then the custom bumper sticker- photo of Anya mid-zoomies, ears flapping with bold text PRINCESS ON BOARD. And the pièce de résistance- the strawberry sweater for the dog, soft, ridiculous, and sold out everywhere months ago. Ilya’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. “You motherfucker. I bitched about this sweater for weeks. Told you not buying it was my worst decision since that Vegas party in ’16. How the fuck-”
“Three websites, one very patient older lady on eBay,” Troy said, shrugging like it was nothing. “Anya’s gonna look like a goddamn fruit salad queen.”
The room lost its collective mind. Luca yelled, “Captain’s a soft boy! Somebody get the man a tissue before he ruins his reputation!” Zane started fake-sobbing into his towel. Even Shane, usually the picture of Canadian politeness, was cackling.
Ilya flipped them all off but immediately snapped a pic of the sweater and sent it to Yuna and David with about fifteen heart emojis. “Anya’s going to look epic. Thanks, Troy. You’re a bastard and I love you.”
Luca was next. Fondue set- real Swiss cast-iron, the kind his grandpa used to haul out every Sunday back home- plus a crate of cheeses that made the whole locker room smell like a Geneva market. And a sleek Japanese ink stick in a lacquered box, the fancy sumi-e shit. Luca’s eyes went suspiciously glassy. “You remembered the fondue nights? I told that story once, drunk in the hotel bar in Calgary. And the ink- how the hell did you know I was dying for real Japanese?”
“I had a feeling you might want to test out some weird art supplies,” Troy said honestly. “And no more homesick whining without the proper tools.”
“I’m touched” Luca barked a shy laugh. “Team! I’ll make you eat fondue until you explode.” He hugged Troy hard enough to crack ribs.
Wyatt, watching, chirped, “Careful, Luca, don’t make it weird- Harris is right there filming your emotional affair.” Luca turned red within seconds.
Wyatt’s gift was the limited-edition The Boys comics anthology- the one that sold out in twelve minutes flat and left him devastated in a bookstore three months earlier. Troy had been there, seen the heartbreak, and quietly bought it. Wyatt tore the paper and actually yelped. “You absolute fucking gremlin. I cried in public, Troy. Real tears. I checked every store in Ottawa! I fought wars online!”
“I know,” Troy said, grinning. “I was the guy pretending to browse self-help while you had your meltdown. Hid it in my locker like a serial killer for three months.”
The chirps were merciless. “Lisa is gonna be jealous of a comic book,” Evan hooted. “Better hide it before she burns it for attention.”
Zane got the fancy meat-aging kit- the whole setup he’d been ranting about since August. “I’m smoking you all ribeyes next season opener, you ungrateful shits,” he declared, already reading the manual like it was the Bible. “Barrett, you’re getting the biggest one. Medium-rare, extra char.”
Evan’s voucher for the 4x4 Jeep country-western adventure outside Ottawa- for two so his wife could come- had him cheering. “I saw the advertisement online, it looked so good. Thanks man.”
Young opened his envelope next- the booked appointment with the top acne specialist in the city. He went beet red. “I mentioned that once. In the training room. Two months ago. You… you remembered I was scared to even Google it?”
“Kid, you flinched every time the team photographer showed up,” Troy said softer. “Figured it was time to stop hiding behind helmets. You’re too good for that shit.”
Nick got the Cookie Monster limited-edition sneakers- bright blue, googly eyes, ridiculousness in pure form. He lost it laughing. “These are hideous. I need them in my life immediately.” He glanced down at Troy’s feet, where the matching Oscar the Grouch pair were already on display. “You and Oscar really went full grumpy Muppet, huh?”
Troy lifted a foot. “We’re both dark and twisty.”
Harris, still filming, couldn’t resist. “He wore them around the house for three days. I laughed so hard I almost pissed myself.”
Boyle’s fishing set came with a note- For the next time you drag your brothers to the cabin and pretend you’re not the one who cries at the first bite. Boyle, the team’s resident gentle giant, clapped Troy on the back so hard he staggered. “You listen too damn much, Barrett. Gonna take the kids ice fishing with this. Thanks, man..”
LaPointe got the Nordic walking sticks- lightweight, cork grips, exactly what his physio had been pushing for his cranky knees. “Terry’s been nagging me about this for months,” he groaned happily. “I always forget to buy them. You just saved my dignity.”
Holmberg’s complete Friends DVD set- bloopers and all- had him cackling like a hyena. “I quote this in the shower every morning!”
“Because you do the ‘pivot’ bit every single time we move the couch in the lounge,” Troy shot back. “Figured you needed the source material before Netflix takes it away and you have a meltdown.”
Shane was near the end. Troy pulled out the slim, carefully wrapped book like it was made of glass. Shane tore the paper and his face went slack. Hockey: Canada’s Royal Winter Game, Arthur Farrell, 1899. The real first book about the sport- rare as hell, out of print for a century. “You’re shitting me,” Shane whispered, opening it like it might dissolve. “This is… Troy, I’ve wanted this since I was twelve. How did you get it?”
“Four months and one very aggressive auction,” Troy admitted, suddenly bashful under the Santa hat. “But the most hockey-obsessed guy on the team deserves the most hockey-obsessed gift. Merry Christmas, Hollander.” Shane hugged him- full, awkward, book-squished-between-them hug. The room exploded in catcalls.
“Get a room, you two!” Ilya yelled. “Harris, you filming this? Your boyfriend’s cheating on you with my husband!”
The rest of the team got their hits too- personalized care packages, inside-joke mugs, tickets to stuff they’d only mentioned once. Coach Wiebe was last- Dealing With Difficult Men: A Practical Guide. He flipped through it, lips twitching. “Page 47: ‘When they start singing Jingle Bells in the showers in April.’ Barrett, this is going on the mandatory reading list. You’re all still pains in my ass.”
The bag emptied. Wrapping paper was everywhere. The guys were comparing gifts like kids, chirping nonstop- “Barrett’s love language is ‘I spent too much money and remembered your weird shit’”- but the energy shifted when Ilya climbed onto the bench.
“Shut up, you animals,” Ilya said, but his grin was huge. “Troy, you absolute sap. You… you care. You listened. We see it. We love you for it, even if we’re gonna roast you about the Santa hat until the playoffs. Merry fucking Christmas, Barrett. And next year we’re doing Secret Santa so be prepared!”
The team surged- messy, half-dressed pile-up, smelling like hockey gear and too much Axe body spray. “Barrett! Barrett!” they chanted. Shane still clutched his book like treasure. Luca was already texting about fondue night. Harris kept filming. His smile was soft, he saved it for when Troy was being too perfect.
Troy, buried under twelve muscular idiots, laughed until his ribs hurt. “Merry Christmas.”
Couple days later, December 31st, Troy’s birthday marked the calendar. He was at home, half-asleep on the couch in sweatpants, arguing with Harris about whether pineapple belonged on pizza (it did, Harris insisted), when the front door exploded open. Four massive bodies in balaclavas- Zane, Evan, Nick, and Boyle- stormed in like a SWAT team. A black pillowcase went over Troy’s head before he could even swear. “What the fu-”
“Shut it, birthday boy,” Zane growled, voice muffled. “Captain’s orders. You’re being kidnapped. Standard team protocol.” They hauled him out like a sack of potatoes, Harris trailing behind laughing his ass off because of course he knew the plan. Troy could hear Ilya’s voice from the driveway- “Careful with the merchandise, idiots.”
The drive was chaos- blindfolded, chirped the whole way, EDM from the 2010s blasting from the speakers because Ilya had curated the playlist. When the bag came off, they were outside Ottawa’s hottest club, the one with the rooftop garden and the bass that could wake the dead. More 2010s EDM- David Guetta, Calvin Harris, Skrillex- poured out the doors. The whole team was there. Wives, husbands, friends. Shane, Luca, Wyatt, Young- everybody. Ilya and Harris had orchestrated it down to the last detail.
“Surprise, grumpy Mr. Santa,” Ilya yelled over the music, slinging an arm around Troy’s shoulders. “You gave us Christmas. We’re giving you the birthday you will never forget. Just us, bad decisions, and one very special present.” The present was wheeled out on a cart under a sheet. When they yanked it off- a life-size chocolate sculpture of Troy- full hockey gear, face carved in dark chocolate. It was ridiculous. It was perfect. Ilya's idea, obviously. The room lost it.
“I want a piece of Troy!” Zane bellowed, diving in with a bite.
“Dibs on the ass!” Harris and Ilya yelled at the same time then high fived. Nick and Evan went straight for the helmet. Within an hour the sculpture was decimated- chocolate Troy reduced to a headless torso with broken limbs like a Roman marble sculpture. Troy was laughing so hard he could barely stand, chocolate smeared on his cheek. Harris had never seen him like this- loose, energetic, free.
Troy and Ilya turned into absolute party animals- shotgunning drinks, dominating the dance floor to Levels and Bangarang, Ilya doing the old Boston party-boy moves that hadn’t died after all. Troy was right there with him, no holding back, no Dallas Kent voice in his head telling him real men don’t dance with their boyfriends and queer best friends. They were sweaty, ridiculous and unstoppable.
Shane watched from the edge of the floor, beer in hand, grinning like a fool. “Wild Ilya is so back,” he said to Harris, voice full of wonder. “And Troy- Jesus, look at him. They’re both just… happy.” Harris filmed it all- again- because some things deserved to live forever even if this clip will remain private. Troy caught his eye across the floor, chocolate on his lip, and mouthed I love you, you traitor.
The night was crazy- shots, bad dancing, Young trying to crowd-surf and immediately regretting it, Ilya and Troy leading a conga line that ended with half the team in the VIP booth telling the most unhinged road-trip stories. By 3 a.m. the chocolate Troy was a memory, the music still thumping, and the Centaurs were louder than the bass. Troy, flushed and glowing, pulled Harris in for a messy kiss right there on the dance floor. “Best birthday ever,” he yelled over the music. “But the kidnapping? Still gonna kill you tomorrow.”
Harris kissed him harder. “Worth it. My dark, gift-bringing, chocolate- eating baby crow.”
Ilya crashed into them, arm around both. “Group hug! Team hug! We love you, Troy Boy!” The rest of the guys piled on- sweaty, chocolate-stained, laughing. Shane joined last, still clutching the remnants of his drink. They were a perfect mess. Troy Barrett let himself be loved, loud, and completely, unapologetically theirs.