Page 21 of Role Model

“Fuck you, Rozanov!”

“Everyone back to your benches now,” the ref barked.

Troy turned his fury on the ref. “That was a goal.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“It was a fucking goal! Have you ever seen a hockey game before? He fucking fell.”

The ref got up in his face. “Go to your bench. Last warning.”

Troy was full of rage that had been simmering for over a week and he needed to let it out. The ref was probably the worst possible target but, well, he happened to be the one standing in front of Troy.

“Fuck you.” And then he shoved the ref, and, yeah. That wasn’t a good idea.

Troy was immediately handed a game misconduct. He continued hurling insults at the refs, the Edmonton players, the fans, and possibly God as he left the ice. In the tunnel, Troy smashed his stick to pieces on the wall, screaming profanity until he was holding a short chunk of carbon fiber in his glove. Then he threw the chunk at the wall.

He still hadn’t showered or even undressed by the time the game ended. He’d just sat in his stall, seething.

Ottawa didn’t score again, and ended up losing by three goals. The mood in the room was solemn after the rest of the team got there. Coach came in and gave another speech about how they needed to be better. Troy was starting to wonder if he only had one speech. Lord knew he only needed one, the way this team played.

After Coach left, and most of the guys were headed to the showers, Rozanov sat next to Troy. “Okay?” Rozanov asked.

“Fucking great.”

“Yes, I can tell.”

Troy didn’t reply. He’d had his head down, but now he glanced over at his new captain. Ilya had stripped to his boxer briefs, and had his long legs stretched out in front of him. Troy’s gaze caught on the famous tattoo of a snarling grizzly bear on Ilya’s left pec. It was absolutely ridiculous up close. He noticed a second tattoo, less famous and probably more recent, on Ilya’s arm, near his shoulder. It was a bird of some sort. A loon, maybe. Kind of a weird choice.

“You are a good hockey player,” Ilya said.

It was so abrupt and unexpected that Troy fumbled his response. “Uh, okay. Thanks.”

Ilya sighed and tilted his head back against the wall behind him. “I am tired of losing, Barrett.”

“Well, you came to the wrong fucking team.” Troy, like pretty much the entire NHL, had no idea why Ilya Rozanov had chosen to sign with Ottawa when he’d become a free agent. He could have gone almost anywhere. Instead he chose one of the worst teams in the league, in a quiet city that got about a billion tons of snow every winter. For a guy who loved sports cars, nightclubs and women, it seemed like a weird choice.

“I think we can win,” Ilya said. “We have a good goalie. We have young talent, and solid defense. And we have me. Should be a good team.”

Everything Ilya was saying was true. They should be a better team. “Then why aren’t we?”

Ilya locked eyes with him. “Because we don’t believe it. No one who comes here expects to win.”

Well, Troy couldn’t argue with that. He certainly didn’t come here expecting to be a part of a winning team.

“Tonight,” Ilya continued. “What did you want to do?”

“I wanted to score a goal.”

Ilya nodded. “For you. Not for the team.”

“I—” Okay. Troy couldn’t argue that either. “I needed to score. I still need to, even though that goal should have—”

“Yes. I know.” Ilya stood up, then turned and stared down at Troy. Even in his underwear, Ilya managed to make Troy feel embarrassed and ridiculous. He’d thrown a tantrum over a disallowed goal. A goal that wouldn’t even have mattered, probably.

Also, Ilya looked really damn good in his underwear. But that wasn’t a useful train of thought.

“Score a goal for you if you need to,” Ilya said, “but think about what you can do for the team. You are, I think, what we have needed.”

---