Chapter Nineteen
Now that Troy had let himself have a taste of Harris, his body burned with sexual frustration.
He told himself that he was distancing himself from Harris for the right reasons, and that it wouldn’t be fair to sleep with him if Troy wasn’t brave enough to hold his hand in the light.
Troy needed to earn Harris. Maybe he would never deserve him, but he needed to try.
Truthfully, he wasn’t distancing himself from Harris at all.
Over the past two weeks he’d seen as much of the man as their busy schedules would allow.
Harris had even helped Troy with his Instagram posts, giving him a list of activists, shelters and organizations to follow, and showing him how to share their posts to Troy’s stories.
Harris had been excited about the number of followers Troy had gained, but Troy continued to avoid looking at his account beyond creating new posts.
He felt good, though. He’d been making sizable donations to the organizations he’d been promoting and, though he wanted to do more, it was a start. For once in his life he was using his privilege for something worthwhile, and, even though he was still a bit terrified, he was excited.
Ottawa had also won every game since their big win against New York. That didn’t hurt.
And Harris seemed to be proud of Troy. That didn’t hurt either.
But Harris’s proud smiles and enthusiastic compliments did nothing to shut Troy’s body up. Every time he was near Harris, he ached to kiss him, to pin him against a wall and tear his clothes away, to go to his knees and suck him off in his office.
His body had lots of terrible ideas, so Troy was punishing it now in the team gym.
He pushed himself through one more set of barbell squats, determined to keep going until he could almost forget the heated look Harris had given him in his office three days ago.
It was one that made it pretty clear that he wouldn’t mind being ravaged by Troy.
“Whoa,” Bood said, grabbing the barbell so Troy wouldn’t have to support it alone with his trembling arms. Together, they set it back in the rack.
“Thanks,” Troy said. He dropped to the floor, sitting in a heap with his chin against his chest.
Bood sat beside him. “Is your goal to lift a Zamboni or something?” he teased.
“No. Just felt like pushing it a bit today.”
“Did it help?”
“A little.”
A phone rang nearby, and both men turned their heads toward the sound. “Is that you?” Bood asked.
“I think so. Hand it to me? It’s there.” Troy gestured lazily toward the shelf where he’d left his phone. “My legs are toast.”
Bood laughed as he stood and grabbed the phone. “Unknown number,” he said.
Troy took it from him. It was probably a telemarketer or something, but he answered it anyway. “Hello?”
“Troy Barrett?” The voice was gruff and male and vaguely familiar.
“Yeah?”
“This is Roger Crowell. I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk.”
Suddenly Troy found the ability to walk again and was on his feet. Roger Crowell, the commissioner of the entire NHL, was calling him. Troy had never spoken to him in his life beyond a handshake on his draft day. There was no way this phone call was for a good reason, though.
Troy walked quickly out of the room, ignoring Bood’s questioning glance. “Yes, sir. Of course.”
“Good. How are you, Troy? How’s Ottawa?”
The questions were bland and friendly, but Crowell made them sound like a trap, and Troy’s chest tightened as he walked. “Fine. Ottawa’s good.”
“Beautiful city,” Crowell agreed. “Cold, I’ll bet.”
“Yeah.” Troy found a quiet spot at the end of a hallway, and leaned back against a wall, waiting for Crowell to reveal his reason for calling.
“Probably doesn’t have the nightlife Toronto did. Nothing to amuse you during your free time.”
Troy didn’t know what to say to that, so he only swallowed.
“You’re causing quite a stir with your Instagram account, Troy.”
Oh god. “Am I?”
“It’s a noble effort. The league wants its players to be engaged in the community, and of course the cause you’re bringing attention to is important.”
Troy knew better than to relax at this apparent praise. He’d had too many years of experience talking to intimidating men like Crowell to fall for that. “I think it is, yes.”
“If any other player had been posting about sexual assault, I’d be nothing but pleased, but with you, Troy... Well, I have to wonder about your motivation here.”
“Motivation?”
Crowell sighed somewhat theatrically. “I don’t know why you and Kent stopped being friends, and frankly I don’t care.
Shit happens, right? Maybe he slept with your girl.
Maybe you were jealous of his talent. But this personal vendetta you have against him isn’t good for anyone, Troy.
Not the league, not your team, and certainly not for you. ”
“I—that’s not why—” Troy stammered.
“Those women, the ones who have been saying things about Kent, I can see why you might jump on that opportunity, if you were mad at your friend. You don’t have a clear head right now because you’re angry.
But...” Crowell laughed, and it sounded cold and cruel like Troy’s father’s laugh.
“You know those girls are only looking for their five minutes of fame. People can say anything on the internet and they don’t even have to sign their names.
It disgusts me because there’s no integrity in it.
In the hockey world, and in the business world where I’ve been for decades, integrity is important.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t have much respect for anyone who won’t own up to the things they say.
Hurling accusations in the dark is cowardly, and creating lies to ruin a talented young man at the pinnacle of his career is monstrous.
” Crowell paused, and Troy could imagine a slow, sickening smile creeping across his face. “At least, that’s my opinion.”
Troy’s heart was racing in his chest. His palms were so sweaty he worried he would drop his phone. He knew every word Crowell was saying was wrong—twisted—but he didn’t know how to defend himself. To defend the women he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.
“I don’t think they’re lying,” he managed to say. He hated how small his voice sounded.
“Did you see Kent do any of the things they accused him of?” Crowell asked. His voice was calm, but Troy suspected that this question was the exact reason he was calling. Crowell needed to know if Troy was a real danger.
“No,” Troy admitted quietly.
“So you don’t know if these girls are telling the truth.”
“I think he—”
“You don’t,” Crowell said slowly and clearly, “know.”
Troy couldn’t argue. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He just...oh god. What if Crowell was right?
Except no. He did know. He knew Dallas and he understood enough about how the world treated victims of sexual assault to know that Kent’s accusers had nothing to gain from speaking out.
“The problem is,” Crowell continued, “that your posts, while admirable, have the appearance of being personal attacks at Kent. Little digs. Obviously the best thing for the league is if this whole ridiculous business faded away, but your posts keep fanning the flames. I need you to stop.”
Some of Troy’s fear solidified into anger. He was so tired of being pushed around by men like Crowell. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m trying to help people who need it.”
“There are plenty of causes you can promote, Troy. Homelessness, or poor kids having access to sports. I can have my assistant send you a list of charities and initiatives the league supports.”
“Okay,” Troy said, because it seemed safer than refusing. “Thank you.”
“Good,” Crowell interrupted. “I’d hate to have to take this matter further.”
Further? Jesus, Troy didn’t want to find out what that meant. “No, sir.”
“I’ll let you go now, Troy. It was nice speaking with you. Good luck tomorrow night against Montreal.”
“Thank you.” Troy sounded like a child being forced to speak to a stranger.
Crowell ended the call, and Troy slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. What the fuck was he going to do?
“You surprised yet?” Harris asked Gen the morning after another Ottawa win, this time on the road against Detroit.
“They should almost die in a plane crash more often,” she said dryly. Then she grimaced. “Sorry. I keep forgetting you were on that plane.”
Harris waved a hand dismissively. “I’m alive.”
“Alive and grumpy,” Gen muttered.
Harris only grunted in response.
Ottawa was enjoying the team’s longest win streak in over ten years, which should have put Harris in a good mood.
But instead he couldn’t stop thinking about Troy.
He knew the team had flown back late last night after the game, and he’d felt a ridiculous stab of longing for Troy to drive straight to Harris’s apartment.
He wanted to be the man Troy went home to, and he was frustrated by how close he’d possibly gotten to being that.
Or maybe he was kidding himself.
“To be fair,” Gen said, “your grumpy is like my very best mood.”
“Maybe I’m not grumpy.”
Gen scoffed. “Something is bothering you. The team is on a hot streak and you’re miserable.”
There was no way Harris was going to tell Gen about Troy.
For one thing, it would mean outing Troy.
For another, it was too embarrassing to talk about.
What had Harris been expecting? For Troy Barrett to want to be his boyfriend?
Men who looked like Troy didn’t date men who looked like Harris.
Troy’s last boyfriend had been a stunningly beautiful television star with, like, a sixteen-pack.
Troy probably only saw Harris as a convenient fix. Someone he was comfortable enough to come out to, which was nice, but also someone who wasn’t much of a risk. He’d known Harris was gay the minute he’d first met him, and he also likely assumed that Harris wouldn’t reject him.
“I’m going take a walk,” Harris said. “I need a break from the computer.”