Chapter Text
Troy never liked seeing his father.
Even when he wasn't on the league’s worse fucking team, whenever he traveled to Vancouver, his hometown, he hated it. At least before he could see his mom, or his boyfriend.
Now his mom is a thousand miles away, and his boyfriend is engaged to someone else.
All that’s left in Vancouver is his father.
It’s bad enough that Ilya busts him for drinking before the game. Worse that Ilya knows he’s drinking alone. But the worst part comes after the worst of the shame ebbs, when Ilya stands in the doorway and says, almost offhand-
“Also, your father’s here.”
Troy blinks. “What?”
“I meet him in the lobby.” Ilya makes a faint, sour face. “He’s still there. I can tell him you’re… unavailable.”
Fuck.
“No.” Troy pushes himself upright. The room tilts, but he steadies. “I need to talk to him. Otherwise he’ll just- ” He cuts himself off. His screwed-up family isn’t Rozanov’s problem. “I’ll handle him.”
Ilya studies him for a moment, then nods. “Yes. Okay.”
Troy drains the Gatorade Ilya had brought him. “Thanks for this.”
“Rest today. Play well tonight. Don’t do this again.”
“I won’t.”
Ilya pauses at the door. “Family can be hard. Fathers especially.”
Troy lets out a thin breath. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
Ilya nods and leaves him alone in the quiet hotel room.
Troy texts his father to wait a few minutes so he can get presentable. That should keep him downstairs for ten more minutes, at least.
He showers quickly, scrubbing at the stale smell of vodka. He pulls an Ottawa cap low over his damp hair in case his eyes are still rimmed red. Hungover is one thing. Looking like he’s been crying is another.
He texts his room number and tells his dad to come up. Hopefully alone. Troy's not sure he can handle being on display for his dad's business buddies or potential investors. It made him feel like a piece of meat.
He sits on the edge of the bed and only then realizes the room is still wrecked from last night’s vodka-soaked spiral. His clothes are all over the place and there’s a half-empty bottle of cheap liquor on the TV stand.
He shoves a shirt under the bed just as there’s a knock at the door.
He exhales.
Time to face his dickhead father.
He opens the door and steps aside.
“Troy! You look like you’ve been up all night. Hope she was worth it.” His father grins wide, but it never reaches his eyes.
“Hi, Dad,” Troy says. His voice comes out thinner than he wants. His father is alone. Thank God. His father saunters in and scans the messy hotel room, his lip turning up. Bold of Troy to think that his father wouldn't notice.
“So. First game after being downgraded to Ottawa.”
Troy exhales slowly. “Traded, Dad. I was traded.”
His father’s eyes narrow.
And suddenly Troy wishes he’d insisted on meeting in public. His pulse pounds in his ears. His tongue feels thick, like he’s sixteen again and caught past curfew.
“Troy,” his father says in that low tone that always makes him feel small.
“Sorry,” Troy mutters, sinking onto the edge of the bed.
“You got punished is what you got. I don’t know what Kent said to get under your skin, but you’ve got to watch your mouth. Practices should stay private.”
“Dad-”
“Of course you can’t say anything these days. Fucking social justice warriors.”
“Dad-”
“Poor Dallas Kent. People can say anything on the internet and try to ruin a man’s career-”
“Dad!”
His father stops mid-sentence and looks at him. The air in the room goes tight and brittle.
Whatever. It should scream danger, but Troy is too hungover and too wrung out to swallow down his anger.
“He raped those women.”
The backhand comes fast and hard.
Troy doesn’t see it coming. His head snaps sideways and he slides off the bed, shoulder slamming into the mattress before he hits the carpet. For a second the room flashes white.
He stays down.
His cheek burns. He tastes metal. Something warm drips from his face onto the hotel carpet. His father’s wearing a ring.
Above him, his father’s breathing stays steady.
“Those women just want their fifteen minutes of fame,” he says calmly. “And because you couldn’t mind your business, you’ve been delegated to the worst team in the league.”
Traded, Troy thinks. I was traded.
But he knows better than to correct him again.
“I gotta get to practice,” Troy mutters. He keeps his eyes on the carpet.
His father’s hand lands on his shoulder. Troy flinches before he can stop himself, heat crawling up his neck in humiliation.
“Of course,” his dad says, voice smooth and charming again, like nothing just happened. “I’ll be watching.”
“Okay.”
The door opens. Closes.
Troy stays on the floor long after the latch clicks shut. He counts to thirty. Then to sixty. He listens for footsteps in the hall, for the ding of the elevator. Only when he’s sure his father is gone does he push himself upright.
His head throbs.
He staggers to the bathroom. It’s still damp from his shower; the mirror is faintly streaked with steam. It feels like that shower happened days ago.
There’s a red mark blooming high on his cheekbone. A thin cut splits the skin, still slowly trickling. He touches it and hisses.
He doesn’t have bandages.
He leans over the sink and rinses his face, watching pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. He presses a hotel washcloth to his cheek and holds it there, staring at himself in the mirror.
He’s not going to the optional morning practice and he has to be at the arena by five. That’s hours.
Plenty of time for the swelling to go down.
Troy knows the routine by now.