Chapter Seven #2
Harris spotted Troy standing outside the hotel, wearing jeans and his black wool overcoat. Harris wished he’d had a chance to go home himself and change before the party, but he never looked any fancier than he did right now anyway.
“Hi,” Harris said when Troy slid into the passenger seat of his Toyota pickup truck.
“You drive a truck.”
“Farm boy, remember?”
“Right.” Troy’s cheeks were slightly pink from the cold, and he was freshly shaved. Without the dark shadow of stubble on his jaw, he looked younger. He blew on his hands and rubbed them together. “It’s cold. Is Bood seriously barbecuing?”
“Oh yeah. No weather can stop that guy from grilling. He has a sweet deck with heaters and stuff all over it. Wait’ll you see it.”
“I probably won’t stay long.”
“I can drive you back after. I don’t mind.”
Harris had his eyes on the road, but he could sense Troy tense beside him. “I won’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t,” Harris said simply. “But the offer stands.”
Troy didn’t reply, and when they reached a red light, Harris glanced over and saw him chewing on his thumbnail, head turned toward the passenger-side window.
Harris had become used to palling around with NHL players over the past few years, so he wasn’t intimidated by having Troy in his truck.
Parties like the one they were going to had become a normal part of Harris’s social life, and it occurred to Harris that Troy was the one who was uncomfortable right now.
Who was probably nervous about hanging out with his new teammates, and was trying to hide behind a wall of indifference.
“It’s a great group of guys,” Harris said. “I’ve been working with and hanging out with most of them for a couple of years, and I don’t think there could possibly be a better team in the league when it comes to personalities.”
“Personalities don’t win cups,” Troy said bluntly. It sounded like he was repeating something a shitty coach had drilled into him.
“I don’t know about that. Camaraderie counts for something. I’d think it would be hard to win games if you hated your teammates.”
“Have you ever played hockey?”
A flash of embarrassment shot through Harris. “No.”
Troy made a dismissive scoffing noise, and went back to gnawing his thumbnail.
Harris wished he could have said yes. The fact that he’d never played organized hockey was something he tried not to let bother him, and something he hoped everyone he worked with would ignore.
Or not even know about in the first place.
Harris had always loved hockey, and he probably could have played, but his parents had been nervous.
He couldn’t blame them; when your child’s body is already struggling, hockey seems like an unnecessary risk.
So, as a kid, he’d thrown himself into being a fan, of hockey in general and the Ottawa Centaurs in particular.
And now he got to feel like he was part of the team.
And that feeling could mostly be attributed to how warmly he’d been accepted by the players as a friend.
He’d talked to other NHL team social media managers, and he knew that his friendship with the Ottawa players wasn’t the norm.
“Sorry,” Troy said. It was so quiet, Harris almost missed it.
“For what?”
“I’m being a fucking dickwad. You’re giving me a lift and I’m being...me. Sorry.”
“You brought me coffee,” Harris pointed out. “As far as favors go, we’re even. In fact, since you also brought me cake pops, I’d say I still owe you a favor.”
Troy didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he said, “Should we stop somewhere and get beer?”
“I’ve got it sorted,” Harris said. “Got a few cases of cider in the back.”
“Cider?”
“My sisters make it. One hundred percent Drover family apples. It’s the best hard cider in Ontario.”
“Is that your unbiased opinion?” Troy asked dryly.
“Absolutely.”
“Can I pay you for some of it?”
“Nope.”
“Then I guess that’s your favor. We’re even.”
Harris grinned. “Fair enough.”
There was another minute of silence, and then Troy said, “So, is, like, everyone going to be at this?”
“Probably not everyone. Ilya won’t be there.”
“He won’t?”
“Nah. He’s almost never around on days off.”
“Where does he go?”
Harris shrugged. “No idea. If there’s a team hospital visit or a community outreach thing, Ilya is always available. If not, no one can ever reach him on a day off. I figure it’s his own time, so it’s no one’s business anyway. But the guys like to invent theories.”
“You’re right,” Troy said after a moment. “It’s no one’s business.”
Troy had been to plenty of team parties and outings over the years. Most had been at Dallas Kent’s mansion, and Troy had usually enjoyed them. He’d always thought that Kent’s taste level was questionable, though. His mansion was tacky as fuck.
Now he couldn’t think of those parties without feeling sick. How many women had Kent forced himself on—or tried to—at those parties? Had Troy been in the next room, or one floor below? Had it been happening right in front of him and he hadn’t realized it?
He reminded himself that Dallas Kent wouldn’t be here tonight. This was a new team, with new people, and a very different vibe from the Toronto Guardians.
As soon as Troy followed Harris through Bood’s front door, they were cheerfully greeted by Evan Dykstra.
“Harris! What’s up, bro?” Dykstra wrapped an arm around Harris’s head and pulled him against his chest. He was much taller than Harris or Troy—probably six-three or so—and he looked like a total redneck.
When he wasn’t in hockey gear or a suit, he seemed to always have his shaggy light brown hair stuffed into a camo snapback.
Troy had only known him for a few days, but he’d already heard him talk about fishing, hunting, snowmobiling, and why his home province of Manitoba was the best place on earth.
“You brought the good shit,” Dykstra said, taking the case of bottled cider from Harris. He frowned and nodded at Troy. “And you brought Barrett.”
Right. No one wanted Troy here. He shouldn’t have come.
Dykstra elbowed Troy and said, “I’m just joking, man. Good to see you. Rule one of being a Centaur: if Bood invites you to a barbecue, you go. Wait’ll you taste his shit. Fucking incredible.”
“Cool,” Troy said. He held up the case he was carrying. “Where should I put this?”
“Bring it to the patio. Bood’s got a beer fridge out there that might still have some room in it. I’ll show you.”
Harris had already wandered off to talk to a woman Troy was pretty sure was Wyatt’s wife, so he followed Dykstra to the back of the house. They passed the living room, where a group of the younger players were engaged in a lively Super Smash Bros. battle.
Bood’s back deck was enormous, with a slatted wood ceiling that was lined with lights.
It gave the illusion of being indoors, except for the flurries of snow that caught in the light.
Despite the weather, the space was warm with electric heaters, people, and the mouth-watering aroma of grilled meat.
People lounged on cushioned furniture, some in a circle around a firepit, some on the built-in benches that lined the perimeter of the deck.
Most of the people were Troy’s teammates, and some were women who were probably their partners.
The party seemed very laid-back and intimate; nothing like Kent’s ragers that were packed with young women, live DJs, and party drugs. Everyone was friends here.
“Bood!” Dykstra called out. “Harris brought cider.”
Bood was standing at a massive grill, turning chicken parts with some tongs. “Awesome. I love that shit. Oh hey, what’s up, Barrett?”
“Not much.”
Zane Boodram was a little taller than Troy, a little shorter than Dykstra. He had warm, light brown skin and dark curly hair. His muscular arms were both covered in tattoo sleeves that incorporated nautical stuff, tropical flowers, and the Trinidad and Tobago flag.
“Make yourself comfortable. Grab anything you want from the fridge. I got a fuck ton of food out on the table over there.” He gestured with his tongs. “And this chicken is going to be done soon. You like spice?”
“Say no,” Dykstra warned. “Bood takes it as a challenge.”
Bood laughed. “Nah, you’re just a lightweight, D.”
Troy and Dykstra went to the beer fridge and unloaded the bottles of cider. Then they each took one and Dykstra said, “My wife, Caitlin, she’s not here tonight, but she loves that you yelled at Kent. She volunteers at a charity that helps women who are, y’know. Victims. Of that sort of thing.”
It made so many hockey players uncomfortable to talk about sexual assault. Troy wasn’t particularly comfortable talking about it either, but he appreciated Dykstra making this unexpected effort to reach out.
“That’s cool that she does that,” Troy said, and Dykstra shuffled his feet uncomfortably for a moment, then nodded.
“I know a lot of the guys in the league don’t believe what those women are saying about Kent, or don’t want to.
Not that long ago, I probably would have thought they were lying too, honestly.
But I’ve learned a lot from Caitlin, and from, y’know.
Reading stuff. Plus, I figure you know Kent pretty well, so if you believe those women, then I sure as fuck do. ”
Warmth filled some of the emptiness that Troy had been made of for the past week. “I believe them,” he said firmly.
“Good enough for me.” Dykstra took a sip from the bottle he was holding, and changed the subject. “You try this cider yet?”
Troy hadn’t, so he took a sip from his own bottle. The cider was crisp and not as sweet as he’d been expecting. Refreshing. “It’s good.”
“Harris’s sisters know what they’re doing, that’s for sure. But you can get surprisingly fucked up on this shit, so be careful.”
Troy only planned on having one drink tonight. Given his mood, he knew two drinks could easily turn into too many. “I’ll go easy.”