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Troy had been distant all day, and Harris had a pretty good idea why.
Opposite to Harris, Troy was usually great about not spending too much time in any comment section. In fact, Harris was usually annoyed that Troy didn't want to even entertain the positive feedback that his posts generated. Over the last year, Troy had amassed a pretty decent online presence, whether he liked it or not— a healthy mix of people who followed for his activism and shirtless selfies.
But there was no hiding from the Team Canada verdict.
A group of junior world hockey players had been accused of sexually assaulting a sixteen-year-old girl. It was awful and ugly in all the worst ways. Each deposition was flooded with protesters, both for and against the prosecution, and eventually, the jury was dismissed because the defendant's lawyers were using intimidation tactics outside of the courtroom.
The worst part—at least to Harris—was that the young woman didn't even want to press charges. The Crown had initiated the trial. It all boiled down to a young woman being forced to confront her assailants when she didn't want to. Harris could only imagine the trauma and pain that all of this had brought back up for her.
He also thought about the feelings this brought up for Troy, because this was different from Dallas Kent's trial.
To start, Troy had avoided almost everything surrounding Kent's trial and subsequent sentencing. Harris had watched some clips of the depositions, even though it made him nauseous to hear what the women had been through, but Troy made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with the finer details.
Harris hadn't been brave enough to ask his fiancée if it was because Troy blamed himself for not seeing what his best friend was doing.
Additionally, this trial was the first time a group of hockey players had been indicted. Several of these players had already begun their careers in the NHL and OHL. One was even a first-round pick.
With this trial, Troy followed along with breakdowns every day during the deposition and actively read court transcripts. For a few days, Harris thought he was riding the fine line between obsessed and well-informed.
After the jury was dismissed, the world had to wait an entire month before the judge released her verdict.
And it was not good.
All charges dismissed. All players eligible to play once the season started— if any teams picked them up.
Harris really hoped no professional team would touch those players with a ten-foot pole. If not because it was morally wrong, then because Toronto took a major hit after Kent was sentenced to two years of probation. Any team that took on a contract with one of them would, rightfully, get some serious backlash from any fan with a heart. He wasn't at all worried that Ottawa, the most progressive team in the league, would even glance in the direction of those scumbags.
But his worry about the league's decision was nothing compared to his concern for his partner.
He had just gotten off the phone with Ilya, who called to check on Troy, when he realized that it had been several hours since he'd seen the man. Although, since the verdict was publicized, Harris had only seen Troy when he had come back from walking Chiron. Their house (which was technically Troy's, but he always called it theirs) was a major upgrade from his old one-bedroom apartment. It wasn't as large as some other players' houses, but there was plenty of extra room between Harris' home office, the 2 guest rooms, and the screened-in porch that Chiron liked to spend as much time as possible.
Harris found his fiancée, unsurprisingly, in the only part of the house Troy had cared about when they were picking out furnishings and paint swatches: The home gym.
If he weren't so concerned with how Troy was doing, Harris would probably be pretty turned on at the sight of the man who was dripping with sweat on the treadmill. His shirt hung messily from one of the treadmill's arms, clearly having been stripped in a rush.
He knocked on the wall to announce his presence, knowing Troy wasn't wearing headphones.
"Hey, hot stuff," he tried, going for a lighter approach.
"Hi," Troy breathed, still running.
Okay, Harris thought, time to break out the big guns.
He walked over to the treadmill and pressed the blue cooldown button.
For a second, Harris thought Troy was going to roll his eyes and up the speed again. But thankfully, he was met with conceding blue eyes and a winded, "Guess I deserve that."
"Deserve is a strong word," he replied, handing Troy a bottle of water from the minifridge.
Harris took a step back while Troy drank appreciatively. Focus, he told himself when he realized he was staring at the way Troy's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
"Have you run your way out of your problems yet?"
Troy sighed, gripping both sides of the treadmill before hanging his head.
"I wish," he answered in a small voice. "This usually works."
God, Harris's heart was breaking for the second time that day. He decided to take the direct approach he often had to use when Troy was living up to the hockey player stereotypes.
"So if working out isn't making you feel better, do you want to try talking?"
He couldn't miss the way Troy's nose crinkled in discomfort.
"I just don't know how that will help. Like, I know me doing this," he motioned to the treadmill, "won't solve anything, but—" Another sigh.
"I'm just so pissed. I was stupid enough to believe that things would be different after Dallas— even though that fucker didn't get nearly as much as he should have. But I told myself it was a small win, and things were changing for the better. Maybe that's why I
Like, I know it's wrong of me to assume, but that judge was a woman. Did you see what she said to the prosecutors? That she thought the victim was lying because they had all been drinking and she cheated on her boyfriend when she went ot that hotel room. That's so fucked up."
"It's awful," Harris agreed, taking Troy's hand in his.
At this, Troy finally stopped the treadmill fully, obviously cooled down enough.
Harris used the moment to take Troy in again, especially since he had just spoken more in the last 2 minutes than he sometimes did in an entire day. His eyes were tired and red-rimmed, which highlighted just how deeply Troy felt things. Very few people actually realized what was under his perfected cold hockey player attitude. Even Harris sometimes forgot how much of an empath Troy was.
"What are you going to do?"
Troy set his water down before answering.
"I don't know. What is there even to do?"
God, Harris wished he knew. He wished he could tell everyone in the world to go screw themselves. He wished he didn't have to watch the person he loved most suffer.
"I don't know either," Harris eventually sighed, sitting on the floor.
"This could have been a huge moment— it should have been. And now some of those shitheads can go back to the NHL, where they'll be welcomed with open arms. But god forbid I hold my fucking fiancé's hand in the arena."
At this, Harris took Troy's hand, gently pulling him to the floor.
Now that they were on equal ground, Harris let himself smirk.
"You've done a lot worse than hold my hand at work."
The blush that instantly met the tips of Troy's ears was the cutest thing Harris had seen all day.
"Yeah, I bet that would go over well if anyone found out," Troy mumbled sarcastically.
"Hey, nothing we've done in my office can even compare to what I walked in on Shane and Ilya doing after the last regular season game," Harris blanched.
Troy didn't reply, suddenly giving the weight rack across from them a hundred-yard stare.
"The world isn't going to change overnight," he nudged.
When Troy's gaze dropped to the floor, Harris figured he had at least most of his fiancée's attention.
"Fighting for change is exhausting, it always has been. Every time a major change needs to happen— gay rights, reparations for indigenous people, livable wages— it's a huge game of tug-a-war. Just when you feel like you're about to pull the other side over the line, suddenly someone on the other team gets a second wind and you're back where you started."
"But I'm not even fighting for anything! I just sit here and post stuff on the internet."
Harris gave Troy what he had deemed as 'The Look™' before continuing.
"You know that's not true. You donate way more to charity than any other player in the league. Remember that thank-you letter you got from the Ottawa Women's Center? They were able to hire extra security for two of their safe houses with your last donation.
Anyway, this is the awful part of fighting for justice. There's a setback, people get hurt, and everything is awful. And you know what activists have been doing for hundreds of years when this happens?"
As if knowing the question was rhetorical, Troy looked at Harris as if he were about to solve all the world's problems.
"They feel their feelings, go to sleep, and get to work the next day. That's all anyone can do. If we don't, we're giving the power back to all the abusers who want to maintain the status quo."
The room was silent for a few minutes before Troy said anything. He turned to Harris, his stubbled jaw slightly slack.
"Where did all that come from?"
Harris blushed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I took a few sociology classes in college. I also might have gone through an "angry at the world" phase when I was a teenager…" he sighed, leaning back on one arm.
"Now I'm 90% sure you put that skunk in the truck," Troy joked as he leaned against Harris's shoulder.
"I really love that you're processing your emotions right now, but you smell pretty bad."
Troy huffed out a laugh.
"Thanks, babe. Really feeling the love."
"Are you hungry? I was thinking of ordering Thai."
Harris could feel Troy's head getting heavier against his shoulder.
"Only if you get it delivered," was apparently what Troy decided on. He probably didn't want to go out in public right now.
"Of course. But— I hope you're in the mood to leave the house tomorrow."
Troy lifted his head, brow furrowed when he asked Harris, "Why?"
"Ilya called a little bit ago and invited us to dinner at the cottage tomorrow… I might have said yes," he smiled sheepishly.
"But—" he continued before Troy could object. "He seemed pretty worried. I think this is more of a "dinner with your captain" than "double date with friends," if that makes sense."
"A two-hour drive for dinner with my captain? That makes it sound like I'm in trouble."
"Okay," Harris smiled. "Then don't think of it like that. Think of it as a playdate between Chiron and Anya."
"Never thought I'd be the person who drove two hours for their dog's playdate," Troy said, gently pressing a kiss against Harris's temple.
"It's great, isn't it?" He sighed dreamily.
In that moment, Harris's stomach decided to remind them that it was, in fact, dinner time. They broke apart, joints cracking when they stood up after sitting on the floor for so long. Harris ordered enough Thai food to feed a small army, since Troy had run to make even a cheetah tired. By the time the food had been delivered, Troy's eyes had begun to droop while he curled into the couch, Chiron at his feet. Harris couldn't help but take his phone out to immortalize the moment.
The rest of the night was remarkably normal and domestic. They ate on the couch, and Troy didn't protest when Harris put on an episode of Below Deck. Troy packed up leftovers while Harris took Chiron on a short walk as the summer sun set. Walking back towards the house, Harris opened Instagram, determined it would be his last time scrolling before bed.
Troy's most recent post was at the top of his feed: a simple black square with "Not guilty ≠ innocent," in white letters— including links to free resources for victims of sexual assault.
So yeah, the world sucked. And people were hurtful monsters.
But Harris's person made everything a little more bearable.