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  “I’m ready to work hard,” Troy promised. “I want to get us to the playoffs.”

  Coach Wiebe smiled in a way that Coach Cooper and Troy’s father never did—warm and patient. “That’s good. I’m going to try you up front with Rozanov and Boodram.”

  “Really?” Troy was used to being a starting forward, but it was still a surprise to hear his coach wanted to put him on the top line right away. “I mean, thank you.”

  “Thank me on the ice, Barrett. Let’s show Toronto they backed the wrong horse, okay?”

  Delight bubbled up inside Troy. He even came close to smiling. “You got it, Coach.”

  Coach squinted at the bench, where several players were gathered and laughing animatedly. “Oh Jesus. They’ve got a puppy.”

  Rozanov stepped onto the ice with Chiron bundled snugly in his arms. “He wants to try out.”

  “Ten minutes with the puppy.” Coach’s voice was stern, but his eyes twinkled with amusement. “Then we’ve got work to do.”

  “Twenty,” Rozanov countered.

  Troy couldn’t believe his audacity. Was he about to witness Ilya Rozanov getting yelled at by his coach?

  But Coach Wiebe only chuckled fondly and said, “Fifteen.”

  Definitely a different coaching style than Cooper.

  For fifteen minutes, the rest of the members of the Ottawa Centaurs frolicked on the ice with an excited puppy while Troy stood near the bench, watching and waiting for the real practice to start. What the fuck was the deal with this team? Was there going to be cake and lemonade at the end of practice?

  “Are you allergic to dogs?”

  Troy turned to find Harris standing in front of the bench, leaning casually on the boards. His golden hair was now hidden under a red-and-black Ottawa Centaurs pom-pom toque. In the bright arena lights, his green eyes looked more like sparkling emeralds than moss.

  “No.”

  “Phew. I should have asked before I brought a dog into the dressing room. I’d checked with everyone else already, but—aw jeez, look at that.” He lifted his phone and snapped a few pictures of the puppy standing with his front paws pressed against one of Wyatt’s goalie pads. “That’s going on Instagram for sure.”

  “He’s a popular guy.”

  “Who? Wyatt?”

  “The puppy.”

  Harris beamed. “Of course he is! He’s new and adorable.”

  And Troy was new and...not.

  It actually made a ton of sense that he would show up at his first practice with a new team and only be the second most interesting thing there. If that.

  His grumpy thoughts were broken by an air-horn-level burst of laughter from Harris. “Get him, Chiron! Atta boy!”

  Chiron was trying to steal a puck from Zane Boodram. Everyone was laughing and having a great time, and Troy wasn’t sure what to do. He felt like he’d walked into a party he hadn’t been invited to.

  “Do dogs like the ice?” Troy asked. Chiron seemed to be sure-footed and happy as he chased pucks, but he asked anyway.

  “Not every dog, but Chiron is part Labrador, part mountain dog. He’s built for the cold.”

  “And he’s going to be a...therapy dog? Like a Seeing Eye dog?”

  “He’s going to be trained to assist people with anxiety or PTSD. If he gets in the program.”

  “Does he have to write an exam or something?”

  That weak joke earned Troy another horrifyingly loud laugh. “He just needs to be physically able to be a therapy dog. We’ll know in a few months.”

  Harris kept talking about dogs, probably, while Troy’s gaze, once again, went to the rainbow pins on Harris’s jacket. The stab of longing and intense jealousy that he always felt when he saw Pride symbols must have shown on his face as apparent contempt again, because when he glanced at Harris’s face, he found another disappointed frown.

  Okay. Enough was enough. Troy needed to say something now to clear up any misunderstanding. He swallowed. “I, um—”

  A whistle blew, and then Coach Wiebe called out, “All right, time to work. Harris, thank you for the special guest.”

  Rozanov scooped up the puppy and brought him over to the bench. He booped the dog’s nose with his gloved fingertip, then very reluctantly handed him to Harris. “Where does he go when he is not here?”

  “He stays at a training facility. They take good care of him, I promise.”

  Ilya frowned. “Is it fun for him?”

  “Definitely. He doesn’t have to start doing the hard work until he’s older. If he qualifies.”

  “He will qualify. This is a good dog. Will he get big?”

  Chiron licked Harris’s face. He licked his mouth and Harris didn’t seem to mind at all. Troy tried not to wrinkle his nose, but he probably did.

  “He’ll be a pretty big boy,” Harris said. “Won’t be able to cuddle him like this for long.”

  Coach blew his whistle again. “Roz, Barrett. Let’s go.”

  Troy’s face heated. Why had he even been standing by the benches still? He wasn’t a dog person and he wasn’t friends with Rozanov or Harris.

  “You are in trouble already,” Ilya said. His tone was flat, but his eyes were playful. “Bad start.”

  Troy didn’t answer him. He just put his head down and got to work.

  Chapter Two

  Damn. Troy Barrett was a looker all right.

  Harris was in his office, staring at a headshot Gen had just taken of the newest Ottawa player. He had always thought Troy was one of the hottest players in the NHL, and meeting him in person today had only reinforced that belief. Troy’s intense blue eyes, glossy dark hair, and pouting lips made him look more like a pop star than a hockey player. His narrow face had a razor-sharp jaw, shaded with dark stubble, and his cheekbones were frankly astonishing.

  But it was his eyes that Harris couldn’t look away from. Glinting like blue flames from under dark, heavy brows and long, full lashes.

  Harris remembered the bare contempt that had been in those eyes when he’d been staring at Harris’s pin collection. Harris knew the look. He got it in grocery stores, on the bus, and sometimes, yes, at work. None of it would stop him from wearing his queerness proudly on his chest, or on his wrist, or on one of several pro-queer T-shirts he owned. He always felt disappointed, mostly, when he received looks like the one Barrett had given his rainbow flair.

  Extra disappointed in this case, because Harris had been hoping that Troy Barrett was a better man than rumors had described him to be.

  Still, though. He was pretty.

  Harris had never hooked up with an NHL player because he was determined to keep things professional. Also because the opportunity had never presented itself.

  NHL players were basically gods, with spectacular bodies and loaded bank accounts. And Harris was... Harris. Short, a little pudgy, unathletic, and definitely not rich. He earned less in a year than some of the players did in a day. So Harris’s personal pledge to never sleep with a member of the team he worked for showed about as much resolve as pledging not to take too many trips to the moon.

  But if Harris ever went to town on an NHL player, he wouldn’t mind if that man looked something like Troy Barrett.

  Gen’s email had mentioned that she’d included one photo of Troy smiling, but she’d also suggested not using it. As soon as Harris opened that one, he barked out a laugh. Gen hadn’t been kidding; Troy’s smile looked like it had been trampled on. Not only did it not meet his eyes, it barely met his mouth.

  Harris imagined if he’d been able to play in the NHL—if he’d been able to play hockey at all—he’d never stop smiling. Hell, he barely stopped smiling as it was.

  Harris picked one of the stern-faced photos of Troy—they all looked more or less the same—and dropped it into the frame he’d created for posts that introduced new players.
r />   “There you go, buddy,” he said as he posted it to the team’s Instagram account. “You’re officially a Centaur.”

  Next he opened up the document that was a running list of questions he’d thought of for player Q and A videos. He began cutting and pasting a few into a new list that he titled Questions for Troy Barrett. In a few minutes, he had a decent list, but it contained none of the questions that Harris really wanted to ask. Questions about Dallas Kent that would definitely not be appropriate for a friendly promo video. But damn, Harris had so many questions.

  When the first post about Kent had shown up on Reddit, Harris had been horrified, but not especially surprised. The woman, posting anonymously, described being raped by Kent at a party at his house. The post was long, and detailed, and very hard to read, but Harris had read every word. He’d also read every word of the infuriating replies that mocked, dismissed, or threatened the original poster. He’d read the equally dismissive conversations between hockey fans on social media. He’d watched and read the mainstream hockey media’s response, which was largely to defend Kent. And Harris had noted the way the league and its players were determined to either ignore the whole thing, or to loudly complain about how easy it was for people to make shit up on the internet.

  More posts appeared online. More women with horrific stories of their own about Kent. Harris read them all, wishing there could be formal accusations that could lead to an arrest. He understood why the women were choosing to remain anonymous, though. He didn’t need to look any further than those awful replies to see why Kent’s victims weren’t pressing charges.

  While there were plenty of guys in the Ottawa locker room who were disgusted by Kent, and wanted to see him in jail, none of them said anything publicly. Overall, the hockey world stayed silent about the Dallas Kent situation. The accusations made hockey players uncomfortable, and most were happy to ignore it.

  Troy Barrett hadn’t ignored it. He’d been the only one who had stood up to Kent. Actually got in his face during team practice and called him a rapist. Clear as a fucking bell. Had Troy been a witness, or did he just know, after years of being Kent’s teammate and friend, what he was capable of? What had made him snap like that?

  Arguments and even fights happened between teammates, and many had been caught on camera over the years. But hockey players had a tendency to stand behind their teammates when accusations of abuse or assault emerged. If Troy believed Kent’s victims, that was a pretty big deal. This sport, as much as Harris loved it, had a horrible track record when it came to punishing players for, well, anything, really. Troy couldn’t be all bad.

  Though, Harris considered, you could be horrified by the actions of a sexual predator and still find time to be grossed out by gay men. So maybe he still sucked.

  For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Harris opened the photo of Troy trying to smile again. Instead of laughing this time, Harris contemplated Troy’s eyes. They were so striking that Harris hadn’t noticed the anxiety they held. He noticed it now, and couldn’t help wondering what Troy would look like if he smiled for real. Would his eyes crinkle? Would there be dimples? Maybe Harris could make him laugh...

  Except, right. Probably a homophobe.

  He shook his head and closed the image. Enough of Troy Barrett for now. He had puppy photos to post.

  * * *

  When Troy got back to his hotel room, he logged into his secret Instagram account. He’d barely posted anything on it; he just used it to follow Adrian, mostly. And maybe Troy shouldn’t be doing that anymore, but he still couldn’t quite believe that things were over between them.

  When they’d first been introduced at a party in Vancouver two years ago, Troy hadn’t been able to stop looking at him. And Troy was good at not looking at attractive men. Adrian Dela Cruz, the star of a popular superhero television show, was firmly in the closet himself, and had been just as taken with Troy. Through some miracle combination of pheromones, silent communication, and luck, both men had clued into the fact that they’d wanted the same thing. Later that same night, they’d given it to each other.

  A recent post by Adrian showed the reason he had ended things with Troy. The real reason, not the bullshit ones he’d given him about how they weren’t really in love, or that they’d only been together because it was easy.

  Troy hadn’t understood that argument at all because there was nothing easy about their relationship. Living in constant fear that someone would find out about them wasn’t easy. Living three time zones away from your boyfriend wasn’t easy. Not being able to talk about your favorite person in the world with your friends, family, and teammates wasn’t easy. Going fucking months without sex wasn’t easy.

  No. The real reason was Justin fucking Green, the director of a Netflix movie Adrian had filmed ten months ago. Which was, Adrian had admitted, when he’d started to fall in love with Justin. And now, as of four days ago, Adrian was out and proud and engaged.

  And Troy had no idea how he was supposed to continue existing. He had no one to talk to about this. No one knew about Adrian. No one even knew that Troy was gay.

  And of course Troy’s first road game with his new team was in Vancouver. As if everything wasn’t terrible enough, he’d soon be in the city that had always been his refuge. This time he would be completely alone.

  He stared at the photo of Adrian and his fiancé, hoping if he looked for long enough the surreal wrongness of seeing Adrian in someone else’s arms would fade.

  God, he was beautiful. Obviously he was attractive; he played a superhero on television. But Troy had gotten to see him when he wasn’t made-up for the camera—rumpled and sleepy in the morning, or crashed out on the couch after a long day of filming—and he’d been even more taken with him then. Troy had loved every precious moment they’d had together.

  And now they were over. Now Justin Green was enjoying those sleepy smiles and unhurried morning sex while Troy was staring at a fucking photo. Alone. In Ottawa.

  Troy’s life had imploded so quickly he hadn’t had a chance to fully absorb it yet. He was going through the motions of being an NHL player on autopilot, knowing that if he paused to examine his shattered heart he may never move again. Two days—two days—after being dumped, Troy had seen the first of the accusations against Dallas Kent online. The words on his laptop screen had blurred through his damp eyes, and his throat had burned with the need to scream or cry or maybe throw up. Every detail of the woman’s account was so familiar. Troy hadn’t been a witness, but her description of the things Dallas had said...

  It had been easy to believe. By the time Troy had read the fourth account, two days later, his blood had boiled with rage.

  The comments beneath each of the posts were full of people defending Kent, and saying vile things about his accusers. When Troy had gone to his next practice, he’d heard his teammates saying similar things about them. During the practice, he’d watched Kent laughing and having fun, completely unbothered, and Troy had just snapped. He’d gotten in his best friend’s face and unloaded all the rage that had been churning inside him. All of the disgust that Kent should have been getting from everyone on the ice. From everyone on earth.

  Not that it had done any good. Hockey media was rallying behind Dallas, seemingly only concerned about the mental strain this unfortunate business would cause the young hockey star.

  Mental strain. Jesus fuck. If anything, Dallas was probably more angry at Troy than bothered by the accusations. He certainly wasn’t burdened by guilt or shame. He probably wasn’t even a little bit afraid of repercussions. Because why would he be?

  Troy was suddenly very tired, and thought about going to bed early even though he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Except, shit. He was supposed to set up an Instagram account. A real one that wasn’t just a burner account for looking at hot men.

  So, maybe a less real one.

  He deleted the burner account. Maybe
he’d set up another one so he could follow hot men again, but he’d start fresh. When he was ready. For now, he would do his homework and start a professional account.

  He was in the process of deciding on a password when he got a text message from his mother.

  Mom: Look at where you are!

  A photo quickly followed that showed a Funko Pop! figure of Troy—in his Toronto uniform—balanced on a balcony railing. Behind it were beautiful misty mountains blanketed in thick blue-green forest.

  Troy: Wow. Where are you?

  Mom: Hakone. That’s the view from my hotel room! I took it this afternoon.

  Troy’s heart lifted a bit. There was no one he wished were here with him now more than his mom. Unfortunately, she was on the other side of the world.

  Troy: Isn’t it the middle of the night in Japan?

  Mom: Can’t sleep. Ready for your big debut tomorrow night?

  Troy: I want to get it over with.

  Mom: Has it been bad?

  Troy chewed his lip. Mom only knew a fraction of why his life had been hell lately. Hers had been the first supportive voice he’d heard after the video of him yelling at Dallas had hit the internet, and it had been hard not to break down crying as she’d assured him that he’d done the right thing. That he was a good person.

  She didn’t know about Adrian. Not only that Troy had just had his heart broken, but that he’d been dating someone at all. He’d never introduced Adrian even as a friend. He’d been so scared that his parents would see them together and know.

  Especially his dad. Troy could almost imagine coming out to his mother, but not his dad. Never.

  Finally, Troy wrote, Not too bad. Just different.

  Mom: Sometimes bad things happen so better things can happen.

  Mom would know that more than most people. After Troy’s father had left her for a much younger woman three years ago, Mom had been devastated. She’d told Troy, one night over a shared bottle of wine, that the worst part was the embarrassment.