Page 2 of Role Model

Wyatt offered him a smile that seemed cautious, but certainly warmer than Troy’s earlier attempts for the camera. “The enemy of my enemy is my...well, I’m not gonna say friend yet, but I’ll give you a chance.”

Troy’s gaze fell to the floor. “Thanks.”

Relieved that was out of the way, he found his stall and began getting undressed. The room once again filled with chatter, and he no longer felt his new teammates’ eyes on him. He was hauling on his new black-and-red socks when he heard a familiar Russian-accented voice cut through the commotion of the room.

“Is Harris here yet?” The team captain, Ilya Rozanov, was scanning the room as if this Harris guy everybody seemed to be obsessed with was hiding among the players somewhere.

“I don’t think so,” said Evan Dykstra, a defenseman Troy had played against but never actually met before. “But the new guy’s here. Barrett.” He nodded, and the brim of his camo trucker hat pointed in Troy’s direction.

Rozanov glanced briefly at Troy, then quickly turned his attention to Wyatt. “Harris said he was bringing a puppy today.”

The back of Troy’s neck heated with embarrassment. This was how it was going to be if he wanted to keep playing hockey: teammates who either hated him for ever being associated with Dallas Kent, or who hated him for being a traitor. Friends weren’t going to be an option.

Probably for the best. Friends sometimes turned out to be monsters.

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Wyatt said. “And you have to greet your new teammate, Roz. It’s part of the whole team captain deal.”

“Fine.” Rozanov strode over to where Troy was sitting. He loomed over him for a moment, frowning. Rozanov was much larger than Troy’s five-nine frame, and Troy had difficulty not squirming under his hard stare. “Am I supposed to like you now? Think you are a good guy because you finally noticed that your best friend is a fucking scumbag?”

Troy managed to hold his gaze. “I’m just here to play hockey.” It was a weak reply, but it was also the truth. He couldn’t promise more than that.

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.”

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