Page 20 of Role Model

“You’re not leaving already, are you? Here, I’ll get you a coffee.” Dad laughed. “You should be buying us coffees, with your millions of dollars.”

Curtis Barrett also had millions of dollars. Maybe not as many millions as Troy, but the crane company he had started over twenty years ago had certainly made him a rich man.

“I think sleep would be better than coffee right now,” Troy said. He stood up.

“I guess.” Curtis frowned at his son, and Troy knew he’d been expecting him to do more to dazzle his friends than mumble a few words through the painful grip of a hangover. He did not look happy when he reluctantly stood and gave Troy another shoulder clap. “All right, well, good luck tonight.”

“It’s good to see you again, Dad.” Troy was an excellent liar. “Enjoy the game,” he said to Brad and Darryl, then turned quickly and left.

His eyes were already burning by the time the elevator doors closed.

Troy played terribly that night. Obviously. It had taken all of his focus to keep himself from bursting into tears in the locker room, or on the bench. Either would have been, of course, unthinkable. He wasn’t known for his sunny disposition at the best of times, and his teammates didn’t know him anyway, so it was easier to hide his agony than it might have been otherwise.

By the third period, Troy had been replaced on the front line by Luca Haas. Coach drastically reduced Troy’s ice time, which only gave him more time to wallow in misery on the bench. His team lost.

In the dressing room, Troy’s teammates didn’t speak to him. They barely looked at him. Well, Ilya looked at him, but it was in a way that managed to say you get to drink all night and play like shit the next day exactly once before I tell Coach without any words at all. It was impressive. The rest of the team was probably only thinking one thing: Why the fuck did we sign this asshole?

Everything fucking sucked, and now hockey wasn’t even working. What did Troy have left?

“All right, boys,” Coach Wiebe announced. The room went silent, the air thick with shame and frustration. “We’ll be practicing in Edmonton tomorrow after we land. Obviously, there are going to be some changes.” He didn’t look directly at Troy, but he didn’t have to. “Edmonton has a stronger team than Vancouver, and we can’t play like we did tonight against them. So get a good night’s sleep—I don’t want anyone going out tonight, I don’t care what city we’re in—and tomorrow get ready to work hard, okay?”

There was a chorus of “Yes, Coach,” then Wiebe nodded and left the room.

Troy wished they were flying right now. He couldn’t wait to leave Vancouver behind.

Troy wasn’t on the top line when his team faced Edmonton. He’d been bumped down to the third line, which he couldn’t blame the coaches for, but it still hurt.

He needed a goal. He’d never been so desperate for something in his life. As far as hockey players went, he wasn’t particularly superstitious, but he thought maybe, if he scored a goal, things would turn around for him.

So he played hard every shift, using his speed to get to the net for a chance at a rebound or deflection. He played a physical game, taking his aggression out on anyone who got close to him. He would score tonight.

In the third period, Coach tried Troy out on the power play line. Edmonton was two goals ahead, and an Ottawa goal now would be a huge momentum boost. The face-off was in the Edmonton zone, and Rozanov won it, sending the puck back to Dykstra.

Troy darted to the net, right as Dykstra took a slap shot from the blue line. The Edmonton goalie made the save, but couldn’t control the rebound. The puck landed on Troy’s stick, inches away, just as the goalie fell backward on the ice. Troy fired it over the goaltender’s sprawling body, into the wide-open net.

Troy celebrated like he’d won the Stanley Cup.

Then he registered that his teammates weren’t celebrating with him, and he heard Dykstra yelling, “No fucking way that was interference, ref!”

But the ref was making the hand signal for “no goal,” and Troy could not fucking believe it.

“I didn’t touch the guy!” Troy yelled. “The clumsy fuck fell over!”

“No goal,” the ref said. “You hooked the back of his skate, Barrett.”

“The fuck I did.”

One of Edmonton’s defensemen, a giant doofus named Nelson, shoved Troy’s chest, causing his back to slam into the boards behind the net. “We all saw it, you cheating little shit.”

“How’d you see it? You were too busy doing fuck all to stop me. I walked right into your house and scored. Sorry you’re bad at your job, you dumb fuck.”

“At least I’m not a fucking traitor.”

Troy shoved Nelson back, even though Nelson had about half a foot of height on him. Rozanov stepped in, face calm, and said, “You have to have friends to be a traitor, Nelson. So, no. You will not ever be one.”

Nelson glared at him. “You better hope no chicks you bang make shit up about you online, Rozanov. This one will turn on you in a second.”

“Yes. Could you ask your wife not to post about me then?”

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