Page 23 of Role Model

He followed her and the dogs into the house, which smelled like roast pork and possibly burnt asparagus. There was no sign of Anna, Margot, or their husbands yet. The Drover house wasn’t large, but Harris couldn’t imagine a better place to grow up in. Or come home to. It was an old farmhouse, white on the outside and mostly dark wood on the inside. Cramped and cozy and full of family photographs and antique furniture that had been in the house for generations.

Harris went to place his brussels sprouts in the oven. Dad was in the kitchen, frowning at a sheet pan of black asparagus.

“You used the broiler, didn’t you?” Harris teased.

“Can’t take your eyes off the damn thing for a second,” Dad grumbled.

“It’s okay, Dad. I’ve got the healthy green vegetable covered.” He opened the oven door and slid his casserole dish in. “It has bacon, but it’s still totally healthy.”

Dad looked like he wanted to say something about bacon and cholesterol, but instead he asked, “You been feeling all right, Harris?”

“I feel great.” Harris patted his chest. “Perfect working order.”

Dad frowned at Harris’s chest, where they both knew the ugly lines of multiple surgery scars marred his skin, then sighed and engulfed his son in a tight hug. “Glad to hear it.”

“You worry too much. You know I’ll go see Dr. Melvin if I feel even the slightest bit off.”

“I know.”

“Here,” Harris said, reaching for the sheet pan. “I’ll take that to the compost.”

Dad gave the asparagus one last look, as if he might think of a way to revive them, then nodded.

Shannon, the oldest and smallest of the three dogs, followed Harris out the back door. The air was crisp and cold and the sun was setting fast. Harris loved this time of year, when the hockey season was in full swing and Christmas was getting close.

He dumped the asparagus into the compost bin while Shannon inspected a rock on the ground. He didn’t like talking about his health. He didn’t like thinking about it. He took it seriously—he hadn’t been lying to Dad about that—but he hated the way his family looked at him sometimes. Like he was fragile. Like he could die at any moment.

Anyone could die at any moment.

Harris had decided a long time ago not to worry too much and not to feel sorry for himself. Ottawa had great hospitals, and he’d had the best of care since birth. There was no reason to assume he wouldn’t live a long and happy life.

After a few minutes of scratching Shannon’s ears and enjoying the quiet behind the house, Harris went back inside. The house was much louder than before, which meant his older sisters, Anna and Margot, had arrived with their husbands.

“Harris!” Anna called out. “What the hell. That Twitter war you were in with Edmonton was hilarious.”

Harris hugged her. “Aw, well. They have a great social media person. Danielle is super funny.”

“Fighting” with other NHL social media accounts was one of Harris’s favorite parts of the job. He wasn’t the kind of guy to trash-talk or say anything mean at all in real life, but when he played the role of the Ottawa Centaurs brand, he could really let loose.

“It was great,” she said. “Jesus, Mac. Calm down. Here, take this to the kitchen for me, would ya?” She handed Harris a wrapped casserole dish.

“Is this apple crisp?”

“Of course it is. You put me on dessert duty, you’re getting apple crisp every time.”

Harris wasn’t sad about it. He brought the dessert to the kitchen, and called for Mac to follow him. Now that everyone had arrived, the house would remain in a state of loud chaos until it was time to leave. Seven chatty adults and three friendly dogs crammed into an old farmhouse made for a lively time. Harris loved it.

There was a cat, too. Somewhere. Ursula wasn’t a fan of the Sunday night dinners, and was probably upstairs on one of the beds.

And, of course, Uncle Elroy. But he wasn’t a reliable presence.

The dinner was animated as always, with lots of teasing and laughter. Harris wasn’t the only Drover with a booming voice and an unnecessarily loud laugh.

“How’s that new guy fitting in?” Margot asked during dessert. “Troy Barrett.”

Harris honestly wasn’t sure. Despite Troy’s prickly exterior, there was something appealing about the man. And not just his god-like beauty. Harris had enjoyed interviewing him. He’d enjoyed trying to make the man smile, even if it had barely worked.

But Margot hadn’t asked about any of that.

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