With another nod, Troy popped his earbud back in and walked away.
“He still shows up early,” Wyatt said, once Troy was out of sight.
“Did he used to in Toronto, too?”
“Oh yeah. It was one of the things that made him different from Kent.” Wyatt put his hands on his hips. “He’s a fucking dick, but he takes his job seriously.”
“You think he’ll still be a dick here?”
“Well, I don’t think he got a personality transplant during the trip from Toronto to Ottawa, but he might be a little quieter here without his buddy.”
“I don’t think he and Kent are buddies anymore,” Harris reminded him.
“I’m still surprised about that. Even guys who hate Kent’s guts are taking his word over his victims’.”
“So you believe the women?”
“A thousand percent. I played with Kent for years. He’s fucked up when it comes to women. I can’t believe anyone who’s spent a minute with him believes he’s innocent. But even so, Barrett being the one to call him out was a shock.”
“Do you think he witnessed something?” Harris knew he was being a horrible gossip, but he couldn’t help it.
“I don’t know. Honestly, I would have assumed Barrett was participating in whatever shitty things Kent was doing at clubs and parties. Thought he was, like, his wingman, y’know? Maybe I was wrong.”
“I hope so. It’s my job to make him look like a role model.”
Wyatt huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. Good luck with that.” He held out a fist. “I gotta get back in the room.”
Harris bumped his fist. “Have a good game.”
Wyatt grinned. “Any game I get to start is a good game.”
He left, and Harris smiled after him. Wyatt had been a backup goalie for years in Toronto, but had not only earned the top goalie spot in Ottawa, he had also become an NHL All-Star. Harris was pretty sure a lot of his success could be owed to the fact that he had more fun than probably anyone else on the ice. He was truly happy just to be there, every game.
Harris knew the feeling.
He went back to work. He had promotional tweets from the official team store and from sponsors scheduled throughout the night; he’d posted tonight’s official rosters on Twitter and Instagram. He’d also done a post promoting Troy Barrett’s debut in Ottawa. He checked the comments on that post on Twitter now, and yikes. Barrett was not exactly getting a friendly welcome.
The comments came from a mix of Toronto and Dallas Kent fans who wanted him dead, and Ottawa fans who were disgusted that their team had traded for him. When Harris checked the same post on Instagram, he saw that the comments were similar.
The thing was, even though Ottawa had gotten Barrett for far less than he was worth, they’d given up some sweet draft picks to Toronto. Not to mention having to take on the burden of Barrett’s significant salary. The only way Barrett was going to win the hearts of Ottawa fans was if he played the best hockey of his life.
* * *
There were a lot of empty seats. That was the first thing that Troy noticed. There were a lot of filled seats, but...there were a lot of empty seats.
He was standing on the blue line, waiting for his name to be announced as tonight’s starting right wing player. In Toronto, game tickets were hard to get, sold out well in advance of every game. Here in Ottawa it looked like you could walk up to the box office on game day and buy a ticket.
Troy knew Ottawa had been a pretty terrible team for years, and that a lot of fans had lost interest. He would have thought the addition of Ilya Rozanov and even the unexpected rise of Wyatt Hayes as one of the best goalies in the league would have brought some fans back. And maybe there were more fans than usual, but damn. The energy that Troy was used to in Toronto wasn’t in this building tonight.
“Number seventeen, Troy Barrett!” The announcer boomed out his name and the crowd went...tepid. There was applause. Some cheers. But also the low buzz that was, likely, the sound of about eleven thousand people murmuring uncomfortably.
He hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms in Ottawa. Some hockey fans would never forgive him for not blindly supporting his scumbag teammate. And even besides that, until this week Troy had been a Toronto Guardian, a fierce Ottawa rival. Well, fierce in the way that a great white shark and a starfish were rivals.
Troy shouldn’t be thinking that way about his new team.
Rozanov’s name was announced and the uncomfortable murmuring turned into a full-blown roar of approval. Ottawa loved their captain. Zane Boodram, the alternate captain who had been playing for Ottawa since his very first NHL game, got a huge cheer as well.
Would they ever cheer for Troy like that? Did he even care? He’d do his best on the ice, and the fans could do whatever they wanted.
* * *
The game did not go well. Not for Troy, at least. He hadn’t been able to connect with his new linemates, and he’d missed passes and had managed to be offside an embarrassing number of times, stopping play when he could have had a good scoring chance.
He’d had zero scoring chances. His only shot at the net had gone wide. He’d lost the two face-offs he’d taken. He’d accidentally shot the puck over the glass and earned his new team a delay of game penalty. It was a complete shit show from start to finish.
Somehow, Ottawa had still managed to defeat the superior Pittsburgh team. Mostly due to Wyatt’s outstanding goaltending, and also because of Rozanov’s two goals. Not only had Troy not contributed to the win, his sloppy play hadn’t prevented it. He didn’t matter at all.
After the game, the dressing room filled with reporters. Of course, they all wanted to talk to Troy after his first game as a Centaur.
He answered them all as blandly as possible. Yes, Ottawa had a different style of play than Toronto and he would need to adjust. No, he wasn’t distracted.
His answers were all variations on the same thing: he was focused on hockey and excited to contribute to his new team. Both statements were lies, but he would like them to be true.
Then some dickbag asked if he regretted what he’d said to Dallas Kent. As if it was a simple question, and not one that would send Troy spiraling. As if he wasn’t asking if Troy wished he hadn’t lost everything that mattered to him within a week.
Was anyone asking Dallas if he regretted what he did? Definitely not.
Troy swallowed down his anger and tried to form words. He glanced up and spotted Harris, obviously standing on a chair or something, snapping photos from behind the media scrum. They locked gazes, and Troy thought he saw sympathy in Harris’s eyes.
“I’m not talking about that anymore,” Troy finally said. He was proud of how flat his tone was, not giving away any of the storm of emotions that were raging inside him. But he also was hit by a fresh pang of guilt and shame. Because he knew in his heart that he should be talking about it. Everyone should be.