by Rachel Reid
“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.”
Another defenseman—Nick Chouinard—called Dykstra over to the firepit area. Troy didn’t follow, instead heading for the food table. He got there just as Bood plunked down a huge platter of grilled chicken.
“Okay,” Bood said, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically, “I’m gonna give you a tour. We’ve got jerk chicken here, and that’s the real shit, so don’t fuck with it if you don’t like spice. We’ve got chicken with my secret recipe barbecue sauce over here.” He gestured to the platter he’d just added to the table. “It’s more sweet and smoky than spicy. It’ll go fast, so grab it now. Ribs, obviously, over there. Peas and rice, slaw, callaloo. Got some of my homemade pepper sauce. That’s hot as fuck, but if you like it, I can give you a bottle. I make tons of it.”
“Wow. Jesus. This all looks great.” Troy grabbed a plate and a jerk chicken leg, which made Bood grin.
“Going for the heat. I love it.” He clapped Troy on the shoulder. “And, listen. I played junior with Kent, same team, and I hated the little fucker. I’ll be totally honest and say that I always thought you were a piece of shit too, by association.”
What was Troy supposed to say to that? He was a piece of shit by association. And maybe just on his own too. “Makes sense” was what he came up with.
“I’m hoping you prove me wrong, is all I’m saying. We’ve got a good group here. Don’t fuck that up.”
“I won’t,” Troy said weakly.
“Cool. I gotta clean the grill.” Bood grinned and nodded at Troy’s plate of chicken. “Enjoy.”
Troy found a quiet bench seat in one corner. The patio was filled with the happy chatter of a group of people who obviously knew each other well. Before he’d gotten
here, Troy had assumed that the Ottawa players must be the most miserable bunch of people in the world. How could you have fun together—or even like each other—when you couldn’t win on the ice? When your arena was only half full most games? How were you not completely embarrassed all the time?
But this group loved each other. Troy hadn’t even been on this team for two weeks yet and he could see it clearly. He just couldn’t see himself being a part of it, even if his teammates had been decent to him so far.
The food was delicious. Troy hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he tore into the jerk chicken, and, yeah, it was spicy, but it was so fucking tasty too. He cooled his mouth with more of the cider.
As if summoned by the cider, Harris was suddenly in front of him. “Hey.” He was holding his own plate of food and a bottle. “Mind if I sit?”
“Go ahead.”
Harris sat next to him. “Having fun?”
“I guess. It’s a nice patio.”
“It’s property porn, is what it is. I’m glad Bood likes to entertain so much.” He picked up a rib and sank his teeth into it.
Troy went back to his own food, eating in silence until Harris asked, “You talk to anyone?”
“Um. Dykstra a bit. Bood.”
“You meet Cassie yet? That’s Bood’s wife.”
“No.”
Harris gestured to a tall blond woman standing near the firepit. “That’s Cassie. She’s supercool.” When she turned, Troy could see that she was pregnant.
“Is this gonna be their first kid?”
“Yup! They’ll be the best parents.” Harris nudged Troy. “Don’t tell any of the other dads I said that.”
“I don’t even know who the other dads are.”
“Dykstra has a daughter, Susie. She just turned one. Chouinard has three kids, Boyle has twins...” He went on to name every dad on the team, and all of their kids’ names and ages. Then he proceeded to list and detail everyone’s pets. Troy tried to retain at least some of it.
“Wow. Do you know all their allergies too?”
Harris laughed. “I like people. And I like my job.”
“What if the player is a fucking dick, but you still have to do promo shit to make him seem great?”
“It’s never happened. This team only ever has good people.”
He seemed awfully sure of himself, considering Troy was sitting right next to him as hard evidence that Ottawa did not only sign good people.
“Did you like being home for a couple of days?” Harris asked. “I’ve only been to Vancouver once. It lives up to the hype.”
“It’s not bad.”
“Wyatt loves the Vancouver trips. His sister lives there with her wife and their son.”
Troy’s attention snagged on one word. “Wife?”
“Yeah. You didn’t know? He talks about them all the time. I assumed he did in Toronto too.”
Even if Wyatt had talked about his family when he’d played for Toronto, he wouldn’t have talked to Troy about his queer sister. Not the way Troy had radiated homophobia. Given the culture of the Toronto team, there was a good chance Wyatt hadn’t talked about his sister to anyone.
Maybe to Ryan Price. Wyatt had been friends with Ryan. Probably because no one else had been.
“I didn’t know. That’s cool, though.”
“I’ve never met his sister, but she sounds awesome,” Harris said.
They both finished their food, and then Harris stood and said, “I see seats available at the firepit. Let’s check it out.”
Troy glanced at the happy group of people who were chatting and laughing in the glow of the fire. He didn’t need to intrude on that. “Oh, uh. That’s okay.”
Harris grabbed Troy’s mostly empty paper plate and stacked it on top of his own. “Come on.”
The plates got tossed into a giant garbage can that was strategically placed near the door. Then Harris headed for the firepit and Troy, not sure of what else to do, followed.
“Harris! Come sit,” Wyatt said cheerfully. “Hey, Barrett.”
“Hey.”
Harris sat in the empty chair next to the love seat Wyatt was sharing with his wife. Troy sat in a chair across from them.
Bood was perched on the arm of the chair that his wife, Cassie, was sitting in. Nick Chouinard was next to them, and next to him was a woman who Troy had not met before but guessed was Nick’s wife.
“Wyatt was talking our ear off about his nephew,” Bood said to Troy.
“Yeah. Because he’s amazing,” Wyatt said.
“How old is Isaac now?” Harris asked.
“Three. Cute as hell too. I can’t wait to see him again, but it won’t be for a long time. Kristy and Eve, too. But mostly Isaac.”
And there it was. Wyatt talking easily about his sister and her wife. Without fear of his teammates judging his family because no one on this team was a bigot. Once again, Troy felt like an intruder.
“You’re from Vancity, right, Barrett?” Nick asked.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Did your family go to the game?”
“Yeah.” Everyone stared at him, probably waiting for him to elaborate, but Troy just stared at the fire.
He hadn’t spoken to his father after the game. Dad had sent him a text that had basically made fun of how shitty the Centaurs were, and how terribly Troy had played in particular.
But Mom had texted too. She’d sent him a photo of his little action figure on the table of a restaurant in Tokyo, and had also said, Next time you’re in Vancouver I’ll make sure I’m there too.
God, he missed her.
Loud laughter jolted Troy out of his thoughts. The conversation had clearly moved on without him.
“Oh, shit, Barrett,” Bood said. “You haven’t met my wife, Cassie.”
Cassie waved at Troy from across the fire. She was stunningly beautiful, with hair and skin that suggested a lot of professional care. “Hi, Troy. Welcome to Ottawa.”
“And this is Selena,” Nick said.
“Hi,” Troy said. Nick’s wife was tiny compared to her husband, almost disappearing under the giant arm he had wrapped around her. She was blond and beautiful like Cassie, and Troy couldn’t believe she was the mother of three children. Nick was only in his mid-twenties like Troy, and she looked about the same age.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. She had a Quebec accent like her husband. “We know how hard being traded can be.” She shared a look with her husband.
“At least you don’t have kids, Barrett,” Nick said. “Easier to move when it’s just you.”
“Are you with someone?” Selena asked. “Wife or girlfriend?”
Troy ignored the ache that pulsed in his chest at the reminder of being recently dumped, and of being different. “No one right now.”
“You remember Lisa, right?” Wyatt asked, gesturing to his own wife.
Troy had completely forgotten her name. He’d probably only talked to her once in Toronto. “Of course. Yeah. Hi, Lisa.”
“Good to see you again, Troy. You settling in okay?” Lisa looked very different from the other two women in the circle. She had dark hair, cut short, and she didn’t seem to be wearing makeup. She was very pretty, but where a lot of Troy’s teammates’ wives over the years had looked like models, Lisa looked more like a fitness instructor.
Or, he supposed, like a doctor. Because that’s what she was.
“More or less. Never been traded before, so it’s all kinda weird.”
“Never Been Traded Club,” Bood said, extending his arm and offering Troy his fist. Troy bumped it. “Well, I guess you’re out of the club now.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you still at the hotel?” Lisa asked.
“For now. I need to figure out a place to live.”
Lisa nudged Wyatt. “
Give him the details of that building we lived in when you got traded here. You’ll love it, Troy. Fully furnished, right downtown, concierge service for cleaning and laundry. It was perfect for us, while we were waiting to see if Wyatt would be staying in Ottawa after that season.”
“I’ll email you about it,” Wyatt said. “You should definitely check it out.”
“Okay. Thanks. Sounds good.” It sounded perfect, actually. Although the proximity to the arena was nice, Troy was getting really sick of the hotel. And he needed something easy and temporary, just to last him until he could figure out how to get off this team.
“Okay, let me address something real quick,” Bood said abruptly. “We need to talk about how last season, I scored the prettiest goal of the fucking year against Buffalo. Grabbed that puck from McCord, split Buffalo’s D like a fucking knife, then faked out their goalie. Beautiful. Showed it like a thousand times on replay.”
“I remember,” Wyatt said. “Why are we talking about it, though?”
“Oh, Jesus,” Cassie said. “I know exactly why. Let it go, babe.”
“No. It should have been the highlight of the night.” Bood’s voice got louder, and he pointed a finger directly at Troy. “But then this fucker scores the goal of the fucking century against Philly on the same night.”
Everyone laughed, and even Troy had to smile. “Sorry, man.”
“Oh shit! That goal,” Harris said. “I was just watching it again this afternoon when I was making that video of your best goals, Troy. How’d you even pull that dangle off? It was like magic.”
Troy shrugged one shoulder. “Skill.” The goal had been incredible. Even he couldn’t believe he had done it when he’d watched the video.
“I wasn’t impressed,” Bood grumbled.
“He complained about it for weeks,” Cassie said, then patted his arm. “Now you can score some pretty goals together.”
“I guess. Hey!” Bood stood up and yelled in the direction of the beer fridge, “How many is that, Haas?”
Troy turned to see Luca Haas, frozen like a deer in headlights with his hand on the beer fridge door handle.
“I don’t know. Five?” Luca said. His eyes were wide behind his glasses. Troy knew he was twenty, but he looked fifteen. He also looked flushed and tipsy.
