Chapter Text
The ceiling was kind of far away. Farther than usual. That was weird. He shifted. The ground. He was on the ground. Again. Troy shifted onto his side, wincing when the movement sent shoots of pain through his throbbing temples. The carpet was itchy on his cheek, but the gravity felt good on his aching body. However long he’d been asleep, whether it had been five minutes or five hours, had not been enough. He was exhausted. His body felt like shit, muscles cranky and dehydrated, mouth dry and full of the taste of stale whiskey. The watery sunlight coming in through the window was not very helpful in figuring out what time it might be. He shifted again and the scent of cigarettes and someone else's cheap cologne wafted out of his jacket. Oh, Christ. He was still in his fucking leather jacket, fully dressed on the floor of his stupid long term rental. The carpet was disgusting, but so was he.
Troy liked lying on floors. He’d been doing it his whole life, having floor time after a long practice always seemed to reset his joints. He always woke up on the floor after drinking. Which meant that he’d been waking up on the floor a lot the last few months. He’d just accepted that he was going to make bad decisions for this moment in time and leaned into it. And boy. He’d been making some bad fucking decisions. Ottawa didn’t have much in the way of a bar scene, but there were a few dark, loud places he could go to lose himself.
For the first time in his life, he’d found a sense of freedom in dark places with a strangers hands on him. No pressure to perform heterosexuality. No Dallas fucking Kent looking over his shoulder to see who he was sexting. No one, really, checking on him at all.
For years, maybe as long as he could remember, no one ever really needed Troy for anything. Yeah he was good at hockey. Well. He’d been good at hockey. Really good. For a while. But not very good at being a person. He’d formed himself into a jock shaped homunculus and directed its footsteps forward into the world. The pressure from his dad had born down on him until he was pretty sure the homunculus was actually who he was.
There was never anyway to escape. No where he could go to bloom the way he so desperately needed to. The flowers withered on the vine, and what was left was rotten. He was rotten, he knew that, and had stopped trying to fight it a long time ago. And the worst thing might be that no one noticed. No one cared. It was so easy to slip into the archetype because no one expected anything else from him.
Then, there'd been him. For a little while, at least, someone had cared. Troy had started to let down the walls around his heart, but then everything changed. He lost it, he lost him.
At least here in this cold, quiet new city, he could slip through the cracks into the other side. He’d been here five months, having been traded on the last day of eligibility after the altercation with Dallas. He’d spent most of the summer in Vancouver, but now he was back. Alone. Left to wriggle into the darker corners of the night where he could find another man’s hands to undo his belt buckle, press him to his knees and use him. Troy was tired of fighting and he was tired of working hard to maintain a facade he didn’t like. He wanted to be faceless. He wanted hands in his hair, yanking hard, telling him all the things he knew were true.
He felt useless every moment he was off the ice, and a lot when he was on it, but at least in this darkness, he had some use.
His phone was on the ground next to him and he fumbled it open to a flood of notifications on that one app, and none in his messenger app. He swiped the grindr ones away for now. He must have been very busy last night to have that many. Fuck he hoped he hadn’t gotten his face in the photos.
Captains practice started in an hour. They were optional, but Coach Weibe had called Troy into his office after the second missed practice in a “let’s get things straight” conversation and told him that nothing was optional for Troy. He was expected to show up and be professional if not friendly. An hour. Not enough time to get himself professional.
Troy pushed himself upright, his head felt like it was moving a few inches ahead of his brain and he couldn’t think too hard about how his stomach felt or he wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom in time.
He was going to die.
The entire team was on the ice by the time Troy straggled his way into his gear, dry heaving as he bent to tie up his skates, hair still wet from his cold shower. Ilya Rozanov stood in the lineman’s circle watching the guys goof off as Zane Boodrum laughed something into his ear. Troy followed his gaze to see Shane Hollander zipping behind the goal, looking over the pipes at Ilya with barely contained adoration in his eyes.
Troy was going to throw up again.
He pushed himself out onto the ice, diving into the chaos of the preseason practice with his head down.
“Barrett!” Rozanov’s accent clipped his name as it roared across the ice. Troy changed direction and headed to where he was standing.
“Hey.” Troy offered lamely. He was already breathing hard, just from getting into his gear and one set of crossovers.
“Not late, but not on time either.” Rozanov said, leaning forward on the blade of his stick.
“Uh, sorry.” Troy said. Zane Boodrum was looking him up and down in the way a butcher eyes a cut of meat.
“One pass for today. If you are late to real practice, Coach will make us all pay. Not how you want to start first full season here.” Rozanov said.
“You got it.” Troy said.
“I want you to work with the rookie on their slaps today. You have strong backhand, they need practice.” Rozanov said.
“Yeah, okay.” Troy said. Bood cocked his head.
“Okay, go.” Rozanov flipped a hand at him, releasing him.
“Still not the most talkative guy,” he heard Bood say as he skated away, looking for Haas and Kilmarin. Haas wasn’t a rookie anymore, he’d hit his game percentage last season, but he was still barely 18 and seemed to forget that he was an MLH player whenever he wasn’t actively scoring. Troy looked at him, and their other rookie, a small, fast kid from Nova Scotia who had been the fourth round draft pick Ottawa had won in the lottery. He still had acne on his cheeks, and looked like he should have had braces. Troy felt approximately a thousand years old looking at the two of them. Had he ever been so young?
“Roz wants me to work your backhands.” Troy said, catching both their eyes. Haas was already gravitating to Kilmarin’s side, grateful to have someone closer to his age.
“You won the last All Stars goal precision.” Kilmarin said, in place of a greeting.
“Did you recite Hollanders’ stats to him when you met him? Fuck, how long did that take.” Troy muttered, poking at his arm to get it into a different position.
“Can you believe they’re both here?” Kilmarin said, apparently missing the nasty tone in Troy voice. Troy glanced over his shoulder to see Hollander stop next to Rozanov and take the gatorade bottle Roz was holding out for him. Troy’s stomach clenched and he had to wipe a sneer off his face.
“We’re going to Finals for sure.” Haas was agreeing with Kilmarin. Couple of puppy dogs.
“When I got drafted here, I thought it was going to be…” Kilmarin stopped talking, looking over at Troy.
“I don’t give a fuck, this team sucked ass until Rozanov.” He said, “I didn’t come here on purpose. Quicker there. No. Quicker!” He snapped when Kilmarin didn’t immediately fix the problem.
“My coach said-,”
“Who? Weibe?” Troy asked,
“No, my private coach-“
“No one gives a fuck about your private coach in bumfuck Nova Scotia, Kilmarin. Do what I’m telling you.” The kids’ eyes narrowed but his cheeks stained with color. He executed what Troy asked him to do. “See, I’m fucking right.”
Troy ran through his own selection of shots, though his usual precision was off today. Not too bad, considering he was so hungover that he could feel his heartbeat in his ass, but bad enough that he felt eyes drawing to him.
Hollander called out the lines for the first scrimmage and to Troy’s horror, he was called out to wing Rozanov.
“What?” The word popped out of his mouth before he knew he was going to say something. Hollander lifted a heavy brow.
“Have a better idea?” He asked. His voice was soft, but full of steel.
“I just thought… never mind.” Troy said, and skated to his place at Rozanov’s shoulder. Hollander didn’t put himself on this line at all. He watched the lines scrimmage for their shift length, then hopped out when the lines changes. Troy was sweating much harder than he should have been and he sat heavily on the bench to watch the second and fourth line go at it.
Hollander was breathtaking. Troy put his forehead against the board and took in a few long, slow breaths fighting back the splotches in his vision.
“What the fuck is wrong with you.” Rozanov’s voice cut through the roaring in Troy’s ears.
“Oh, nothing.” Troy said.
“You go out last night?” Rozanov asked. “Don’t answer, you stink of it. You get one pass, this is not real practice. But come late and hungover on Monday and this conversation will be different.” Troy nodded.
“You got it Roz.”
The scrimmage should have been fun, and the rest of the team seemed to enjoy it. Troy was gassed.
“I have a present for you.” Hollander called out after the scrimmage ended. Haas and Kilmarin looked up, and Troy felt again like they were little puppies, ears perked up.
Troy had been on a hockey team since he was old enough to sign up. He knew what the present was. Haas and Kilmarin should have known as well, but perhaps there was something about Hollander’s pretty, emotionless face that gave them false hope.
“Agility skates!” Hollander crowed, smiling at the groans and muttered curses of the team around them. “Gotta get you fuckers in shape, we have a long season ahead of us. Long road to the spring. A lot to prove. To do that, we have to be conditioned. Blue line!” He cut the team in half so they were skating towards each other, so Troy could watch Hollander fly up and down the ice, barely breaking a sweat when Troy was going to pass out.
“Barrett! The rookies are smoking you! Lazy summer is over!” Hollander’s voice cut through the rushing in Troy’s ears.
“Fuck you.” Troy gasped, the sound of his voice lost in the grunts of the men around his and the cut of skates into the ice.
Hollander had them on bag skates for the last twenty minutes after scrimmage and Troy got to puke three times. To be fair, Bood also threw up.
Not Hollander. And not Rozanov either. The perfect husbands of hockey were breathing hard after, but neither were bent over red faced and choking down dry heaves. Troy figured they spent all their time in their home gym alternating between wind sprints and fucking each other. His legs felt like jello as he staggered down the tunnel after the rest of the team dispersed.
Troy had never been this out of shape in his life, but the gym had been the last thing on his mind over the summer, and now he was paying for it. He could feel the team watching him fight out of his gear, still gasping for breath as he sat in his cubby for a moment before walking on wooden legs into the shower.
Hollander and Rozanov stood at showers across the room from each other, backs turned. Troy took the first spigot available and scrubbed down, pressing his lips together at the sight of a fresh bite mark on his inner thigh.
The skin wasn’t broken, so he just rinsed down and went back into the room and finished dressing.
“Wasn’t sure you were going to make it through that.” Wyatt Hayes fell into step beside him as he made his was out of the room. No one else had even said goodbye as he passed.
“Me either.” Troy said .
“How are you liking Ottawa?” Hayes asked, pushing open a door for Troy. “Pretty different than Toronto.”
“It’s quiet. I don’t like it.” Troy said.
“Yeah, but the team is pretty cool. You should come to Bood’s tonight, he’s cooking.”
“Oh, he didn’t mention it.”
“It’s in the group chat. I added you yesterday. Everyone thought you were in it all summer but then I realized you weren’t. Sorry about that.” Hayes said, frowning a little. They made it to the parking lot.
“Thanks. Um, I’ll check it out.” He said.
“Okay, see you later, Barrett.” Hayes gave him a quick pat to the shoulder and went to his car.
Troy went to his own, an electric blue Porsche SUV he’d ordered with his last contract negotiation with Toronto. It was good that he’d paid for it outright. Ottawa had gotten him at the rate he’d been making the year after his rookie season. He dropped into the leather seat and pushed the start on the car, flicking the aircon to full blast. He was still sweating, and he needed a minute in the silent car.
Hollander and Rozanov came out of the team door together. Hollander said something that made Rozanov throw his head back and laugh, joy practically exploding out of him. Then he looked at Hollander. Something ugly twisted in Troy’s chest.
The love that was pouring out of Rozanov’s eyes as he looked at his husband was palpable from across the covered parking lot. The ugliness spread down into Troy’s belly, a cold, evil cancer that made his blood turn to ice in his veins.
“Oh my god,” He breathed to himself as Hollander leaned over and kissed Rozanov. Just the shortest, most chaste peck on the lips, the kind of kiss every WAG in the world greeted their guy with, but it made Troy feel like screaming.
He pulled out of the parking lot, driving away from the arena, and the visibile torrent of love that was cascading between Hollander and Rozanov. How the fuck was he supposed to put up with that every day? Every second of every practice, he was going to have to feel that.
Troy wasn’t out. He’d watched Hunter kiss his boyfriend after winning the cup almost two years ago with his team, listened to their ugly jeers and letting the disgusting words drip over him, into him. He couldn’t come out in that room. But it had gotten to him, and the pain and frustration of hearing all that shit for months had finally boiled over in the direction of Dallas Kent when Troy had finally had enough.
Now he was here. On the same goddamn team as the first married couple in hockey history, locked into a closet he was sure he’d never publicly make it out of.
But it was the sheer avalanche of love that cascaded between them, palpable, physical almost, that made Troy feel seasick. Should he be happy for them? After years of what sounded like torture, followed by an accidental outing and what happened to Hollander on the Metros, yes he should. Did he? Alone in his terrible hotel room apartment, cold in his own skin, horrified by where his life had landed… no. Troy hated them. He did not have it in him to find joy in other people’s love.
Harris didn’t usually like going to places like Reload. He didn’t go in for the seedy back room cruising spots because he didn’t usually cruise. He liked to date. Liked to hold hands and flirt, maybe dance or sing karaoke with his friends. The throbbing, unrelenting techno blasting in Reload made his stomach hurt but this was where Jordan had wanted to go and since he’d just been dumped by the man he’d thought was the love of this life, Harris was trapped. He sat at the bar, trying not to seem like he was looking, trying not to seem voyueristic, and also trying not to seem too available. This wasn’t a place you just hung out and got a beer. He was not looking to get railed by a stranger this specific Tuesday evening. Jordan, however, had taken a few shots of whiskey, made eye contact with a slim white guy in glasses and disappeared. Harris didn’t know if he was supposed to sit here and wait for him, or leave. They’d driven there together but had not made this part of the plan. Harris finished his beer, and shook his head at the bartenders raised eyebrows for a second one. He couldn’t hear anything the guy had said when he was ordering and didn’t know how he had any hearing left, it was so fucking loud in here. He sat there until the “song” ended and another equally loud and equally nondescript song started and then got up. Jordan might get mad at him for leaving, but it was uncomfortable sitting here alone waiting for his friend to get back from… whatever he was doing.
Harris paid for his beer and stood from the sticky stool, catching sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar. It was dark in the room, so he could barely make out his own face. A tall guy was moving unsteadily through the thin crowd behind him, an oddly familiar shape to him and when Harris turned around he was face to face with Troy Barrett. The fucking right wing forward for the Ottawa Centaurs. Harris knew his mouth fell open, felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Troy, for whatever reason, didn’t react at all. His eyes slid over Harris’s face and he continued his journey to the exit.
Harris whirled around, dropping his head into his hands, elbows on the bar. Holy hell. Troy Barrett was in a cruise bar.
Troy Barrett was in a cruise bar.
He was handsome. He had a Stanley Cup. He was also well known for being homophobic and a misogynist, always one step behind his disgusting friend Dallas Kent, never squarely in the spotlight but always just at the edges.
The nuclear bomb that was Hollanov had completely wiped out any other hockey gossip, but Harris remembered why Troy had been traded here. He’d come to Ottawa the first week of March, played the last few weeks of the season, then fucked off for the summer. He’d been there. Like the benches were there. Like the adverts on the boards were there. He skated. He caught and passed the puck. He still kept up with Rozanov enough to assist in a few points at the end of the season. This year, he’d showed up the same way, just a guy in a practice uniform. But he always had shadows under his eyes, and one time had smelled like liquor when he zoomed by Harris as he stood in the team box snapping photos for the instagram.
Hollanov was a much bigger story than Troy Barrett forgetting how to play hockey. No one seemed to remember he was even here. Not even Troy.
Harris left the bar and found Troy standing in the dark alley it was located in, his hands in his back pockets looking very distantly confused. He was wearing a loose pair of jeans and a black waffle knit Henley that hugged his shoulders and chest like a second skin. His hair was a mess, like someone had been yanking on it, leaving spikes of it standing up straight on the back of his head.
“Troy, are you okay?” Harris asked, jumping when Troy flinched and stumbled sideways into him.
“You know me?” Troy’s breath was a gust of straight whiskey. His eyes were completely devoid of any intelligent thought.
“Yes.” Harris said. A tall, broad shouldered man slunk past them, pausing at the door to look them over. Troy gave him a smile, but rocked back hard enough on his heels that Harris had to catch him, and the guy went into the club.
“I work for the Cents.” Harris said drawing Troy’s attention again. He swallowed thickly.
“What’re you doing here?” He asked, looking up behind them like he was checking that yes, this was still Reload.
“I’m here with a friend. What are you doing here?” Harris asked, though the smile Troy had just given that guy was making the situation more clear and Harris was starting to panic. He’d thought Troy was something else entirely. The narrowed glances at Harris’s pride pins, rumors from Toronto about the things he said… but he’d come out of the back room.
“I don’t know.” Troy said. And it sounded honest. “What am I doing anywhere these fuckin’ days.” He hiccoughed. “Fuck. Wassyername?” He squinted his pale blue eyes at Harris.
“I’m Harris. I’m on socials.” He said, trying not to be hurt that Troy didn’t remember him. Troy seemed like he couldn’t remember his own last name. Harris was still, somehow, holding Troy up by bracing his muscular chest with one hand as Troy had slung his arm around his shoulders. His fingers spread across Harris’s shoulders and he squeezed.
“I think my phone got stolen. Not in my pockets. I didn’t drive.” He said.
“Do you have your keys? Wallet?” Harris asked.
“Keys yeah.” Troy fumbled in his front pocket and the sound of keys jingling together echoed through the ally. “I didn’t bring my wallet, jus’ some cash an’ my id. Which was in the phone case. Fuck.” his hand wandered to his face and rubbed his eyes.
“Are you… on something?” Harris asked.
“Lil bit of k.” Troy said. “Um. I wanted to go home.”
“Can I take you there?”
“Sure, but I don’t think I can fuck again.” Troy said, and a lightning strike might have hit Harris with less force.
“No, Troy, just get you home. Ok, my car is over here.” Harris started tugging at Troy’s waist. He didn’t move. “Ok one foot in front of the other. Let’s go, buddy.” Harris said. Troy blinked, coming back from wherever he’d gone in space enough to start walking.
“Do you do this a lot?” Harrison asked, hauling him upright when his knee buckled.
“What?” Troy replied.
“Get fucked up at Reload.”
“Um, it’s new.”
“So… so you’re gay.” Harris felt stupid the second the question was out of his mouth.
“Yep.” Troy popped the p at the end of the word. “But I’m not out. Like not like Roz and Hollan’er.” They got to Harris’s clunky old truck and he propped Troy up against it.
“Does anyone know?” Harris unlocked the truck and pulled the squeaky passenger door open.
“No. I, uh, I had other stuff I was dealing with when everyone and their fucking mom came out.” Troy said. Harris pushed him into the cab.
“Three people is hardly everyone.” Harris sniffed under his breath.
“Try playing with two of ‘em.” Troy threw his head back on the headrest and sighed. “S’like pride never ends.”
“I don’t think they’re like that.” Harris replied. From the few times he’d been lucky enough to glimpse Rozanov and Hollander at practice or even in the hallway, they were barely touching. Ilya had looked at Shane once during a presser and it was like he’d hung the moon, but that wasn’t a never ending pride parade. That was just love.
He closed the door on Troy and went around the truck, having a mild panic attack as he did so. This was like having a lit bottle rocket in your hand. Troy Barrett. Who was not out but was gay enough to know how to A) find a place like Reload B) ask for Ketamine C) apparently get his back blown out in a bar.
Well Harris was making that last part up. He really didn’t know what went on back there. Not his part of the scene.
He hoisted himself into the truck, turning to look at Troy once inside. His face was blanked out, eyes open but unseeing.
“Troy, where do you live?” Harris asked. Troy’s mouth worked once but no sound came out.“Come on, you were just talking. You can do it. What’s your address? Part of town maybe?” The only answer he got was a slow blink. “Oh fuck me.” Harris huffed, turning on his truck and pulling out of the public parking lot.
He couldn’t just drive around for an hour until Troy came out of this K-hole. He didn’t want to waste the gas, and also, he was hungry. He had dinner waiting for him at home and he didn’t feel like going to a drive thru waiting for Troy to come down. It could be anywhere from like twenty minutes to an hour, from Harris’s experiences with his friends being idiots.
So he drove Troy to his home. Troy didn’t seem to mind. He just sat in the passenger seat, watching the lights pass overhead while he went on his space exploration. The drive only took about fifteen minutes in which Harris sorted through his panic attack, and started making plans. Troy could come down in his apartment then he’d get him a car and send him home. He’d make sure Troy knew that he was trustworthy with his secret. It wasn’t his business how or why someone wanted to come out, or didn’t in this case.
“It must have been hard playing on Toronto and being gay,” Harris said as he turned onto his street. “The shit those guys say and post online is really awful. I’m sorry you had to go through that. I thought you were like them, and that’s why you’ve been so distant from the team. The guys here are nice. You don’t have to hide yourself, even if you don’t want to come out.” He said, pulling into his parking lot. “I’m sure you’re going to forget this conversation,” He parked and looked over at Troy who was still just staring out the windshield. “But you’re okay here. I promise.” He waited a moment, but got nothing in response.
“You have to walk, Troy.” Harris said, unbuckling him from the drivers seat. “Can you do that? I can’t carry you, you’re huge.” He said. Troy nodded.
Harris got out of the truck and looked around the parking lot of his apartment. No one else was around. Mrs. Kelsey’s black Towne and Country was parked in her spot but Lester’s car was gone. Troy pitched out of the truck as soon as Harris opened the door, nearly flattening Harris in the process.
“Fucking hell, bud, let me get my feet under me.” Harris grappled with Troy’s limbs, still in the slow process of falling down until he wrestled him upright and pushed him against the wall of the lot. He stood there, breathing hard as Troy just put his head back and sighed.
There was dried cum on Troy’s collar. Harris shook his head of the image of how it must have gotten there, then wrangled Troy into an upright position.
“Again, one foot in front of the other.” He said, and luckily Troy was able to obey. “I bet you could obey any physical coaching I gave you right now. All those years of playing hockey, getting told what to do.”
Could obey. Not would obey. Harris realized the situation Troy had put himself in. Was this a regular thing he did? If so, how had he been getting away with it without it going viral? The gays were some of the biggest clout chasers in the world. Who would have not crowed to the roofs Troy Barrett had their cum drying on his Henley? This was so dangerous. Regardless of getting outed… maybe that’s what Troy was trying to do. Get outed. So he didn’t have to out himself. It worked for Hollanov.
Harris really had to stop referring to Shane and Ilya as Hollanov. They were not exactly his coworkers but they were real people now. Not just a hashtag on twitter. Just like Troy was a real person who was really falling down.
“No, no, forward, not down,” Harris caught him and propelled him into forward motion. The walk to his apartment was short, but fraught with different obstacles Harris had never noticed before now. A curb. A potted plant. Two stairs. All extremely difficult to navigate if you were Troy Barrett in a k hole. “They’re just stairs, Troy!” Harris finally snapped after Troy had failed to understand how to get up them for the third time.
“I’m thirsty.” He said. Harris closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation.
“Water is up these two stairs. You play in the MLH. You have made at least two impossible goals, one of which I have bookmarked on Youtube. You can get up two fucking stairs!” Harris was almost yelling. Troy looked a little hurt. Not much. There was a little furrow in his brow. He turned his attention to the stairs and walked up them with no issue. Like he should, as a grown man who played professional sports. Or, you know, a young child who has been walking for at least a year. Harris got him into the apartment and deposited him onto his corduroy couch while he went to get water from his fridge which was only about two feet from the couch. Troy started rubbing his hands on the couch then stopped.
Looked like he wasn’t coming up yet, after all. He sank backwards into the couch and stared at Harris’s wall. There were a lot of little knick knacks on little shelves and cozy, cute, and varied farmers market art work to look at. A few personified apples. Some cute animated hockey players, all in Ottawa black and red. A framed puck. A knock off neon outline of an apple. The apple thing had been his personal brand for a long time, but Harris was starting to wonder if it was overdone. Well, Troy didn’t even know what his own address was right now, so there was very little chance of him having an opinion.
“Do you like the Real Housewives?” Harris asked, putting a cup of water on the side table at Troy’s elbow for whenever he was ready for it. Troy shrugged. “That’s a good sign. I’ll take it.” Harris said, and turned on the newest episode of RHONY. Seemed like a safe thing to put on. Nothing scary, nothing overly animated, the women’s faces couldn’t make that many expressions.
It had been a long day. He’d worked from nine to five, then gotten the call from Jordan that he was desperate to go out and couldn’t be made to stay in with chains. They’d gotten to Reload by seven and now it was nearly nine thirty. Harris had not had a chance to eat his dinner, and he was tired from his work day and manhandling the corpse of Troy around for the last hour. He checked on that corpse, who was maybe watching the show, and maybe seeing an intergalactic space sex monster, then got up to reheat his dinner. He’d made pot roast the night before and it was just as good the second time with fresh mashed potatoes. Troy didn’t answer when he offered him some, and when Harris sat back down, Troy’s eyes were shut. There were tears tracking down his cheeks, but Harris didn’t want to disturb him by trying to wake him up for an explanation. Harris cried when he was high sometimes. It could be natural. He put a chunky knitted blanket he’d ordered from Etsy over Troy and ate his dinner to the dulcet sounds of rich women yelling at each other.
Troy started to slump down into the couch after a few minutes, then fallen sideways, his head landing in Harris’s lap. Harris pursed his lips. Troy wasn’t doing anything other than breathing, but this was an intimate position. He put his dinner plate aside.
“Troy?” He asked, leaning over so he could see Troy’s face.
“Mmph.” Troy responded.
“I think you’re going to have to sleep here.” He said.
“I’m already sleeping.”
“Oh good, a full sentence. I’m going to get you set up here. I’ve gotta go to bed. You might not have practice until afternoon, but I have to get to the office at nine.” He said, slipping out reluctantly from under Troy’s weight. He brought a good pillow from bed and another blanket, pulled Troy’s shoes, some fancy, expensive Nikes, off his feet, then tucked him under the blankets. Yeah he was sleeping in those jeans. And that shirt. Tough luck, kiddo. He was too big for the couch and Harris had to fold him up a little to get all his various body parts on it. But he still didn’t complain.
“There’s water if you need it. Bathroom is right there. I’ll see you in the morning.” Harris said, and had to fight off a sudden urge to kiss him on the forehead. What that fuck? He shook his head and went to get ready for bed.
If this was a romance novel, Troy would have been gone when Harris woke up, a simple note or perhaps some fresh baked goods left in thanks. Instead, this was real life and Troy was lying on the ground, snoring when Harris came out of his room, dressed for the day. Troy was on his stomach, one leg pulled up, his head pillowed on his folded arm which was damp with drool. His hair was greasily sticking up like a hedgehog’s quills, and his shirt had ridden up his back, exposing the dimples at the base of his spine. He had beautiful skin, pale and blemish free in a way that suggested he might know what body wash was. Harris just watched him snore for a full minute. Troy didn’t look that great in the morning light coming in through Harris’s yellow curtains. He had dark shadows under his eyes, and the hollows of his cheeks were a little too prominent.
Harris had not followed Troy’s career that closely, but he’d done his homework once he’d been traded to Ottawa. On the ice, he’d been a very successful wing on the Guardians for years, which was annoying because that meant they beat Ottawa whenever they played them. Toronto had a deep seated fan base of total lunatics who shelled out money like it was renewable energy and shit talked the rest of the Canada despite the Guardians having an iffy record. Nothing like Montreal, Harris huffed to himself, going into his kitchen to make his daily coffee and oatmeal, which he ate with a side of peanut butter toast. His kitchen was just a galley off the main living room, a tight space with only about two feet between the two sets of cabinets, and was open to the rest of the apartment. So any noise that was made in the kitchen was heard everywhere.
Harris ground his coffee fresh every morning. He’d spent two years working for Starbucks in college, and that was the one thing he’d learned there that he kept up with. Freshly ground every day. Nice, until you had a passed out MLH player sleeping off a high and who knew what else on your living room floor. He had to make the coffee. He’d promised himself he’d stop buying a latte every day after he’d racked up a thirty dollar bill at the Starbucks in the arena last week. Troy was an idiot. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to be passed out on his floor. Harris ground the coffee. Troy didn’t flinch.
“I don’t know if that’s good or bad.” Harris said, to himself, dumping the grounds into the paper cone filter. He microwaved his oatmeal and at the light beep of the timer, Troy shot up with a muffled “What the fuck!”.
He closed his eyes hard and swallowed somewhat thickly, bracing himself on the couch. His hair did not improve with being upright, sticking out in clumps and falling across his forehead. He had a line indent on his cheek from the sleeve of his shirt. Harris let him orient himself in his physical body, watching him with interest as he took a few deep breaths in through his nose and let them out of his mouth. His dark eye lashes ringed his blue eyes, drawing attention to how bloodshot they were and he had no color in his cheeks when he finally opened his eyes and looked around.
“Good morning, Troy.” Harris said, as easy and welcoming as he could. Troy still jumped a mile in the air and whirled towards his voice. He blinked hard.
“Um, good morning.” He said stiffly. “I’m sorry, I can’t…”
“I’m Harris, we didn’t sleep together. You lost your phone at Reload and then fell into a k hole and wouldn’t tell me where you lived. So here you are. I work for the Centaurs, social media. I took some really good photos for the instagram last night.” He said.
Heat flushed Troy’s face.
“I, eh, I-,”
“I’m kidding. Do you want something to eat? I have to leave soon, but I can make two bowls of oatmeal.” He said. Troy blinked at him again, working his jaw. Harris pointed to the water, still untouched, on the side table. He reached for it and drained the whole glass.
“I’m not really sure what’s going on right now.” He said.
“Don’t try too hard to figure it out. I won’t tell anyone about this. Not about meeting you at Reload, or the ket, or the falling asleep on my floor.” Harris said.
“Where did we meet at Reload?” Troy asked, gingerly getting to his feet.
“Outside.” Harris said. That seemed to calm Troy a little.
“Oh, it’s not that I um, don’t think I’d like to, you know, you’re very, uh, nice,”
“Troy don’t do this. For one thing, you were really, and I mean, really fucked up. For another, I’m not a monster. I won’t post about it, and I never would have let anything happen between us unless we were mutually fucked up on purpose.” He said. “And I’m probably not your type.” He couldn’t help himself. guys who lived in the megawatt stratosphere of hotness, like Troy, usually ended up fucking a boyfriend twin. Not a comfortable bear with a split chest.
“Who said that?” Troy asked, now leveling his gaze at Harris. He squirmed beneath those blue eyes, in focus for the first time since they’d met. “I don’t usually lie when I’m fucked up.” Harris knew he was flushing beet red from his chest to his hairline.
“Just an assumption. So, oatmeal?” He lifted his bowl.
“Okay. What is in it?” Troy asked, moving around the couch and meeting Harris over the counter dividing the kitchen from the living room.
“Nothing right now. I have brown sugar, walnuts, and raisins if you want. Or chocolate chips.” He said.
“I’ll eat it plain. Unless you have protein powder?” He asked. Harris couldn’t stop his face from squishing in distaste.
“You jocks are all gross.” He said, and got toward making his own bowl. Which he ate with brown sugar, walnuts, and raisins. Like a normal person. Troy ate carefully.
“You said you didn’t drive last night. Is your car at your house?”
“Yeah, it’s at the hotel.” Troy said. Hotel? He’d been in Ottawa five months. “Long term rental. I didn’t want to move in somewhere too permanent incase, you know. I didn’t stay.” He shrugged.
“Did you request another transfer?”
“No. I’m not UFA, gotta stay here for another year.” He finished the bowl. “I can’t remember if I ate dinner last night.” He said.
“You wouldn’t eat when I tried to give you something.” Harris said. “Do you want more?”
“No, thank you. I know you have to get going. Thank you, by the way.” He said. Harris looked at the clock. Yes, he really did have to get going.
“You’re welcome.” He said, pouring his coffee into a to-go tumbler and picking up his work bag. “Do you want to ride to arena?” He asked. Troy looked down at his clothing. Same pants and shirt from the previous night, which were not improved with the night on the floor.
“Can I ask one more favor? Can you call me an uber to my place? I’ll pay you back.” He said.
“Sure.” Harris handed his phone over and Troy called a car. It would be there in three minutes, a black SUV, driven by Mario. Harris fidgeted with his work stuff.
“I’ll wait on the porch. If you have one, or just outside.” Troy said.
“It’s three minutes.”
“Can’t be late this early in the season, especially if it’s my fault.” Troy said, walking towards the door.
“Okay, fine. but I don’t like leaving you like you’re some bad hookup I’m ditching. If I had spare keys, I’d let you have them for the day.” Harris said. He should get some. For his sisters, or his friends maybe.
“I was a bad hookup. You didn’t come once,” Troy said, breezily, over his shoulder, leaving Harris to stand in the middle of his sunny apartment staring at his wide, athletes back as he left the apartment.