Page 100 of Role Model

“Crowell? What do you mean he is pissed?” Ilya asked.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

Ilya’s expression turned serious. “No. What did he say?”

Troy sighed. “He called me, and he warned me about, y’know, implying that Dallas Kent was guilty. He doesn’t like the stuff I’ve been posting on Instagram.”

“You are serious?”

“He called my cell phone. Talked to me for like fifteen minutes. I was scared shitless.”

“I don’t like this,” Ilya said grimly. “This is bad.”

“I know. That’s why I stopped posting.”

“No. Is bad that Crowell said these things to you. I might talk to him in Anaheim.”

Panic surged through Troy. “Please don’t. Seriously. Don’t. It will only make things worse, and then you’ll get dragged into it.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened, and he was quiet a moment before saying, “Don’t stop posting. Unless it is your choice, and not Crowell’s.”

And just like that, Troy felt like a coward. He had, once again, been bending to the will of aggressive, overbearing men with questionable morals. “I just need some time to think.”

“You will have a whole week to think. Use it.”

“I will.”

Ilya pulled his phone out, glanced at it, and smiled. “I have to go.”

“Sure. Have a good time in Anaheim. And a good week off.”

“I will.” Ilya began walking toward his Mercedes SUV, then called over his shoulder, “Harris could use a break from work. Maybe you can distract him.”

Troy let out a weird sputter of laughter, which probably gave more away than he wanted to. “Whatever.”

Ilya’s laugh was much more dignified and controlled. He winked as he got in his SUV and drove away, leaving Troy standing alone in the garage with a lot to think about.

Troy thought he was doing a remarkably good job of remaining cool, all things considered.

On the outside, at least.

He was on a date, sort of. With a man. In the city where he played hockey. With someone who worked for that hockey team. At a performance by an openly queer musician who was dating his former teammate.

Oh god.

Harris’s arm brushed his. “You okay?”

Troy had noticed that Harris had been carefully not touching him since they’d walked into the packed club. Troy pressed back against him, just slightly, to silently let him know that he wanted to be brave. That he really wanted this to be a date. He wanted to hold Harris’s hand tonight, or maybe even kiss him, here in this club. He just needed to find the courage.

“I’m okay,” Troy said. “I haven’t been to this kind of concert in a long time. In a club and, like, standing up.”

“It’s my favorite way to hear live music. I love being part of a crowd.”

Troy didn’t normally mind it, but he felt like everyone was staring at him. Plus, it didn’t really seem like his usual crowd. He couldn’t spot any obvious jocks. Everyone looked artsy, with loud hair colors and outfits that were maybe ironic? Definitely ugly, but probably intentionally so. Others were dressed very stylishly, but in a way that Troy’s former teammates would have scoffed at. They would have used slurs to describe the people here. And, not long ago, Troy might have used them too.

Someday, he hoped, he would be among openly queer people and feel that he belonged. Because, yes, he was a jock, but he was also gay, and he needed to figure out a way to be both.

“Can we get a drink?” Troy asked. The room was already so warm.

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