Page 22 of Role Model

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and crossed the floor to his own stall, sliding his underwear off in the middle of the room. Troy huffed out a laugh. Rozanov was a piece of fucking work.

There were years of Troy’s life when the locker room was the most stressful place in the world. When the conversation that had just happened, with a man as attractive as Ilya displaying himself as brazenly as he’d just done, would have been terrifying, because what if Troy gave something away? An involuntary glance or, god help him, an involuntary boner. He’d been miserable and alone, until one day, before he started his second season in the WHL at eighteen, he’d decided to start hiding behind a wall of aggressive macho bullshit. It hadn’t been difficult; his dad had given him years of macho bullshit to emulate. So had most of his teammates and coaches.

And then he’d gone to Toronto and met Dallas Kent, the perfect loud, shithead shrub to hide behind. At some point, it had become easier to stay in character as a hetero bro who was, shamefully, pretty homophobic.

Troy had worn that mask full-time until he’d met Adrian. At that party two years ago, Troy had been utterly defenseless in the face of all of Adrian’s beauty and charm. It had been difficult, every time, to put the mask back on after leaving Adrian’s apartment, but Troy had needed to go back to his life as a hockey player, and he’d been nowhere near ready to be out and proud like Scott Hunter. He still wasn’t ready.

But he didn’t want to wear the fucking mask anymore either.

He thought about Ryan Price, a former teammate who had been on his mind a lot over the past year. Ryan had played with Troy in Toronto the season before last. He’d been traded a zillion times; Toronto had been, like, his ninth NHL team or something. Troy had been a complete dick to him because he’d been following Kent’s lead. And because Troy was, admittedly, a complete dick.

Now Troy knew how fucking uncomfortable it was to be traded, and he was ashamed at how he’d treated Ryan when he’d been struggling to fit in. Instead of doing anything to help, Troy had laughed at how nervous Ryan had been on airplanes, and had made homophobic jokes right in front of him. Not after he’d learned Ryan was gay, but that didn’t matter.

Ryan had been a perfectly nice guy. Shy, maybe. Awkward, definitely. But he’d been fierce as hell when he’d stomped on Dallas and Troy’s immature jokes by clearly stating that he was gay, and that he wasn’t going to stand for their homophobia anymore. That was a moment Troy would never forget.

It had been the single bravest thing he’d ever seen. And it hadn’t even seemed like a big deal to Ryan, who had just calmly returned to his stall after and started putting on his gear like he hadn’t just simultaneously humiliated and inspired Troy. Because Troy had been hiding behind homophobic jokes for so long that they’d become effortless to make. Effortless to laugh at. But Troy had had an actual gay teammate and he hadn’t even tried to get to know him. To reach out. To help him feel accepted and welcome.

What a wasted fucking opportunity.

Troy liked that Ilya had taken a few minutes to talk to him just now, even if it wasn’t exactly pleasant conversation. He knew Ilya was vocal about the importance of inclusion in hockey, and that he didn’t just talk the talk. He and Shane Hollander ran charity hockey camps in the summer that celebrated diversity and had an inclusive staff to match. Troy heard that Ryan Price was one of the coaches. He’d also heard the rumors that Shane Hollander was gay. He wasn’t sure if they were true, but he secretly thought it would be cool if they were. He certainly didn’t blame Hollander for not announcing it.

He wondered if Ilya knew. Somehow those two rivals had become tight over the past few years, and Troy would be impressed if Ilya was best friends with a gay man. Maybe when you’d hooked up with as many women as Ilya had, you didn’t have to worry about having your own sexuality questioned.

Ilya would probably support Troy if he knew Troy was gay. If Troy wanted to come out and just...be himself. Finally.

Troy let out a long breath, and began tugging off his gear. This was a lot to be thinking about while still wearing sweaty, disgusting hockey gear. Troy needed food and sleep and to score a fucking goal and maybe get laid someday.

Maybe he should ask Ilya for Shane Hollander’s number. Shane was a fucking babe.

The thought made Troy smile, and that was at least something.

Chapter Six

Harris drove his truck under the hanging sign that read Drover Family Orchards late on Sunday afternoon. His family’s home was about forty-five minutes outside the city, but he still tried to make it for Sunday dinner as often as possible.

Tidy lines of bare apple trees stretched out from both sides of the long unpaved road that led to the house, their branches twisting up into the white, late-November sky. The hard-packed frozen dirt crunched underneath his tires, loud and familiar. He loved coming home.

He drove past the newer road that ran from the main drive to the cidery his sisters had built on the property two years ago. He could see the fancy barn-like building in the distance, white Christmas lights lining its gambrel roof. He wondered if Anna and Margot were still working, or if they were waiting for him at home.

The dogs were already running to greet him when the house came into view. Mac—the youngest of the three—was first. Shannon and Bowser followed, barking happily.

Harris got out of the truck and laughed as all three dogs jumped on him, tails slamming against his legs and against each other. “Hey, fellas, how’s it going?”

He crouched to give each of them the rubs and scritches they deserved. Mac, an enormous brown beast, put his paws on Harris’s shoulders. All of the dogs were rescues, and Harris could only guess what breeds they were made up of, but Mac must have some Newfoundland in him.

“Get down, you attention hog.”

“Mac! Come!” Mom had appeared on the front porch, dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and jeans. She slapped her palms against her thighs and called for Mac again. Mac reluctantly released Harris and ran to her.

He grabbed a covered casserole dish from the floor of the passenger seat, then walked to the house. Shannon and Bowser followed, calmer now that they were convinced that Harris still loved and remembered them.

“What did you bring this time?” Mom asked when he reached the porch. She kissed his cheek, and he did the same.

“It’s my brussels sprouts with bacon and balsamic. It just needs a few minutes to reheat.”

Since Harris and his sisters had moved out, the Sunday dinners had more of a potluck structure. The whole family had always pitched in with the cooking when they’d all lived together, so it made sense to continue helping even if it was in separate kitchens.

“I was hoping that’s what it was. Your father got experimental with the asparagus and I think we might need a backup green vegetable.”

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