Page 63 of Role Model

His heart was hammering in his chest, and he should be worried about that, but one thing at a time.

“There’s fire out here!” It was Nick Chouinard. “The plane is on fire!”

“Fuck,” Troy muttered. “Fuck.”

Across the aisle, Ilya was frantically typing something on his phone. Harris should probably try to message his parents, but what would he say?

God, his parents. They’d be devastated.

His laptop had crashed to the floor at some point. He put his foot on it to keep it from being tossed around. The flight attendant—a young woman who had a brave face on but Harris could tell was barely holding it together—was coming down the aisle with instructions. “Tables up. Remove your ties, glasses, chains. Anything like that. Get into a position to brace for impact. Duck your heads and rest them against the seatback in front of you. Feet firmly on the floor.”

Harris released Troy’s hand and put the table up while Troy removed his necktie. Then they both braced for impact, as instructed. Harris closed his eyes again and focused on Troy’s heavy breathing beside him. He thought about everyone else on board. About Bood, who was about to become a father. About Wyatt’s wife, Lisa. About Coach Wiebe’s wife and three daughters. About Luca Haas, who had just turned twenty. About Dale, the equipment manager, who had just celebrated being eight years cancer-free.

He turned his head, just slightly, against the hard plastic of the seat in front of him, and found Troy’s face inches away, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes. Harris placed his hand over Troy’s, where it was pressed, palm-down, on his knee. Troy flipped his hand and curled his fingers around Harris’s, holding tight.

Harris managed a weak smile. Either they would live through this, or they wouldn’t, but there was nothing they could do about it now. All he could do was wait, and offer as much comfort as he could. In return, he could enjoy the view of Troy’s beautiful face, which, if it was going to be the last thing he ever saw, well, there were worse options.

The plane was so quiet. Maybe it was because Harris’s heart was pounding in his ears, drowning everything else out, but it seemed like no one was making a sound. He’d bet some were praying—Chouinard, probably. He was Catholic. Or maybe everyone was just concentrating together, as if their combined mental energy might safely guide the plane to the ground.

It felt like the plane was descending faster than usual, but Harris couldn’t be sure. It was shakier, much more turbulent. He tried not to think about the fire. He’d heard that plane engines could put out fires automatically. Maybe it was out already. Maybe it had spread to the wing. Maybe the whole plane was about to explode.

Harris swallowed hard. He needed to stay positive, for himself, and for Troy, who was still staring at him from a few inches away, eyes wild with fear.

“When we land,” Harris said, just loud enough for Troy to hear, “I’m getting ice cream.”

There were tears in Troy’s eyes, but he managed a small smile and said, “What kind?”

The plane shuddered and jerked, and Troy squeezed his eyes closed, his lips pulled tight in a grimace.

“Cookie dough. Definitely,” Harris said quickly.

Troy opened his eyes. They were still wet. “That sounds gross.”

Harris laughed, but it sounded like a sob, and suddenly Troy’s face was very blurry.

The plane made a whirring noise, and oh thank god, was that the landing gear? Maybe they’d survive this. Maybe this would be an adventure they’d talk about for years after. Harris was going to have so much work to do after this. The Ottawa Centaurs would be getting a lot of media attention.

The wheels touched the ground, and Harris had never felt anything so wonderful in his life. It wasn’t even a particularly rough landing. The plane slowed, and an earsplitting cheer rose up from everyone. Even Troy.

Their hands separated—Harris wasn’t sure who let go first—and they both joined in the applause for the pilot, and for their good fortune.

There were emergency lights flashing outside the plane windows, but Harris couldn’t stop looking at Troy. He was wiping his eyes and grinning from ear to ear.

Maybe it was the adrenaline talking, but Harris realized he was maybe a little bit besotted.

“Your laptop is broken,” Troy said, smile disappearing.

Harris followed his gaze to the cracked plastic of the laptop on the floor. “Yeah, I can’t bring myself to care about that right now.”

Troy should have been completely drained by the time the bus finally reached the hotel in Tampa, but he was buzzing with adrenaline. He’d really thought he was going to die. That they were all going to die. That Harris was going to die.

And during those horrible minutes when he’d been grappling with his impending death, he’d kept thinking one thing, over and over:

I want to kiss him.

He wanted it so badly he’d nearly done it. Nearly leaned in and closed those few inches and let the last thing he felt be Harris’s lips brushing his own. What would Harris have done, if Troy had kissed him? Would he have kissed him back? And if so, would it have been out of panic? Would it have been an act of charity, giving Troy what he needed because Harris was a nice guy? Or would Harris have kissed him because he’d wanted it as much as Troy did? Because if they had to die, at least they could have this first?

He hadn’t done it, but he’d taken Harris’s warm hand in his and gripped it like the connection would somehow keep them safe. Taking comfort from Harris had become a habit, and Troy had selfishly needed to do it then, even if giving comfort was the last thing Harris ever did.

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