by Rachel Reid
“I would never bring a date there. Oh my god. You guys would embarrass the shit out of me.”
“We would not!”
“Nah. We totally would,” Margot said.
“Are you dating anyone?” Mom asked.
“No.”
“Well, that’s a shame.”
“I mean, I go on dates. But—you know what? I’m not talking about this.”
“It’s too bad Scott Hunter doesn’t play for Ottawa. You two could have fallen in love.”
“Mom!”
“And Ottawa might have a Stanley Cup,” said Mike. “Y’know. If we had Scott Hunter.”
“And Harris would be rich,” Dad added, “if he had Scott Hunter.”
Everyone laughed while Harris tried to glare at them all. “You know it’s messed up to assume that two men would get together just because they’re both gay and in proximity to each other, right?”
“Who could resist you, though?” Mom argued. “You’re such a sweetheart.”
“And you have nice hair,” Mike said. “Good beard.”
“You know a lot about apples. Men love that,” said Margot. She turned to her husband, who was the quietest man Harris had ever met. “Right, Josh?”
“Super sexy,” Josh agreed.
“Anyway,” Harris said. “Scott Hunter does not play for Ottawa and is happily married, so I think I’ll keep looking.”
Truthfully, he was getting tired of looking. He wanted to have someone to bring to family dinners and cuddle up with at home later. He blamed the yearnings on his habit of spending too much time with NHL players in their twenties who were married with kids. He should probably make an effort to hang out with his other friends. His non-millionaire, normal friends. His queer friends, for sure. When was the last time he’d gone dancing? Or just met a bunch of friends for drinks at a gay bar, or karaoke? He used to be on a trivia team. Now he was obsessed with his job, and that job didn’t have regular hours.
The dinner remained lively until the last bite of apple crisp, with everyone talking over each other as usual. Harris had been uncharacteristically quiet for most of it, his mind stuck on the possibility that he’d let his job consume his whole life. He really didn’t get paid enough for that.
When he was leaving, Harris’s parents both hugged him like they weren’t going to see him again for months instead of days. The dogs jumped on him, as if trying to stop him from going.
“Take care of yourself,” Mom said. “And tell Ilya Rozanov I said hi.”
Harris laughed. Mom had met Ilya at a team fundraiser and Ilya had flirted shamelessly with her. “I will.”
“And you’ll call the doctor if anything feels...off, right?” Dad said.
Harris swallowed to contain the frustration that flared inside him. He’d been dealing with his busted heart his whole life, and he’d always been careful. “Of course I will. You know I will.” He forced a laugh to cover his annoyance. “Don’t worry so much.”
Dad smiled sadly. “Can’t help it. Sorry.”
That took away Harris’s annoyance in a hurry. “Love you guys. See you next week. Keep Mac out of trouble, all right?”
“Keep Troy Barrett out of trouble,” Dad joked.
Harris turned away before Dad could see him blushing. “I’ll do my best.”
Chapter Seven
The day after the team had returned from their trip, Troy received an unexpected text message.
Wyatt: BBQ at Bood’s tonight. You should come.
The address followed.
Barbecue? The fuck? It was snowing outside. Not a lot but, like, more than the amount that would suggest it was barbecue season.
Troy: Is everyone going?
Wyatt: Most of the guys, probably. And partners. Bood and Cassie are great hosts.
Troy was not at all in the right headspace for a team party. He was surprised his teammates were either, given the fact that this team fucking sucked. Maybe you got used to sucking when you played for Ottawa and just made the most of things.
Troy: Maybe.
Wyatt: Do you need a ride? Harris said he’s going there straight from the arena so he could probably drive you.
Wait. Harris was going? The social media guy? This team was so weird.
Not that Troy couldn’t see why Harris might be invited. He was...nice. Kind of annoying. Definitely too loud. Laughed too much. Smelled like apples, but that was probably Troy’s imagination because it made no damn sense. Except when he’d been in Troy’s personal space, removing that microphone after the interview, Troy could have sworn he got a whiff of something sweet and mouth-watering.
Wyatt: I’ll get Harris to text you. Bring beer.
Troy: I didn’t say yes.
Wyatt: Get out of that hotel room, Barrett. Get to know your teammates.
Troy scrunched his nose. There was nothing wrong with his hotel room. He was, at the moment, lounging on a perfectly comfy bed. He had plenty of things to do tonight, like staring blankly out the window until he mustered up the energy to jerk off.
Harris texted him within twenty minutes. Wyatt said you needed a ride tonight?
Troy: No.
He didn’t need a ride. He drove his car here from Toronto instead of flying specifically so he’d have a car here. And because he’d felt like driving at the time and also getting the fuck out of Toronto as soon as possible.
Besides, Harris would probably ask him a bunch of weird questions during the drive. Or normal questions that Troy couldn’t answer because he wasn’t normal. Normal people didn’t feel sick when they were asked about their favorite place on earth. It had been meant as an easy question, one that should have been pleasant to answer, but it had only made Troy think about Adrian’s bed. Adrian’s arms.
Harris: You sure? I’m heading there from the rink anyway.
Troy rolled to his side, leaning on one elbow. Despite having a hard time answering some of Harris’s questions, he had actually enjoyed the interview more than he’d been expecting. He liked Harris. He seemed like a good person, and Troy was trying to gravitate toward good people.
Troy: What time are you going?
Not that he was seriously considering going. Even if he were, he would drive himself so he could arrive late and leave early. Harris would probably make sure he was the first one there.
Harris: I’m swamped this afternoon. I probably won’t get out of here until 7.
What the hell work was Harris doing? How hard could being a social media guy be, especially on an off day? Couldn’t he post things on Twitter from, like, anywhere? Troy almost wanted to ask, but if Harris was busy he didn’t have time to explain his job.
Seven didn’t sound so bad. Not for a dinner thing. And Troy could get a cab back to the hotel anytime.
Troy: Fuck it. Sure. You can pick me up.
Harris: LOL love that enthusiasm.
Harris: I’m actually working on a video of your top five career goals right now.
Troy: You have to make that yourself?
Harris: Yeah. It’s, like, my job.
Now Troy felt stupid. He tried to think of something to say, but Harris sent another message.
Harris: I need to get this done, then I have a conference call with marketing and a new sponsor who wants to do some sponsored content. And I’ve got some posts I have to schedule.
Harris: Sorry. You didn’t actually ask for further info. I’m chatty when texting too. He added a happy face emoji to the end.
Harris was a really fast typer. Which made sense, Troy supposed, given his job.
Troy: Ok. Just text me when you’re leaving I guess.
He stared at the message after he sent it. It sounded rude as fuck. Did he always sound this rude? Probably.
Troy wrote, Looking forward to it, then deleted it because that seemed too far
the other way. He wrote, Should be fun, but that didn’t sound like him at all, so finally he landed on, I can get you a coffee from the Starbucks in the lobby, if you want. He sent it.
He’d meant that he’d get a coffee and give it to Harris when he picked him up. So he could drink it in the car or whatever. But Harris wrote back, What? Now? That would rule.
Um.
It wasn’t like Troy was busy, but he wasn’t a fucking errand boy either.
Harris: Oh. You meant when I picked you up, didn’t you? LOL
Troy should have been relieved, but instead he just felt shitty. Harris wanted a coffee, and Troy could easily fix that problem. He had nothing but time and money.
Like, literally. Nothing.
Troy: I can bring you one now. What do you want?
Harris sent a string of excited face emojis, and then: Eggnog Latte.
Troy: Isn’t that a Christmas thing?
Harris: It’s November! Close enough! And it’s a DELICIOUS thing.
Troy: Way too early for eggnog.
Harris retorted with a row of Santa face emojis.
Troy: Fine. Are you in your office?
Harris: Yes. Wouldn’t say no to a cake pop either if they have them.
Winky face emoji.
Troy didn’t know what a cake pop was, but it sounded like the kind of thing that Harris would like.
Troy: k. Be there soon.
* * *
Cake pops, it turned out, were even stupider than Troy thought they’d be. Especially since they were decorated to look like snowman heads, so apparently it was eggnog season. Troy had never really looked at any of the baked goods on offer at a Starbucks before. He always just ordered a black medium roast without observing his surroundings much.
He knocked on Harris’s office door, balancing a tray with two cups and a paper bag with three cake pops because they seemed kind of small, so Troy bought a few.
“Come in.”
Unlike the last time Troy had been here, Harris’s smile didn’t fade when he saw him. In fact, it grew wider.
“Coffee delivery from an NHL star. I could get used to this.” He locked his fingers and stretched his arms over his head. It lifted the hem of his Carly Rae Jepsen T-shirt enough that Troy caught a glimpse of his fuzzy belly button area.
“Cake pops are supposed to be for kids, I think,” Troy said, forcing his gaze away from the strip of exposed skin. He set the tray on the desk opposite Harris’s, then handed him the paper bag.
Harris relaxed his arms and grabbed the bag with enthusiasm. He yanked out one of the pops and held it up, admiring it. “They’re cute!”
“It looks like an impaled head on a spike.”
Harris laughed way too hard at that. “It does! Yikes.” And then he shoved the whole snowman head in his mouth, wrapping his lips around the base of the ball and tugging it off the stick. It was...something.
He swallowed the ball of whatever the fuck it was—cake, Troy guessed—and grinned. “I love these things. Holy shit, there are more in here!” He pulled a second one out.
Troy settled himself into a chair that was against the wall, near the end of Harris’s desk. “I wasn’t sure what a normal serving of cake pops was.”
“No limit. Here,” Harris said, holding it out to him. “You gotta try one.”
Troy was conflicted. On the one hand, he didn’t want to put that ridiculous thing in his mouth. On the other hand, he didn’t want to watch Harris deep throat another one.
“I’m good.” He took a sip of his black coffee to demonstrate how good he was, and promptly burned his mouth. “Fuck.”
“You know what would cool your mouth down?” Harris asked, making the snowman ball dance around in the air. “A peppermint cake pop.”
“No it wouldn’t. And stop making it be, like, alive.”
Harris turned the snowman so he was looking it straight in the eyes. “I’m naming him Gordon.”
“Fuck off. Just eat it.”
“I can’t. We’re friends now.”
“Whatever. Your eggnog is there.” Troy pointed to the paper cup on the corner of Harris’s desk.
The small office was flooded with the sickly sweet aroma of eggnog and cake. Troy took a deep whiff of his own coffee to block it out.
He supposed he could leave. He’d only come here to deliver a coffee and a snack. Mission accomplished.
“When is your conference call?”
“Twenty minutes.” Harris put Gordon the cake pop back in the bag and, absurdly, pulled out the third identical one and ate it. After he swallowed, he said, “Hopefully it won’t go on forever like the last one.”
“So do the sponsors, like, put their logo on the videos you post or something?”
Harris looked at him curiously. “Yeah. Have you never looked at your team’s social media accounts? Not even in Toronto?”
“No.”
Harris shook his head. “Well, I don’t blame you. Whoever is doing Toronto’s social media sucks at it. It has no heart at all. I don’t know why anyone follows them.”
Troy didn’t know what gave a Twitter account “heart” but he just took a sip of coffee instead of asking. It was still hot, but his mouth was numb now anyway.
Harris took a sip of his latte and made a noise that Troy had only ever made during sex. “God, I needed this. Thanks for bringing it.”
He licked his upper lip, and Troy watched with more interest than was warranted. He’d bet that Harris would taste disgusting right now—his mouth full of sugar and weird coffee.
“I guess I’ll head back,” Troy said, standing. Wondering what Harris tasted like was a definite signal to leave. “You can, um, text me. Later.”
“Cool.”
“Okay.”
Troy hesitated a moment. He wasn’t in a hurry to go back to his lonely hotel room, and he found he didn’t mind being around this weird little apple farmer. He didn’t mind looking at him either, which wasn’t good.
He left.
* * *
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 po
ssibly 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.”
