Chapter Text
Once he found his seat on the charter plane after their game against Vancouver, Troy Barrett shoved his earbuds in, pulled his hoodie up, and queued up one of Harris’ singer-songwriter playlists on his phone. He always had his resting bitch face on and he hoped that would keep his teammates away during the flight. Not that he didn’t like them, he did, but he’d played like shit in his hometown tonight and he didn’t want to talk about it. He wasn’t sure why he’d sucked, he’d thought his head was in as good a place as it could be with his dad watching, and he had a good practice in the morning, but from the start of the first period his reaction times had been just a little too slow, his reflexes off, and his body just a tiny bit less cooperative than usual. It certainly hadn’t helped that his dad was there, but he didn’t think that was it. They weren’t talking, not really, but he’d he’d been there. Troy got a nod back in return for his nod.
Troy was tired, he was sore, he was pissed, and he missed Harris. He wished they were flying back to Ottawa and that he could fall asleep in his boyfriend’s arms tonight instead of sharing a San Francisco hotel room with Wyatt Hayes. The goalie snored and liked to sleep with the TV on.
“Barrett,” Rozanov dropped into the unoccupied seat next to him once they were in the air, “Was not a good night. Where was your head?”
Troy shrugged, reluctantly pulling an earbud out. He’d been hoping they wouldn’t have to have this conversation. “I know, sorry. I thought I had it together.”
“Family?” Rozanov asked, pitching his voice lower, genuine concern on his face.
“Maybe…I don’t know,” Troy answered truthfully, “I don’t think it was that. I just felt…off. Like I couldn’t quite make it click.”
The team captain nodded. “This happens. Tomorrow will be better.” Rozanov gave him an encouraging smile, “Was not all bad, you had two assists.”
“Yeah,” Troy nodded. Two assists but they’d lost 6-3. He hoped Roz was right though and tomorrow would be better. He was in a good place. He liked his team, he was happy with Harris, his mom was doing well, there was no reason he should be playing like crap. Well, there was the thing with his dad, but when he put that next to all the good things in his life it seemed so miniscule in comparison.
“Get some rest tonight, talk to your boyfriend, tomorrow is new day,” Rosanov said, patting Troy’s arm before getting up and going back to his own seat next to Hollander.
Popping his earbud back in, Troy pulled his jacket over himself, a shiver running up his spine from the plane’s AC. It was hard not to think about his dad stopping by the hotel earlier that day. He hadn’t spoken to Troy since Troy came out to him before the Pride Night game against Toronto nearly two years earlier, but he popped up today like a jack-in-the-box in the hotel lobby that morning, startling the shit out of Troy.
“Troy, over here!”
Troy’s heart dropped when he heard his dad’s voice as he made his way out of the hotel restaurant after breakfast. Surely he was imagining things. He was not. There was his dad, waving from across the lobby, a couple years grayer than Troy remembered him. Troy swallowed down the feeling of uneasiness and made his way over to where his dad was waiting. At least he hadn’t brought an audience of good ol’ boys with him this time.
“Hi,” Troy said, keeping his face and voice as blank as he could.
“It’s been too long,” his dad said, reaching out his hand to shake Troy’s.
“Yeah, well,” Troy shook his dad’s hand, even though he didn’t really want to. He was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Are you coming to the game?” The Centaurs had played in Vancouver at least four times since the last time he saw his dad.
“Of course, wouldn’t miss it,” his dad said, “Tickets have gotten awfully expensive. C’mon, let me buy you a cup of coffee, we can catch up.”
“I have practice,” Troy said stiffly.
“Oh yeah, well, how have you been?”
“Good,” Troy said, “You?”
“Oh well, I’m okay,” his dad said, seeming a bit strange and distracted. “Sheila’s gone, so…”
Troy nodded. His dad’s new wife left. That made sense, Curtis Barrett wouldn’t reach out if things were good. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
Something flickered across Curtis’ face when he heard the sincerity in Troy’s voice, but then his face hardened almost immediately. “So, you still seeing that fruitcake?”
Troy took a step back as if he’d been slapped. “I’m still with my boyfriend, Harris,” he said coldly, “In case you forgot, I’m a fruitcake too.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. You know, when I was playing we would never have tolerated that kind of behavior in the locker room–”
Troy wanted to chew his dad out and tell him what a bigoted piece of shit he was, but for some reason instead of making him angry this interaction with his dad was just making him so…tired. “I have to get to practice,” he said, cutting his dad off. “Take care of yourself.”
“Oh, well–”
Troy turned on his heel and went back to his room, not even a little bit interested in what his dad had to say. For years, he’d done everything he could to make his dad proud, and for years he was miserable. Now, working to make himself, his boyfriend, and his mom proud, Troy felt truly happy most of the time. Shouldn’t that mean he didn’t care whether or not his piece-of-shit father accepted him?
The worst part of being a better person now, Troy thought, staring out the window of the plane into the night sky, was that he felt guilty for shutting his dad down. Yes, he was an asshole, and a bigot, but it had been obvious to Troy that he was hurting. Why else would he reach out without asking anything from Troy or bringing any of his awful friends? Maybe Troy could have helped. Then again, Harris would probably say that Troy didn’t need to set himself on fire to put his dad out.
It took more than half the flight, despite his exhaustion, but Troy finally managed to fall asleep. When the plane landed he shuffled onto the bus to the hotel half-conscious, then crashed as soon as they got to their room, forgetting he said he’d call Harris, oblivious to the sound of the Friends rerun Wyatt Hayes put on the TV or his snores from the other side of the room.
He was less oblivious to the sound of his phone alarm blaring in his ear the next morning. He’d fallen asleep with the phone on the pillow and it was loud. He silenced it with a groan of annoyance. He did not feel like a man who just slept for eight hours.
“Good morning,” Wyatt said cheerfully, coming out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. “Breakfast ends in half an hour if you want something, we’ve got practice at ten.”
“Not hungry,” Troy growled. He pulled on some sweats and went down to breakfast anyway though. Practice on an empty stomach was not a recipe for a better game than the day before.
At the hotel buffet he got a bowl of oatmeal, two yogurts, fruit, and a black coffee. He sat with Bood and Dillon, eating mechanically and saying little. Bood, on the other hand, had plenty to say. He and Dillon were going back and forth about the greatest Canadian defensemen from each decade and they were doing so loudly. Troy could feel his irritation growing with each “But what about…” that introduced another player to the conversation and he finished as quickly as he could and went back to the room to get ready for practice. A headache was building behind his eyes, probably from the annoying hockey talk at breakfast, and he was not pleased to find Hazy facetiming his family when he got back to his room. The goalie was loud and his sister and niece were louder.
Practice was…not much better than the game the night before. Everything felt just a tiny bit more difficult, more frustrating, and slower than usual. Only twenty minutes in, his hair was soaked with sweat under his helmet and the headache was still there despite the ibuprofen he’d taken before leaving the hotel. “Head on the ice, Barrett,” Rozanov called amiably, tapping Troy’s helmet after he missed another pass. Troy scowled. This was embarrassing. Their line should be unstoppable between himself, Hollander, and Rozanov. Even Haas was playing some great hockey, so why wasn’t Troy? He told himself he just needed to focus, and he did better for the rest of their short practice, leaving him feeling a little more hopeful about that night’s game.
On the way back to the hotel, Harris called, which should have cheered him up, but Harris immediately asked him what was wrong after Troy said hello.
“What? Nothing,” Troy said defensively.
“You sound, I don’t know, just off,” Harris said, sounding concerned, which irritated Troy for some reason, “And last night…”
“I played shitty, I know, my dad was there, cut me a break,” he snapped with a lot more edge in his voice than he usually used when he talked to Harris.
“Woah, buddy,” Harris sounded a little wounded. “I didn’t know he was there. And I wasn’t talking about your performance, dummy. You didn’t call last night, I was worried.”
“Well don’t be, I’m fine,” Troy huffed and then softened. Shit, he was supposed to call Harris when they got to the hotel last night. He was so tired he forgot. And now he was being a dick on top of it. “Sorry,” he took a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I crashed hard after the game last night. I forgot to call, shit. And then I snapped at you like a jerk.”
“It’s okay,” Harris said. And it wasn’t a big deal, especially now that he knew Troy was dealing with Dad stuff.
“Tonight will be better.”
“Of course it will,” Harris said reassuringly.
Troy rubbed his temples. “Are you going to watch at your parents’?”
“Nope,” Harris said, “At home with my work laptop like the GIF factory I am,” he laughed at his own joke, which made the corners of Troy’s mouth quirk up for the first time that day.
“I wish you were here,” he said.
“Me too,” Harris agreed, “And Chiron three.” The dog barked as if on cue, making Troy actually smile. He imagined himself on their cozy couch, cuddled up next to Harris with Chiron at their feet. It was a nice thought.
They chatted a little longer, and Troy promised to score a goal for Harris. It cheered him up to hear Harris’ voice. No matter how badly he felt about himself, Harris loved him, so he must be okay.
Troy liked to nap before games, and he thought maybe it would help him reset and center himself for that night, so he laid down at the hotel for a little shut eye before they had to check out and get to the arena. His last thought before he rolled up in the duvet and fell asleep was that he hoped the nap got rid of his headache.
It didn’t. In fact, he woke up to pounding in his temples and a deep ache that seemed to permeate his entire body. His hair was sweaty and stuck to his forehead. Great, he thought, tonight’s going to be a lot of fun. He reached over for his water bottle and chugged half of it, realizing as he did that his throat was sore. It dawned on him for the first time, as he coughed suddenly - a painful, dry cough that scraped at his sore throat, that he might be getting sick. It was a relief, actually, to think that was the reason he had played badly the night before. He was not going to let that happen again, especially not now that he’d identified the issue. He’d played through plenty of colds, even strep throat once, not to mention bruised ribs and other injuries. No way was this going to take him down.
Downing a couple of ibuprofen more than the recommended dose, Troy stripped and took a quick shower, shivering a little despite the warm water, and then dressed to head to the arena, making sure his bag was packed before he got back on the team bus.
He got a “You okay?” from Bood on the bus, and an “All good, man?” from Wyatt Hayes, but no one else said anything.Troy, of course, said, “Fine,” to both of them. And he was fine. Fine enough to play for sure. At some point between the bus and getting all his gear on in the dressing room, the meds kicked in and Troy felt…well, not good, but better than when he woke up.
“Barrett, are you ready?” Rosanov towered over Troy as he was lacing his skates.
“Almost.”
“I don’t mean your gear, I mean your head. Are you with us tonight?”
“I’m here,” Troy said. Maybe he was a little under the weather, but people worked sick all the time, why should his job be any different? He just needed to get out on the ice.
“Good,” Rosanov smiled wide and patted Troy’s shoulder, “We need your speed if we’re going to get the cup this year!”
That was, of course, the pep talk Troy needed. More than anything, he wanted the Centaurs to succeed. He started and scored within the first five minutes of the first period, got an assist before the period buzzer too. Nevermind that by the time the second period started his chest was burning, he felt like he was skating through concrete and everything hurt, he was playing well and the Centaurs were ahead, that was what mattered.