Finally, Troy wrote, Not too bad. Just different.
Mom: Sometimes bad things happen so better things can happen.
Mom would know that more than most people. After Troy’s father had left her for a much younger woman three years ago, Mom had been devastated. She’d told Troy, one night over a shared bottle of wine, that the worst part was the embarrassment.
“It’s not just that he replaced me with an upgrade,” she’d told him. “It’s that I’m ashamed of having ever been with him in the first place. Do you know how many people have told me that they always thought he was an asshole?” Then she’d apologized for talking about Troy’s father that way in front of him. Troy had waved her apology away. Curtis Barrett was an asshole.
And now, because of Dallas Kent, Troy knew the shame of standing beside someone for years who was, well. A villain.
Troy: You should get some sleep.
Mom: I’ll try. Charlie says hi.
Troy: Charlie’s awake too?
Mom: No, but if he were awake he’d say hi.
Troy chuckled quietly and typed, Good night, Mom. Love you.
Mom: Love you too. Good luck tomorrow.
He fell back on the mattress, letting out a long sigh of exhaustion and frustration. He should probably finish setting up his new Instagram account and maybe post something, but he didn’t feel like it. His last team had barely involved players in their social media outreach, and Troy had been extremely fine with that, but this was a new team with a new vibe, and he should make an effort to fit in.
He opened Instagram again, created a password, and then hit a roadblock when it asked for a profile picture. All he had saved on his phone were promo shots of himself in a Toronto uniform.
He wondered if the team had posted one of the photos Gen had taken today yet. He went to the team’s official account and found his own too-cool-to-smile face staring back at him.
Well, it would have to do.
He was about to take a screenshot, but then he made the mistake of scrolling down to read the comments.
Barrett’s a fucking disgrace.
Always thought he was overrated. Now I think he’s a fucking scumbag.
Barrett believes lying whores over his own teammates. Trash.
Ottawa deserves him. Shit team. Shit player.
I can’t believe we signed this loser.
Troy put the phone down, screen pressed against the mattress. He was used to being hated by opposing players and their fans. But that had been because of his skill and, yes, because of his mouth. He’d always been good at getting under people’s skin, if he wanted to. But this time he was hated for using that mouth to say something that was actually, maybe, right. Something he should be proud of.
The Instagram account could wait. Maybe if he stalled long enough, Harris would drop it. It’s not like Troy would be posting anything interesting anyway. Troy didn’t want to be interesting; he just wanted to play hockey.
Chapter Three
“Harris! I’ve got something for ya!”
Harris glanced up from his phone. He was in the hallway outside the Ottawa locker room, posting some pregame tweets to the team’s account. Wyatt Hayes was jogging toward him with a thick, colorful book in his hand.
“This is that Thor comic I was telling you about, all collected into one book. I think you’ll like it. It’s fun.”
“Oh, awesome!” Harris had mentioned to Wyatt once that he used to read comic books a lot, and Wyatt had been eagerly lending him books ever since. So far he’d enjoyed everything Wyatt had given him, even if he always felt pressured to read the books quickly because Wyatt was keen to discuss them with him. “Thanks. Hey, we should do another edition of Hazy’s Heroes! It’s been a while since the last one.”
“For sure. I’ve got an endless list of books to recommend.”
It had been Harris’s idea, last season, to film little segments where Wyatt would talk about some of his favorite comic books. The videos were so popular that Harris created similar video series for some of the other players: Riding with Roz, where Harris—bravely—sat in the passenger seat of a luxury sports car that Ilya Rozanov drove, and BBQing with Bood, where Zane Boodram would show off his grill mastery, even in the dead of winter in Ottawa.
“I was thinking,” Wyatt said, “that I might buy a bunch of all-ages comics when we visit the children’s hospital and give them out. Nothing against signed hockey pucks, but they aren’t a great read, y’know?”
“They’d love that,” Harris said with certainty. He knew exactly how much hospital visits from NHL players meant to the kids there, and he also knew how exciting it was to be gifted with anything that might pass the time when you were confined to a hospital bed.
“Don’t tell Roz because he’ll try to one-up me. He’d probably give them all Ferraris or something,” Wyatt joked.
Harris laughed. He could totally see that, as ridiculous as it was. The last time the team had visited the children’s hospital, Ilya had stayed long after the team bus had left. Harris had heard that he’d taken a cab home after an epic Mario Kart tournament he’d challenged a bunch of the kids to.
“Maybe if I tell him, he’ll show up in a Batman costume,” Harris said. “That would be worth it.”
At that moment, Troy Barrett walked by. He had just arrived at the arena, earlier, Harris noted, than most of his teammates. He was wearing a suit that looked like it had been pulled from a suitcase, and a black toque that was pulled down to meet his equally black eyebrows. He was also clutching an enormous Starbucks cup.
He nodded at Harris and Wyatt, no warmth in his expression. It wasn’t chilly either. It was...nervous, Harris decided. Timid.
“You found the Starbucks,” Harris said cheerfully.
“Huh?” Troy reached under his toque and pulled an earbud out.
Harris pointed to the cup. “You found the Starbucks,” he repeated.
“Yeah.” Troy didn’t smile. His eyes were wide and uncertain, as if he was unsure if the conversation was over. The hand holding the earbud hovered near his temple.
Harris almost said something like good luck tonight, but he didn’t want to add to Troy’s nerves. So instead he asked, “Whatcha listening to?”
For a long second, honest to god, Harris thought Troy was going to say you. His eyes had narrowed and then he blinked, as if trying to force the snark back down inside him. “Uh, just, y’know. EDM.”
“Cool.” In Harris’s experience, if you asked any NHL player what music he was listening to, the answer was always either EDM, country, hip-hop, or Mumford & Sons.