Rozanov studied him another moment, then finally extended his hand. “Welcome to Ottawa. I hope you like boring museums.”
The handshake was more of a hand slap, and as soon as it was over, Rozanov turned and walked away. It wasn’t a warm welcome, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Troy’s former teammates in Toronto had been furious with him, calling him everything from a traitor to...worse.
You actually believe those attention whores?
They’re obviously lying, Barrett. Women are fucking liars.
I thought you had my back.
A commotion broke out near the entrance of the locker room as Troy was tugging on his practice jersey. He heard a loud voice he didn’t recognize, followed by Rozanov exclaiming, “Fuck yes! Finally.”
There was a small black puppy in the middle of the room. It was adorable in every way, from its too-big feet, to its soft floppy ears, to its excitedly wagging tail. The puppy had instantly reduced a room full of macho hockey players into cooing heart-eye emojis.
But while Troy’s new teammates were captivated by the puppy, Troy’s attention quickly shifted to the man who was accompanying it. He was nice to look at. Stocky and rugged, with neatly combed dark-blond hair and a trim beard. He was wearing a denim jacket over a plaid shirt, and, Troy noticed immediately, he wore at least three Pride-related pins on his jacket.
Troy felt like ice water had just been injected into his veins. Mandatory official Pride Nights aside, he had never seen anyone blatantly displaying rainbow symbols in a locker room before.
Troy knew he wasn’t the only gay NHL player—Scott Hunter, for example, never shut up about it—but he was terrified of coming out. Of doing anything that would suggest to anyone that he might be gay. That he had a boyfriend.
Except he didn’t have a boyfriend anymore. Not after Adrian had dumped him over FaceTime last week. Two years of dating in secret, of exploring each other’s bodies and figuring out the whole gay sex thing. Two years of protecting each other, trusting each other, and being comfortable with each other. Two years of being in love. Finished. Ripped away so unexpectedly that Troy hadn’t had a chance to fully process it, leaving him without anyone who he could fully be himself with.
And now this man—he must be Harris, the social media guy—was boldly hanging out in an NHL dressing room, covered in rainbows like it was no big deal. He seemed to be well-liked, the way the guys were gathered around and laughing with him. Troy felt a flash of jealousy at his ability to be himself and have people like him for it.
The puppy, for whatever reason, bounded over to Troy. It immediately snatched one of Troy’s gloves off the bench and began chewing on the thick, padded thumb. It seemed to smile up at him as it did it, and Troy stared warily back at the one member of this team who seemed happy he was here.
“Oh shit. Chiron, you goof! Don’t eat the equipment.” The man who was probably Harris came to a stop in front of Troy. “Sorry about him. He’s going to be a therapy dog, but he hasn’t started school yet.” He gently removed the glove from the dog’s mouth. “Those gloves cost like a jillion dollars each, buddy.”
Troy leaned forward and gave the puppy a tentative pat on the head. He’d never owned a pet in his life, not even as a child, so he was awkward around animals. “What did you say his name is?”
“Chiron. Y’know. Like the centaur.”
Troy did not know. “He’s cute.”
“You’ll be seeing a lot of him. He’s the new official team dog. Oh, and I’m Harris. You’ll be seeing a lot of me, too.” Harris offered Troy his hand. His handshake was a little too firm and a little too hearty, but it was the friendliest touch Troy had experienced in a while. He almost hated for it to end.
“I’m Troy.”
“Yep. I worked that out for myself.” Harris put his hands on his hips and smiled down at him. Troy wasn’t particularly tall, but if he stood now he’d probably have a couple of inches on the guy. “Part of the whole social media manager thing. It helps if you know the names of the players.” He laughed so loudly that Troy almost winced.
Troy’s eyes kept landing on the pins on Harris’s jacket. “You been with the team long?”
“Longer than you,” Harris joked. Troy got the impression that Harris was rarely serious. “It’s my third season.” He picked up Chiron, who immediately began licking Harris’s face. Harris laughed—again, too loudly—and said, “This is the most I’ve been licked by a member of this team.”
It was a ridiculous joke, but it still seemed shockingly bold to Troy. Harris probably hadn’t meant to put an image in Troy’s mind of...licking him, but that’s where his imagination went. He had never had such a vivid sexual thought in a locker room before because he always kept careful control over that sort of thing. But he’d never been confronted in a locker room by someone who comfortably advertised themself as queer before. And it didn’t help that the man was attractive.
He was also, Troy realized, talking to him. And Troy wasn’t listening.
“Sorry?” Troy said.
“Just sayin’ that you don’t seem to have a social media account.”
Not one that anyone knows about. “Uh, no. I don’t.”
“Management wants all of the players to have at least an Instagram account. Doesn’t have to be fancy or personal. You can just repost official team stuff if you’re not comfortable doing more. I can help you set one up, if you want.”
“It’s mandatory?” Troy hated publicity stuff. All he wanted was to play hockey and be left alone. The celebrity part of it sucked.
“Basically. But if it’s a problem I can probably—”
Nope. Troy wasn’t going to start out with his new team by reinforcing the notion that he was difficult. “I can set one up. It’s fine.”
Harris smiled like Troy had just told him he’d give him a million dollars. “Awesome! Also, I want to do a Q and A with you. Just a little video to introduce you to the fans. Maybe later this week.”
Ugh. “Uh, I guess. If you want.”
“I’ll go easy on you,” Harris promised with another flash of his warm, earnest smile. “Softball questions only.”
His eyes were a comforting mossy green and they shone with playfulness that wasn’t even a tiny bit mean. If Troy had to describe his own eyes, he would use words like cold and dead. And his smile wasn’t worth mentioning.
“We can wait until Sunday at least. Let you get a game under your belt.”
“Whenever.” Troy’s gaze found Harris’s pin collection again. What would it be like to be that comfortable—that open—about yourself?