Page 78 of Role Model

“Get everyone to loosen up. Stand up and tell that story like you weren’t terrified too.”

Harris huffed out a white cloud into the frigid winter air. “It was going to be a really long flight if we all sat there white-knuckling our armrests. And, I dunno. I figure, if we’re all going to die in a plane crash, then there’s nothing we can do about it anyway. May as well enjoy life while we can, right?”

“I guess.”

Harris bumped him with his shoulder. “I know this trip was a shit show, but I had fun with you.”

Something bubbled up inside of Troy. Happiness, he supposed. “Me too.”

“Holy shit.”

Gen didn’t look up from her computer. “What?”

“Troy Barrett has an Instagram account now, and it’s, um. You should look at it.”

“Okay,” she said slowly, and held out her hand for Harris’s phone. Harris walked across the office and handed it to her.

“Holy shit,” she said after she looked at Troy’s first couple of posts.

The bio for TroyBarrett17 sent a clear message: NHL player for the Ottawa Centaurs. I believe victims of sexual assault.

He’d made three posts so far. The most recent was an infographic with some statistics about sexual assault that he’d gotten from a national organization’s timeline (and, Harris was pleased to see, he had credited them properly for it and encouraged people to follow them). The second post was a graphic that listed the phone numbers and websites of organizations that helped survivors of sexual assault. The first post was a selfie, taken in the team gym. Troy’s face was flushed, and his hair was damp with sweat. You could see sweat darkening the top of his gray T-shirt as well. He was almost smiling. Almost.

The caption read: Working hard. Always room for improvement.

It could just be referring to Troy’s physical fitness, and his on-ice performance, but Harris didn’t think that was what Troy meant. Not entirely anyway.

“He’s not fucking around,” Gen said. “I’m impressed.”

“Yeah,” Harris said distantly, still staring at Troy’s selfie. He was also impressed. Impressed, surprised, proud, and a little bit infatuated.

Also, did Troy know what a thirst trap that selfie was? He must, right?

“How are the replies?” Gen asked. “Does he even have followers yet?”

“He has over five thousand followers so far,” Harris said. He hit the follow button, then scrolled through the replies on each post. They were mostly positive, some welcoming him to Instagram, showing their support as fans. A few were explicitly supportive of his last two posts. And a few fucking dickbags who seemed delighted that Troy had given them a place to trash him directly. Some of the negative replies even tagged Dallas Kent. Jesus.

“Well,” Harris said, sitting back in his chair, “time to promote his posts.” He made a show of cracking his knuckles, then got to work.

He hadn’t spoken to Troy since they’d returned from the Florida trip two days ago, though they’d parted on friendly terms. Harris had just assumed that Troy, like everyone else on the team, wanted some alone time after that road trip.

It was so hard to read Troy. He’d told Harris, clearly, that their hookup hadn’t meant anything. But Harris also got the impression that the only other man Troy had been with was his ex-boyfriend, Adrian. Which, to Harris, meant that their hookup must have meant something.

It had meant something to Harris. He’d had plenty of hookups—guys he met in clubs or at parties or online—and he usually enjoyed them. He liked meeting new people, however briefly, and he liked sex. He liked comforting people and making them happy, and sex, he’d found, made a lot of people happy.

The encounter with Troy hadn’t been the stuff of erotic legend—they hadn’t even removed their clothes, and there hadn’t been any real skill involved. It had just been burning, unchecked need and desperation, and Harris had never experienced anything quite like it before.

And those kisses. Wowzers. Troy knew how to use those pillowy lips of his. Harris would bet they’d feel great on his—

“Why wasn’t Rozanov at practice yesterday?” Gen asked.

Harris blinked as he followed his coworker’s voice back to reality. “Huh?”

“Ilya wasn’t at practice. Unusual for him. It wasn’t an optional practice, and he wasn’t doing therapy either. Do you think he’s sick?”

Ilya had seemed a bit off since the airplane incident. Everyone had, really, but Ilya was always cool and unflappable, so his anxiety was more noticeable. “I don’t know.”

“I hope he plays tonight. The Admirals are going to wipe the floor with us if he’s out.” She rolled her neck, stretching it. “They’ll probably destroy us either way, but it’ll be worse without Rozanov.”

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