Chapter Text
Troy was already back at his apartment, sitting on the edge of the bed with his tie loosened and his shoes kicked off, face buried in his hands, when he realized he'd left his only working phone charger at the venue. Twelve percent battery. Not enough.
He checked his bag again, dumping everything out onto the bedspread, but the charger was nowhere to be found.
He remembered plugging it into an outlet near the service entrance, tucking himself into a quiet corner to text his mom and escape the noise for a few minutes. He'd meant to grab it on his way out.
Troy sat there for a long moment, staring at the wall. He was tired. So tired.
He could skip it. Buy a new charger tomorrow, deal with a dead phone for a few hours. Come back for it another day. It wasn't the end of the world.
But he'd promised his mother he'd call.
He was already reaching for his shoes.
With a sigh, Troy put them back on, grabbed his keys, and headed for the door. The venue was only a few blocks away. It wouldn't take that long.
It had been a long night. The fundraiser weekend was always like this. One of those events everyone in the Canadian hockey world was expected to attend, all forced smiles and expensive suits and pretending to enjoy the spectacle of it all.
And Troy had done his part. Shook the hands he was supposed to shake, made small talk with the people he was supposed to impress, smiled until his face ached.
At least this time it was in Toronto. Instead of going back to an empty hotel room after a whole night of performance, he could go back to his own place. His… well, empty apartment, sure. But still his.
At some point, he'd slipped away to a quiet corner to text his mom. She was in Portugal now, or maybe Spain already? Somewhere warm and beautiful, living the life she deserved after all those years. He was happy for her, genuinely happy, for the freedom she'd found, for the chance to travel the world without his father's shadow hanging over everything. She deserved it.
But he also missed talking to her. Missed being able to call her up whenever and hear her voice, have her tell him everything would be okay even when it wasn't. Especially on nights like these, when he felt like he was drowning in a room full of people, she was the one person who might have understood.
But she was five hours ahead, and he didn't want to wake her. So he'd sent a text instead. Hope you're having fun. Miss you. And tucked his phone away and gone back to pretending.
The whole night had felt off-kilter. Dallas had been in a mood since before the event even started. Their last two losses were still sitting heavy on all of them, but Dallas wore it like a personal insult. Like the universe had wronged him specifically. He'd been drinking steadily for hours, getting louder with every glass.
After a while, Troy had stopped drinking entirely. He'd been too busy steering Dallas away from conversations that were about to go wrong, physically putting himself between Dallas and a reporter who'd asked a question Dallas didn't like. The reporter had looked scared. Troy didn't blame him.
By the time Troy decided to leave, Dallas was still holding court near the bar, surrounded by a group of women who'd been drinking almost as heavily as he had. They were all laughing too loud, leaning into each other, that sloppy kind of drunk that made Troy's stomach turn.
He watched Dallas put his arm around one of them, watched her stumble, watched Dallas steady her with a hand that lingered on her hip.
Troy told himself it was fine. He told himself it was just Dallas being Dallas, the life of the party, harmless fun.
He was very good at telling himself things these days.
He'd had a lot of practice.
The venue was nearly empty when Troy got back. He was relieved to find the doors still open. He'd half expected to find the place locked up, his charger trapped inside until Monday.
The main lights had been dimmed, leaving the space feeling hollow and strange. A cleaning crew moved through the main hall, collecting abandoned glasses and folding tablecloths, their voices low and echoing. Troy's footsteps were too loud on the polished floor as he made his way toward the back corner and the service entrance.
It was right where he'd left it, tucked behind a large potted plant, still plugged into the outlet. He wrapped the cord around his hand and stuffed it in his tuxedo pocket. That was it. He could go back home now, get a few hours of much-needed sleep, and put this whole night behind him.
He was almost at the exit when he heard it.
A sound. Wet. Muffled.
The kind of sound someone made when they were trying very hard to be quiet and failing.
Troy stopped.
For a moment, he just stood there, listening. The sound was coming from somewhere down a corridor to his left. A hallway he hadn't noticed before, leading away from the main space.
The overhead lights in the hallway were off, but there was a thin line of brightness spilling out from under one of the doors. It appeared to be a bathroom.
Troy knew he probably should keep walking. It wasn't his business. It was most likely nothing. Someone who'd had too much to drink, someone crying over a bad night, someone who just needed a moment alone. He should leave them to it.
But something held him there. Some feeling he couldn't name, pulling at him.
So Troy moved toward the door instead, his footsteps too loud in the empty hallway, his heart beating a little faster than it should. The closer he got, the more clearly he could hear it. Quick, shallow breathing, the kind that came with trying not to sob. A hitching, wet sound. Like someone choking on their own breath.
Carefully, slowly, Troy pushed the door open.
For a moment, his brain refused to process what he was seeing. White tiles, gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. A row of sinks along one wall, mirrors above them. A line of stalls on the other side. A sink with the tap still running, water swirling pink down the drain.
Blood.
Not a lot. But enough. Smeared on the edge of the sink where someone had grabbed it for support. Droplets scattered across the floor, a trail of red on white. Bloody paper towels scattered across the tiles, some crumpled into balls, others just dropped, like someone had tried to clean up and given up halfway through.
Stupidly, Troy's first thought was that this was the part in a horror movie where he'd die.
Then he saw the man.
He was on the floor at the far end of the room, pressed into the corner where the tiled wall met the row of stalls, like he was trying to make himself as small as possible. His knees were drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, and he was shaking. A fine, continuous tremor that ran through his whole body, visible even from the doorway. His head was ducked down, face hidden against his knees, and the sound Troy had heard, that wet, hitching, muffled sound, was coming from him.
"Hello?" Troy's voice came out strange, too loud in the small space. "Are you–"
The man's head snapped up.
He was stocky and broad-shouldered, the kind of build that should have made him look sturdy, dependable. Instead he just looked small, curled into himself like that. His dark-blond hair was disheveled, falling into his face, and there was blood caught in his beard.
For a split second, Troy saw his face clearly. Split lip, the skin around it swollen and raw. A gash above his eyebrow, shallow but messy, blood trailing down the side of his face and smeared across his chin, down his neck, staining the collar of his shirt. One side of his face was red and puffy. Troy had seen enough hockey injuries to know that kind of mark would darken into a nasty bruise by morning. His eyes were wet, red-rimmed, tears tracking through the blood on his cheeks.
He looked terrified.
Before Troy could say anything else, the man moved.
He scrambled backward, fast and clumsy, grabbing for a jacket that was crumpled on the floor nearby. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely grip it. He swiped at his face with his sleeve, smearing the blood around more than actually cleaning it, and started trying to push himself up off the floor.
"Sorry, I was just leaving," he said. His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "I'm sorry. I just needed a minute, I was trying to clean up– I'm going now, I'm sorry–"
"Hey, wait–" Troy stepped forward without thinking, one hand raised, and the man flinched back so violently his shoulder hit the stall divider with a dull thud.
Troy froze.
"Okay," Troy said, forcing his voice to stay calm, stay quiet. "Okay. I'm not… I'm staying right here."
The man had stopped trying to get up. He was pressed against the wall now, clutching his jacket to his chest like it could protect him, staring at Troy with wide, wet eyes. His breathing was too fast, too shallow.
Troy tried to assess the situation. He tried to think past the dread in his stomach, the way his own heart was pounding. The blood seemed to be coming mostly from the gash above his eyebrow. Those always bled more than they should. His lip was split too, swollen and raw, like someone had hit him hard. The mark on his cheek was already puffing up. Nothing looked broken, nothing looked immediately life-threatening. But it still looked like it hurt. It still looked like someone had punched him. Multiple times.
"What happened?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "Do you need help?"
The man shook his head. It wasn't clear whether he was answering the question or just refusing.
"I'm fine," he said, and the lie was so obvious it almost hurt to hear. "I just… I fell. I'm clumsy. Happens to me all the time. I'm fine. I'm leaving."
He tried to get up again, using the wall for support, but his legs didn't seem to want to cooperate. He made it halfway up before his knees buckled and he slid back down to the floor with a small, frustrated sound that made Troy's chest ache.
"I don't think you're fine," Troy said, crouching down slowly, carefully.
"You're bleeding." He winced internally. Stating the obvious. He was really doing great here.
"Here. Let me help. I'm going to call you an ambulance, alright?"
"No."
The word came out sharp, almost a gasp. The man's hand shot out and grabbed Troy's wrist before he could reach for his phone, his fingers digging in with surprising strength.
"No. Please. No ambulance. No hospital. Please."
"You're hurt."
"Please." His voice cracked on the word, splintering. "No hospital. I can't. Not here. Please."
Troy looked at him. At the desperation in his eyes, the way his whole body was shaking.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. No hospital. Can I call someone maybe? A friend? Someone who can come get you?"
The man shook his head. His grip on Troy's wrist loosened, but he didn't let go entirely. Like he wasn't sure if he was holding on for support or trying to keep Troy from calling anyone.
"There has to be someone," Troy said. "I can't just leave you here like this."
"I just want to go." The man's voice broke on the last word, cracking open. "Please. I just want to leave."
Troy took another moment to study him and his surroundings. Near the wall beneath the sinks lay a phone. The screen was shattered, spiderwebbed with cracks, the casing dented like someone had stomped on it.
Troy's eyes caught on the jacket the man was clutching. There were pins on the lapel. A small rainbow flag, bright and defiant. A hockey stick with pride tape wrapped around the blade. A third pin with some kind of logo. He couldn’t see it properly. A horse, maybe.
The man followed his gaze. Troy watched something shift in his expression. The panic was still there, but underneath it, something else surfaced. Something defeated. Something that looked a lot like resignation.
"I'll take them off," he said quietly. "I wasn't trying to cause trouble. I forgot I was wearing them. I'll take them off."
Something heavy settled in Troy's chest. A slow, creeping weight, pressing down on his ribs. Making it hard to breathe.
"Why would you need to take them off?" he asked, even though some part of him already knew. Some part of him didn't want to know.
The man looked at him then. Really looked at him, his eyes moving across Troy's face, searching for something. Troy watched the moment it happened. The moment recognition clicked into place. The man went very still.
"You're Troy Barrett," he said.
And the fear that flooded his face was different now. Sharper. More specific.
He let go of Troy's wrist like he'd been burned. He pressed himself back against the wall, making himself as small as possible, and something in his expression just... collapsed. Like whatever hope he'd been holding onto had just shattered.
"I won't say anything," he said. The words came out fast, tumbling over each other, barely coherent. "I won't tell anyone. I promise. I'm not going to make trouble. Please. I won't tell anyone what happened."
Troy felt the last bit of air leave his lungs. For a moment, he couldn't speak. Couldn't think. He just stared at the man on the floor.
"What are you talking about?" It came out wrong, too rough.
"Please." The man was crying now, fresh tears spilling down his face, cutting tracks through the drying blood. "Please. I just want to go back. I won't say anything. I promise. I wanted to leave earlier, but I couldn't. I–"
"I'm not–" Troy forced himself to take a breath. To slow down. "I came back to get my charger. I found you here. That's all. I don't understand what's going on."
The man still stared at him.
"He didn't send you?" he asked quietly. "To make sure I'm gone?"
"Who?" Troy asked.
The man didn't answer. But his eyes flicked toward the door, back toward the main event space.
The pride pins on the jacket. The phone, stomped to pieces on the bathroom floor. I'll take them off. I wasn't trying to cause trouble.
The man didn't have to say it. Troy already knew.
"I wasn't–" The man's voice hitched again, climbing higher, more frantic. "I wasn't trying to–I didn't–" He was struggling to get the words out, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. "I wasn't flirting with him. I swear. I wasn't trying to make a move. You have to believe me."
"What?" What?
"He dropped his ring." The words came out in a rush, desperate, like a confession. "His–his ring, it fell on the floor. I just picked it up. I was just handing it back to him. That's all. I wasn't– I didn't try to… to touch him. I wasn't trying anything. I just picked up his ring."
"He was… I think he thought I was–" He couldn't seem to finish the sentence. "But I wasn't. I swear to god I wasn't. I was just trying to give it back. And then he–" His voice cracked, splintered into something wet and broken. "He called me a–he said–"
The man stopped. Pressed a shaking hand over his mouth. Squeezed his eyes shut.
Troy stood frozen, his whole body going numb.
He could hear Dallas's voice. Could hear exactly how it would have sounded. Had heard Dallas say worse, had laughed along, had told himself it didn't mean anything. Had hidden behind those same slurs, hoping no one would look too closely at him.
"I believe you," Troy said. "I believe you. You don't have to… I'm not with him," Troy said. Pleaded, almost.
"I'm not– I'm not here for him. I didn't know. I didn't know this happened." The words felt inadequate, pathetic. "I'm sorry."
For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, a faint, irritating hum. Water still ran in the sink, a steady stream swirling pink down the drain.
Troy stared at the man on the floor. At the blood and the bruise and the fear and felt something crack open inside of him.
Is this how it would end for him too? When the truth came out? When Dallas found out he was gay, when his teammates found out, when he couldn't hide behind the jokes and the slurs anymore?
Would Dallas think Troy had been looking at him? Making a move? Would he–
Troy shut that thought down before it could finish.
He thought about driving to Dallas's tacky house. Confronting him, punching him, making him answer for this. Calling the police on him. Making a report.
But the man on the floor was still shaking. Still bleeding. Still looking at Troy like he wasn't entirely convinced Troy wouldn't start kicking him any second.
That was the more pressing matter.
"Okay," Troy said finally. Trying to keep his voice steady. Calm. Like someone else was speaking through him. "Okay. You don't want to go to a hospital. I understand. But I can't leave you here like this." He took a breath. "I have an apartment. It's not far. We can walk, or take a cab. Let me take you there. You can get cleaned up, figure out what you want to do next… It's safe." He paused, searching for the right words. "I promise. I just want to help."
And then, stupidly, he added: "I have a first aid kit."
The man studied him. The fear was still there, but it was mixed with something else now.
"Why would you help me? You're his best friend. Everyone knows… you're known for…" He made a vague gesture with his hand but didn't finish the sentence.
Troy didn't have a good answer for that. He didn't have any answer at all, really, except that he couldn't walk away now. He couldn't go back to his apartment and pretend he didn't see this, pretend it didn't happen, pretend Dallas was just Dallas and everything was fine.
He'd been pretending for so long.
And this. This was the cost.
"I can help," Troy said simply. "And I'm here."
The man stared at him for another long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
Troy let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He shifted, moving carefully, and held out his hand.
"I'm Troy," he said. It felt strange, introducing himself when the man already knew his name, already knew his reputation.
But in that moment, it also felt necessary. A reset, maybe. A chance to start over.
"What's your name?"
The man looked at Troy's outstretched hand for a beat. Then, hesitantly, he reached out and took it. His fingers were cold, trembling, but his grip was real.
"Harris," he said quietly. "I'm Harris."