Page 29 of Role Model

Troy made a dismissive scoffing noise, and went back to gnawing his thumbnail.

Harris wished he could have said yes. The fact that he’d never played organized hockey was something he tried not to let bother him, and something he hoped everyone he worked with would ignore. Or not even know about in the first place. Harris had always loved hockey, and he probably could have played, but his parents had been nervous. He couldn’t blame them; when your child’s body is already struggling, hockey seems like an unnecessary risk.

So, as a kid, he’d thrown himself into being a fan, of hockey in general and the Ottawa Centaurs in particular. And now he got to feel like he was part of the team. And that feeling could mostly be attributed to how warmly he’d been accepted by the players as a friend. He’d talked to other NHL team social media managers, and he knew that his friendship with the Ottawa players wasn’t the norm.

“Sorry,” Troy said. It was so quiet, Harris almost missed it.

“For what?”

“I’m being a fucking dickwad. You’re giving me a lift and I’m being...me. Sorry.”

“You brought me coffee,” Harris pointed out. “As far as favors go, we’re even. In fact, since you also brought me cake pops, I’d say I still owe you a favor.”

Troy didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he said, “Should we stop somewhere and get beer?”

“I’ve got it sorted,” Harris said. “Got a few cases of cider in the back.”

“Cider?”

“My sisters make it. One hundred percent Drover family apples. It’s the best hard cider in Ontario.”

“Is that your unbiased opinion?” Troy asked dryly.

“Absolutely.”

“Can I pay you for some of it?”

“Nope.”

“Then I guess that’s your favor. We’re even.”

Harris grinned. “Fair enough.”

There was another minute of silence, and then Troy said, “So, is, like, everyone going to be at this?”

“Probably not everyone. Ilya won’t be there.”

“He won’t?”

“Nah. He’s almost never around on days off.”

“Where does he go?”

Harris shrugged. “No idea. If there’s a team hospital visit or a community outreach thing, Ilya is always available. If not, no one can ever reach him on a day off. I figure it’s his own time, so it’s no one’s business anyway. But the guys like to invent theories.”

“You’re right,” Troy said after a moment. “It’s no one’s business.”

Troy had been to plenty of team parties and outings over the years. Most had been at Dallas Kent’s mansion, and Troy had usually enjoyed them. He’d always thought that Kent’s taste level was questionable, though. His mansion was tacky as fuck.

Now he couldn’t think of those parties without feeling sick. How many women had Kent forced himself on—or tried to—at those parties? Had Troy been in the next room, or one floor below? Had it been happening right in front of him and he hadn’t realized it?

He reminded himself that Dallas Kent wouldn’t be here tonight. This was a new team, with new people, and a very different vibe from the Toronto Guardians.

As soon as Troy followed Harris through Bood’s front door, they were cheerfully greeted by Evan Dykstra.

“Harris! What’s up, bro?” Dykstra wrapped an arm around Harris’s head and pulled him against his chest. He was much taller than Harris or Troy—probably six-three or so—and he looked like a total redneck. When he wasn’t in hockey gear or a suit, he seemed to always have his shaggy light brown hair stuffed into a camo snapback. Troy had only known him for a few days, but he’d already heard him talk about fishing, hunting, snowmobiling, and why his home province of Manitoba was the best place on earth.

“You brought the good shit,” Dykstra said, taking the case of bottled cider from Harris. He frowned and nodded at Troy. “And you brought Barrett.”

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