Page 60 of Role Model

Troy frequently found himself wondering what it would take to get a moan out of him. Or a gasp of pleasure. What would fill those green eyes with heat?

He realized he was lazily brushing his fingertips over his stomach as he lay on the leather couch that had come with the apartment. His dick twitched with interest, and Troy’s hand slid lower, seemingly on its own. He gave his thickening cock a squeeze through his loose-fitting gym shorts, and grunted softly into the empty room.

Troy could make this Christmas Eve even sadder than it already was by jerking off to fantasies of the total sweetheart who was way too good for him, or he could find something distracting to quickly cool his blood.

With a lot of effort, Troy removed his hand from his dick and grabbed the television remote off the coffee table. He found a sports highlights show that was counting down the top NHL goals of the year.

Dallas Kent’s face filled the screen, and that quashed Troy’s boner in a hurry.

“Fuck you,” Troy said to the man on his television. And then felt silly about it.

Troy remembered the goal they were showing. It’d been epic, the way Troy had gotten around both San Jose defensemen, then knocked the puck over to Dallas, who took it and flew to the net. He’d faked out the goalie perfectly and scored the game-winning goal.

On the television, Dallas was jumping into Troy’s arms, and they were both smiling and yelling and hugging. Like friends. Like brothers.

He changed the channel, and after some rapid flipping, stumbled upon an episode of Adrian’s superhero show. Because Troy’s life was an endless parade of shit. On the screen, Troy’s ex-boyfriend was shirtless, battle-ravaged, and breathtaking.

Troy turned off the television. For a long time, he stared at the ceiling, not moving. His brain ran in circles, trying to work out how exactly his life had gotten to this point. What had made him so mean? Why had he always been so quick to make fun of other people? Was it only a defense mechanism, or a way to protect his secrets, or was he just a total dick like his father? Why did he gravitate toward people whose senses of humor were based entirely on putting other people down?

And, most importantly, could Troy change that? Could he actually be friends with someone like Harris, who seemed determined to see the best in people? Who, when he teased Troy, made it feel like a hug, rather than a jab.

Eventually, Troy got himself off the couch. He ordered sushi and ate it at his kitchen counter while he, for the first time, checked out the Ottawa Centaurs Twitter account.

He wasn’t sure what made him do it, but he found it comforting, reading things Harris had written. He could hear Harris’s voice when he read the posts, and recognized his sense of humor in them.

Harris posted a lot. Maintaining the team’s social media accounts seemed like a ton of work. Each day had dozens of posts, and they were all fancy, with graphics and GIFs and videos and clever emojis. All of the posts were written in both French and English, and it hadn’t even occurred to Troy that Harris could speak French. He supposed it would be a job requirement, though, in a bilingual city like Ottawa.

The most recent post was one of the photos of Troy and Ilya posing in front of the Christmas tree with Chiron. Troy looked ridiculous in the picture, but he also looked...happy. Or at least not miserable.

There were quite a few posts about Troy. Pictures of him at the children’s hospital, and with Chiron in the locker room. Pictures of him during practice—including one where he was laughing at something Bood said. Troy stared at that one for a long time, barely recognizing himself with his eyes crinkled in amusement.

It occurred to Troy, later when he was in bed for lack of anything else to do, that Harris probably had a personal Instagram account.

It didn’t take long at all to find it. His profile picture was the apple pin Troy had given him. Troy could have sworn he felt his heart inflating like a balloon when he saw it.

The posts had almost nothing to do with hockey. There were lots of photos of his family’s farm, and of dogs that Troy assumed lived there. There were photos of live bands and of friends in crowded bars. A few selfies, but almost always with his arm around another person. Troy wasn’t surprised; Harris seemed like a person who was rarely alone.

When Troy looked at pictures of Harris—when he thought of Harris at all—he felt the opposite of the anger and shame that surged through him when he’d seen Dallas and Adrian on his television. His stomach twisted in an entirely different way, full of a nervous energy that was fueled by excitement and anticipation, instead of dread and anxiety.

Maybe Troy would never be as good a person as Harris, but he could at least try to be as good a person as, like, Ilya. That guy made fun of people all the time, but he was just so damn likable. And he balanced it by genuinely caring about people, and starting a charity, and being an impressive team leader in his own weird way.

The kind of leader who was able to make Troy comfortable enough to come out to him, which Troy still couldn’t quite believe he’d actually done.

Troy slept in the next morning, because there was no reason not to. He awoke to find “Merry Christmas” messages on his phone from both of his parents, and a third, more surprising one.

Harris: Merry Christmas!

Troy’s heart lifted. He was sure Harris had sent the same message to everyone on the team, and probably everyone he had ever met in his life, so it would be silly to reply. Besides, if he replied, he would only spend the rest of the day hoping for a reply that would definitely never come. It was Christmas morning and Harris was with his family, busy and full of festive cheer.

Troy: Thanks. You too.

He cringed at himself, then put his phone down on the bed. Then picked it back up again.

Harris: How’s the new place?

Oh. That was a question specifically for Troy.

Troy: Fine. Quiet.

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