Chapter Text
Troy pulled his phone out as he rested on the gym bench between sets. It was a push day, Troy's favourite, and though he hadn't been in for long, he'd already worked up a sweat. He scrolled absent-mindedly as he tried to get his heart rate back to normal.
He hated this instruction for all the players to be on social media. That wasn't his job. He just wanted to play hockey and go home. It wasn't like Troy was some serious role model, people didn't look up to him, or listen to him, or care about what he had to say, so why should he worry about making public statements online? Especially now, when he's basically become a disgrace within the hockey community.
Troy took a swig of water, still out of breath from exercising.
If anything, he thinks, him being online is making the situation much worse than it could've been. For every post that Troy shares from those poor, mistreated women there are a thousand new comments spreading vile remarks about everyone involved. Troy knows, deep down, that it must be doing some good - the GoFundMe's go up every time, and not just from himself, and more women have been speaking out now that there is a community for them. But the majority of hockey "fans" didn't want to believe it, and Troy's page seemed like the top spot to share their disgusting ideals.
It can't have been good for his team either, the Ottawa Centaurs name constantly thrown in with the "most hated NHL player" right now. And, yeah, Troy had never wanted to be a role model, or anything, but that headline had still hurt.
Sitting up straight, Troy rubbed his chest a couple of times. His breathing still hadn't evened out, and he'd been waiting for a while. That wasn't like him.
Even Roger Crowell, the commissioner of the NHL, had problems with him now, which was ridiculous to think about. Troy wasn't a speaking-his-mind kind of guy, nor was he someone who liked to stand out, and it was crazy to think that the thing that had gotten him in this much trouble was simply stating the truth. And he'd do it again, a thousand times over, with infinitely more consequences for himself, if it somehow meant that those women got the justice they deserved. Troy wishes he had seen the truth in the first place, instead of being Dallas Kent's coward best friend. Dallas Kent, who had beaten him bloody on the ice and called him a fucking traitor. Dallas, who, like most of Troy's instagram comments, liked to insult him with some variation of the word gay.
Troy stood up sharply, dropping his useless phone back into his pocket. He didn't know why, but he was really having trouble breathing. He tried to rack his racing thoughts for something that might've caused this; he'd barely started his work out, he'd eaten properly this morning, had enough sleep. Everything should be alright. So why couldn't he breathe?
He scanned around the gym, wondering what to do. A couple of other players were scattered around, but nobody Troy was really close to. Not close enough to say hey, buddy, i think i might be dying, at least. Because, yeah, that's what he felt like. He felt like he was dying, and he didn't know why or what to do about it.
His mind was cloudy and muddled, suddenly he registered that he was moving but didn't know where he was going. He stumbled into the corridor, legs shaky and unsteady like a deer on the ice. Troy moved on autopilot, unable to think as his brain screamed and his body shook. He realised he was making choking sounds in his throat as he tried to breathe and just couldn't, gasps rattling in the empty corridor. He almost wiped out some artwork on the wall as he tried to support himself into staying upright. Troy kept moving, even as his ribcage felt like it was contracting, even as he passed the medical room without sparing it a glance. He turned suddenly and, as if his legs had finally given up, practically fell through an office door and-
Holy shit.
Harris.
Troy would've wept if he had the strength to do it. Harris, hunched in his bright red knitted sweater, looked like an angel in Troy's ailing mind. He couldn't help it when he immediately found himself in Harris' space, hands grasping his sweater desperately, before even Harris had the chance to speak.
"Oh my god, Troy, buddy, what's happening, are you okay?"
This time Troy really did choke out a sob, a wave of dizziness forcing him to sit on the edge of Harris' desk.
"Gonna fucking-die, Harris, can't, I can't fucking, breathe," He gasped like a fish. "It's, like, a heart attack, or stroke or, fucking something, oh fuck, Harris, can't breathe,"
Troy was squeezing his eyes shut, holding tightly onto Harris' shoulders. He felt as much relief as he could muster for the fact that he had managed to find Harris' office, the comfort of his presence like a lighthouse in a storm. Troy knew Harris wouldn't let something terrible happen to him, even if it felt like it already was.
Still, he was a little concerned that Harris hadn't already leapt out of his seat and, like, started calling an ambulance, or something. Instead, he was firmly rubbing his hands up and down Troy's sides, speaking softly in his ear.
"-Troy, focus on me. You're gonna be okay, trust me, buddy. I think you're having a panic attack."
Troy felt himself get irritated. He wasn't having a panic attack, he wasn't even upset. He just couldn't breathe. His chest was hurting, so he gripped Harris' sweater harder, unable to stop the wounded noise that escaped his throat in lieu of a response.
"-I know it's hard. I'm going to count to four, can you try to breathe in for four seconds for me?"
Troy really did try. He gulped in a heave of air that lasted about two seconds, and then coughed it right back out again. Harris still said good job, buddy, even though Troy knew it wasn't a good job, and Troy would get irritated again except that Harris' hands were still smoothing up and down Troy's ribcage in a way that seemed to settle his buzzing skin.
His mind was still racing, and he felt a sudden urge to knock his head against something to straighten out his thoughts. Not that that usually worked. However, as he was swinging his head down, he realised he would hit Harris' chest and, not wanting to hurt him, he stopped himself just short. Instead, he tried to regulate himself by rocking back and forth a couple times, eyes squeezed shut around the gathering frustrated tears. Harris was still holding him together, arms either side of his waist, and softly counting his breaths.
Troy was too lightheaded and lost to keep track of how much time had passed. He was still moving back and forth jerkily, but his breathing was on the way back to normal. Harris' hands were on his shoulders now, kneading the tense muscles there and whispering unintelligible comforts as he continued modelling his breathing.
Eventually, all the fight was drained from his body and Troy slumped forward, head on Harris' shoulder and face buried into his neck. Harris' hands immediately came up to hold around his back, moving up and down steadily.
Finally, Troy managed a deep sigh, chest tingling with relief, and he noticed, detachedly, that it smelled like apples.
It smelled like home.
Later, when Troy had calmed down, Harris would hold him for as long as he needed. He would make sure Troy had a cold glass of water. He would drive him to his hotel and resist the urge to let himself in and tuck Troy into bed.
Troy would be embarrassed. He'd tell Harris he was going to the bathroom and instead he'd sneak off to find Harris a shitty vending machine coffee, because that was all he could think of to pay Harris back for what felt like saving his life. He wouldn't admit that he'd had a panic attack, and he definitely wouldn't talk about it.
He definitely wouldn't think about how his muddled legs automatically brought him to Harris, or how immediately his mind had settled once he had inhaled his apple shampoo.
And he certainly wouldn't remember how Harris' hands ran across his abs, imagining that gesture under different circumstances.
And maybe that was enough, for now.