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Not for the first time in the past year, Troy finds himself unable to stop an easy smile rising on his face as he listens to Ilya give a rousing pre-game speech to the Centaurs.
They’ve been on a good run lately anyway. With Shane adding to their already impressive line up of All Stars, and all of them more committed than ever to giving Crowell the biggest fuck you possible by winning the Stanley Cup. Using their platform to stop the likes of Dallas Kent from ever having a place in the MHL again.
It doesn’t hurt to have their captain give them the extra boost though, especially before a game like this.
He’d thought maybe that he would have gotten over the ever-present anxiety that stirs in his gut before every Vancouver game. That he might have left it behind along with the version of himself that had been so terrified to step out of line that he’d allowed himself to spiral into years of hiding and toxicity, until he'd finally freed himself from the shadowy protection of the Toronto Guardians. From the strong-hold friendship of Dallas Kent. And from the lifelong lingering voice of his father in his ear whenever he opts to do anything as daring as being himself.
But although it doesn’t hold him in quite the same paralysing fear that it had done back when he’d first joined the Centaurs, he’d still found himself buzzing with a tension otherwise forgotten as soon as they’d stepped foot off the plane in the familiar setting of his hometown.
Rozanov’s speech slowly but surely chips away at it though.
As Troy laughs and cheers along with his teammates at Ilya’s impassioned pleas for them to send all of Vancouver’s supporters home in tears, and is one of the first up to join the pre-game huddle that had become a vital part of their team rituals.
“Let’s fucking crush them!” Bood’s yell is met immediately by shouts of approval from the rest of the team as they crowd impossibly closer together, a mess of arms all rushing to pat encouragingly at one another, Troy practically electric with energy as he stands right in the centre of it.
When they finally separate and begin marching out of the room still chanting about how they plan to break the hearts of Vancouver fans everywhere, he feels the last remnants of his stress fade away when he spots Harris leaning back against the doors of the locker room, dressed smartly in dress pants, a shirt and a slim, patterned tie.
Troy steps sidewards out of the line quickly, beaming smile on his face as he sidles up to his boyfriend instead. He captures Harris’ mouth in a kiss before any words can make it out, humming happily into his lips as he melts into him, before his own toothy grin forces him to pull away.
“Thought you weren’t supposed to be back here for Away games?”
He knows he must look like a lovesick puppy. Can practically feel the sparkling sheen take over his eyes as he takes in his boyfriends’ smiling face, reminded all at once of how deeply he loves the gorgeous man standing ahead of him.
“Yeah, well. Director of Communications comes with a little more swaying power with security.”
“Hmm. Still so sexy. My big, important Director boyfriend.”
Harris laughs, loud as always, at the words, but Troy only kisses him again to emphasise his point, straightening Harris’ tie a little as they pull apart.
“Just wanted to wish you luck. They’ve dragged me into some boring press micro-event after the game but I’ll meet you back at the hotel. I’m already excited to get out of this suit. Who knows… If you play well maybe I’ll let you help me?”
“Does that mean you want me to smuggle my jock and garter back there too? Wouldn’t want you not getting your fix. Maybe I should tell them not to let you back here after all, knowing how much you love–” Troy’s voice grows a little lower with each word, hands trailing down the tight sleeves of Harris’ dress shirt as he speaks.
“Barrett! Is harder to skate fast when you have a raging hard-on, trust me. Fuck your boyfriend after we fuck Vancouver.”
Troy rolls his eyes as Ilya’s voice rings out loudly down the hall, cutting him off. Ignoring the words in lieu of ducking a little lower on his skates, Troy presses another long kiss to Harris’ lips until the other man reluctantly pushes him away, a teasing smirk on his face.
“There’s a tub of cookie dough ice cream in it for you if you get the story of when he played with a hard-on.” Troy barks out a laugh at Harris’ whispered words before the other man leans in for one last kiss, “Love you.”
“Love you. See you later.”
With that, Troy finally exits the room and follows his team down the hall, wide smile set in place as he glances back and sees Harris leaning against the door frame, watching after him with a fond look on his face.
“Make sure you score one for me.”
“Always.”
Troy doesn’t pay the teasing whistles and whoops of his teammates any mind as he reaches a gloved hand to catch the kiss that Harris blows in his direction, making him laugh. Troy’s delighted grin only grows at the sound as he turns back towards his team and follows them out onto the ice, the feel of Harris’ lips still warm on his own.
It lingers through the first two periods.
Troy keeping his promise to Harris twice over, sweeping the puck easily into the net and relishing in the furiously disappointed roar of his once-hometown’s crowd as the other Centaurs surround him with triumphant grins and enthusiastic claps on the back.
Shane matches him with two goals of his own. Luca taking them up to five before Ilya sneaks an easy final goal seconds before the end of the second period, Vancouver’s team floundering to do anything as the score continues to climb, Ottawa bolstering with more confidence with every new shot that makes it into the net.
The energy as they head into their third and final period is electric.
Troy can feel the thumping of his heart against his chest as he glides in easily to capture the puck after only five minutes of the final period.
And he feels like he might momentarily have ascended completely when he manages in one clean swoop to secure his hat trick, immediately being pounced on by his team as they burst into celebration.
The grin now almost permanently plastered on his face is almost painful when he takes the time to do an extra lap of the ice, unashamedly gloating, raising his stick above his head in triumph in response to the roaring disapproval of the fans watching him.
So it hits a little harder when he slows down to finally begin drifting back to centre ice and meets a pair of eyes he’d been sure he’d never see again amongst the crowd along the way.
It’s a little like seeing a ghost at first.
Just a flash of something that he’s not 100% sure is really there. Catching his attention from the corner of his eye and inviting him to look a little closer instead of continuing his victory lap. To focus his energy instead on confirming what he’s sure can’t really exist.
He only glances up into the stands again for half a second, but it’s long enough for the smile to instantly fall from his face, stomach churning and eyes dampening as he tries to blink the sight away.
Because Curtis Barrett is packed in amongst the Vancouver fans. Dressed head-to-toe in the merchandise of his son’s current opponents, expression cold and focused entirely on Troy, barely-contained fury evident on his face even as the pair finally make direct eye contact.
He can’t help it as his pace slows down further in his shock, unexpected enough to those around him on the rink that one of Vancouver’s players comes barrelling into him at full speed, sending him crashing into the boards without even the chance of attempting to slow himself down.
He hears himself groan in pain before he even registers that he’s doing it, before it’s quickly drowned out by a mixture of raucous cheers from the previously enraged fans, only successfully cut through by Ilya’s strong voice.
“Shit, Barrett, do we need medics? Look at me. Barrett!”
“M’fine, Cap. S’just a bump.”
Admittedly, his voice is a little less convincing than he’d hoped, croaking out the words through a poorly timed wince, still squinting to clear his vision enough to meet his captain’s eye. Ilya in turn looks him over for a long second before nodding to himself, skating backwards a little and offering out a hand to Troy.
“Up. You can go sit on the bench.”
“What? Rozanov, I’m–” Troy barely gets the start of the sentence out before Ilya is cutting him off again with a firm shake of his head.
“There is only half of third period left. We can do ten minutes without you and then you’ll be nice and recovered in time to have hot sex with your cute boyfriend later. Okay?”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Bench. Go. Or I tell Harris you’re too injured to fuck him tonight.”
“Does Shane know you talk this much about other people’s sex lives?”
“Are you an idiot, Barrett? Shane is who I talk about it with.”
Troy rolls his eyes at the shit-eating grin that Ilya shoots his way as he’s finally tugged up from his spot laid out on the ice, flipping Ilya the finger when he starts to make his way back to the bench.
He can’t say he’s not secretly pleased to have a moment to shake off the hit, however, as he sits himself down in the line, eyes back to skimming the crowd for any glimpse of the older Barrett again.
“You okay, Barrett? Rough hit.” Wiebe claps a hand on his shoulder as he asks the question, fatherly as ever, Troy hoping that he doesn’t flush as he rapidly blinks away fresh tears that threaten to spring at the action.
“Just bruising, Coach.”
“Glad to hear it. Nice game today, kid.”
Troy only nods in response, not trusting his voice, once again focusing his energy on attempting to seek out that same familiar face amongst the fans, frowning when he zeroes in instead on a now-empty seat where the man had once stood.
His eyes continue to linger there for the remainder of the game, paying no attention to the action still playing out on the ice until the final buzzer goes and he’s hauled up by Haas to be shoved somewhat-unceremoniously onto the rink and celebrated.
Troy finally allows himself to be swept up by his team then, the sting of his father’s cold gaze slowly fading as the other players around him replace it with bright, excited smiles.
By the time he’s being steered back to the locker rooms with Hazey’s arm slung around his shoulders, it feels almost like a distant memory.
There’s loud music already blasting as he steps in through the doors, and the atmosphere is nothing but celebratory, the team practically roaring at each other as they begin ripping the heavy layers of their kits off, some being swung like flags up in the air while the rookies whoop along excitedly from around the room.
It feels so familiar. So Ottawa in the way he’s become accustomed to that he can’t help but fold himself into it.
He allows a genuine smile to finally make its way onto his face again, taking a seat at his cubby and pulling off his skates and the heavy bulk of his kit, leaving him only in his jock, shorts and socks, laughing off the suggestive whistles thrown out across the room as he strips off.
And he relaxes into it all so easily that it takes him a moment to realise that his name is being called from the doorway, frowning as he looks up to see the security guard, Remy, standing there.
“Sorry to interrupt. Your father’s here. Wasn’t sure whether I should let him in. Not after…”
The room quiets a little at that, all eyes turning towards Troy as he desperately works to school his own expression into perfectly practiced nonchalance. He feels his hands begin to shake, tucking them underneath his thighs as he steels himself and nods once, firmly, in response.
Remy nods back, still unsure, stepping backwards out of the room for a moment that doesn’t quite seem long enough before Curtis Barrett is entering in his place, Troy feeling all at once that he’s a child again.
Sitting there on the bench, shoeless feet fidgeting nervously on the floor, ready to be berated in front of his friends.
From somewhere within him, he finds the courage to stand and meet his father face-to-face, though he stays silent as he feels the man’s eyes look him up and down, tearing him apart without even a single word.
“What are you doing here, dad?”
“Come on now, that’s no way to greet your old man.”
Troy instinctively takes a step back as he catches the familiar scent of alcohol on his father’s breath.
“It’s been months, dad. I don’t want you here.” He cringes a little as he hears his own voice already begin to fail him, flinching a little away from the laugh that his dad huffs out at the words.
“Where is he then?”
“What?”
“Where is he? The one that turned you against me. That turned you into this?” The distaste is obvious in his tone, and Troy takes a split second to allow his eyes to flick towards Shane and Ilya, hoping to desperately convey a silent apology to his fellow queer teammates through the action as he fails to find his voice while his dad pushes on.
“I used to be so proud of you. My son. One of the best new talents in the league. Playing alongside real men. Now look at you. Prancing about with this lot. Embarrassing.”
“Did you miss the part when we won the fucking game?”
His dad’s face turns in an instant. The mocking sneer falls away to an icy hardness, and Troy only has half a second to regret his words before Curtis is suddenly crowding his space.
“You think you’re clever, you fucking fa-”
Troy’s fist moves before he has a moment to think about it.
There’s a rushing in his ears, and before he can even begin to process his own actions, he is suddenly met by the sight of his father on the ground and a throbbing sensation in his fist that hadn’t been there moments ago.
And he hopes somewhat distantly that it might be over.
That this whole mortifying ordeal might end like this, with his father on the ground, and his team not forced to hear anymore of the man’s vitriol.
Instead, his father’s laughter fills the room slowly. Curtis picks himself up from the ground, nursing his jaw with one hand, spitting out a thick glob of blood before grinning at Troy with bloodied teeth.
And it should be more expected. The rush of pain that comes next.
Troy should have seen it coming the second he’d caught his dad’s eye up in the stands.
But for some reason he finds himself blindsided as Curtis suddenly rushes at him.
It all seems to happen faster than he can keep up, as he feels his nose crunch under his father’s fist and he loses his footing. He feels his feet raise off the ground, and for a moment he waits for the impact of his spine against the linoleum below him.
It’s only as he finds himself staring into Curtis’ eyes again that he realises that he’s still impossibly upright.
And he thinks at first that it’s the realisation that causes him to gasp instinctively, until the action fails to draw in any air, and he suddenly comprehends that the sudden tightness in his throat isn’t from the swell of emotions, but is instead from the firm, intentional grip of his own father’s hand around his neck.
It only lasts for an extended moment.
Troy’s socked feet finally meet the floor again as the team tear Curtis away from his now coughing, gasping frame, another punch or two being thrown before Bood and Dykstra get the upper hand on the situation and force the man harshly out of the room.
It feels like time stands still for a while afterwards.
The Centaurs’ locker room is suddenly deathly silent in a way Troy’s never heard before.
There are too many sets of eyes on him, waiting with baited breath to see how he might explode.
How his trembling, still-balled up fists might suddenly fly to punch a hole clean through the doors his eyes have been locked on ever since his dad was unceremoniously dragged out of them.
How he might prove to them all just how much like his father he is, turning back to the violence and anger his whole world had rested upon for years.
“I’m– I’m sorry. I didn’t– I wouldn’t have let him in if I thought he’d talk about you guys like that.”
It’s all he can think to say.
So he battles through it with the hope that his team might at least understand that he didn’t agree with his dad’s words before they talk to Wiebe about getting him transferred. Now they’ve seen what he might become one day if they allow him to stay.
And he’s been so numb to the feeling of blood pooling under his nose after the hit from his dad, that he doesn’t think twice about it when a similar wetness suddenly appears on his cheeks at the thought.
Doesn’t pay his too-fast breathing any mind.
Not until a particularly unsteady breath fights its way out alongside a mangled sob, and he realises all at once that it’s too late to hold back the inevitable.
Another sob follows. Then a third. And when he closes his eyes against the embarrassment of falling completely apart in front of his team, he feels his face crumple into submission, giving way to more of the traitorous tears he’s no longer in any control of.
When two strong arms suddenly wrap around him, he can’t help but hide his face in the shoulder of the faceless figure saving him from his sudden mortification, wrapping his arms around them in return as he tries to hide himself away from his teammates in the room.
“Is okay. You were very brave, Troy. So brave. And so strong.”
Ilya’s voice leaves no room for argument, his arms squeezing more tightly around Troy’s frame as he speaks, breaking the last of his resolve as he cries into the Russian’s chest.
More bodies surround him then, all muttering similar sentiments as they cocoon him entirely from all angles.
“You’re safe here. We’ve got you, Troy.”
Shane’s voice turns out to be the one that finally breaks him. More rare in the chaos of the locker room than Ilya’s or Bood’s or even the rookies, but speaking up now as steady as always to remind Troy that this is where his real family is. Where it’s been for a long time.
Safely protecting him from any outward sources as he loses all of his remaining fight, burying his face more deeply into Ilya’s jersey and allowing himself to mourn the last shred of hope he’d held deep down of his father potentially coming around one day.
He’s not sure how long the moment goes on for. It could be seconds or hours at the same time.
He only recognises that it’s finally over when he feels some of the pressure on him begin to release. He feels the glide of a hand on his spine again. Almost presses himself further into his captain’s chest before a familiar voice pulls him free.
“Troy?! They just told me what happene- Oh, baby.”
Troy only narrowly avoids bursting into tears again as he steps away from Ilya to be met with the sight of Harris, still in his suit and with eyes sadder than Troy has ever seen them before.
He barely has to raise his arms an inch before Troy’s barrelling over to fold himself into them, breathing in the steadying scent of home and the comfort of his boyfriend’s hold as he attempts to hold back another onslaught of tears.
He hears the rest of the team start to pack up, the room no longer frozen in time the way it had been a few moments earlier. Harris remains uncharacteristically quiet throughout, but his arms around Troy don’t dare to loosen for even a second, Troy content to hide there as the night pushes on quietly around them.
The soft sounds of the team shuffling around slowly fade away, and when Troy finally retreats from his spot buried into Harris' shoulder, he finds only Ilya and Shane still in the room with them.
“We tried to pack up what we could for you. We weren’t sure if you’d want to shower here or at the hotel.” Shane gestures somewhat uselessly to the mostly-packed sports bag on Troy’s cubby, frame awkward where he stands beside Ilya.
“The hotel’s fine. Thank you.”
“The rest of the team headed back to shower there too.” Troy tries not to shy away again at the obvious unspoken reason for the rest of the Centaurs’ early exit.
“You know he is a piece of shit right, Barrett?”
“Ilya!” Shane hisses, pairing the words with a decidedly unsubtle swat of his husband’s arm.
“What? I do not want us to go home with him maybe thinking his asshole father is anything but homophobic waste of air.”
“I don’t– I know he’s an asshole. Always have. Didn’t think he’d come back in the first place.” His face must give something away despite his words, Ilya fixing him with a look that Troy can’t quite place.
“You played great. You were star tonight. Don’t let him live in here.” The captain steps forward to tap a finger against Troy’s temple as he says the words, “You deserve much better. And you have it now. Da?”
The lump in Troy’s throat grows again, only nodding in response to Ilya, this seemingly enough for the Russian as he returns to the bench to retrieve his and Shane’s bags.
“We’ll leave you to it then. See you at breakfast tomorrow, yeah?” Troy nods in reply to Shane’s words, leaning into Harris a little again as the others in the room all share quiet goodbyes until only the two of them remain.
“What happened to your micro-event?”
“Nowhere near enough half-dressed hockey players up there. Had to come and see what I was missing.” To Harris’ credit, the gloomily delivered joke manages to pull a half-hearted smile from Troy.
A shaky sigh leaves him in lieu of a proper laugh, Harris offering a small smile of his own as he tenderly strokes Troy’s cheek with the pad of his thumb before pressing a soft, barely-there kiss to his boyfriend’s lips.
“Do you want me to go and find Terry? Get him to check you over?”
“No. I just want to go back to the hotel. I need to get out of here. Please.”
Harris doesn’t need to hear another word. He guides Troy back across to his cubby, fishing out a hoodie and tugging it over Troy’s head, before kneeling down to help the man to step into his sliders.
Troy stays put as Harris disappears for a second then, only moving when the man returns and tips his chin upwards a little, using his other hand to carefully dab at the blood on Troy’s face with a warm, wet towel.
“There you go, honey. No uncomfortable questions on the way out now, hm?”
Troy nods as Harris helps him up on still-unsteady legs, scooping up his bag before they head out of the room, and then out of the arena together.
Harris is quick to usher Troy into a car, holding out a hand in silent protest to anybody that attempts to approach them, keeping up the protective service right up until he’s closing the door of their hotel room behind them, though his arm remains firmly around Troy’s shoulders even once they’re inside.
He steers Troy towards the bathroom, dropping his kit bag down along the way, only stepping away from his boyfriend in order to wordlessly begin running the large bath across the room.
He undresses Troy slowly before stripping himself of his own clothes, leaving Troy for a moment to hang a large towel on the warming rack by the sinks before taking his hand again, lifting it to press a kiss to the palm before squeezing it tightly.
Harris guides him to the tub then, supporting the man as he steps inside before sidling in behind him, leaning forwards to turn off the faucet before lying back, encouraging Troy to settle back against his chest, cradling him as delicately as he is able.
They linger in the quiet for a few minutes, the only sounds being those of Harris’ hand lightly splashing against the surface of the water as he soothes it up and down the small of Troy’s back, allowing some of the tension to exit the man’s shoulders before he dares to disturb the peace.
“Did you know he was gonna show up tonight? Did he… try to reach out?”
Troy shakes his head in a negative response.
“Haven’t even thought about him since… you know. Spotted him during the game though. Up in the stands. It’s why I took that easy hit. Could see him looking at me, kinda like seeing a ghost. Wasn't expecting it, and I just–”
The hitch in his breathing that cuts him off catches him by surprise.
“Sorry. I don’t know why I’m–” He takes another trembling breath when a break in his voice betrays him and he feels his eyes swell with tears again.
“Shh, baby. It’s okay. You’re allowed to cry.”
“I don’t even like him. He was a dick to mom. I didn’t want him back in my life.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not allowed to hurt. You still grew up with him. He’s still your dad. He’s a big part of your life, for better or worse.”
“I just– I knew he was an ass but I never thought he’d– He tried to fucking choke me. If the team weren’t there he would’ve–” Troy closes his eyes against the thought, leaning back further into Harris as another weak sob fights its way out of him.
“I know. I know, baby. I’m so sorry.” Harris tightens his arms around his boyfriend’s frame as he tips his chin forwards a little to press kisses against the dark mop of hair, “You deserve so much better than him. I’m so proud of you for standing up for yourself, even when you were terrified. You’re so strong, Troy.”
“I love you.”
“I love you so much, baby. So do the team, and your mom and Charlie. And Chiron would be lost without you... Even if it's because you spoil him.” Troy lets out a wet laugh at that, but Harris pushes on, “You’re so loved, Troy. I’m so sorry that that man ever made you feel like that was anything but true.”
Finally out of tears, Troy instead simply closes his eyes in response to the words, turning onto his side as best as he can in the water until he is able to press his cheek more firmly against Harris’ chest, wrapping his arms around the bulkier man in a show of silent thanks as he nuzzles into him.
Harris keeps the quiet up, running one hand soothingly up and down the side of Troy’s body, mindful of the slowly forming bruise there, while his other hand toys with the damp locks of his boyfriend’s hair, only breaking the action to press occasional kisses atop his head instead.
They stay like that until the bath water begins to cool, when Harris encourages Troy up and out of the water and takes a few minutes to tenderly dry him off, continuing to delicately press his lips across the surface of Troy’s skin all the while as he does so.
He steers the two of them into the bedroom then, neither of them bothering with pyjamas as they climb into the bed together, Harris again immediately wrapping himself around Troy from behind and squeezing him close.
Troy relaxes into the hold, sighing out the last of his tension as his eyes already begin to blink heavily to a close.
“Harris?”
“Yeah, baby?” Harris continues rubbing his palm in soothing motions across Troy’s chest as he feels his breaths begin to even out.
“Did you see my goals? Scored them for you. Like I promised.”
Harris can’t help the smile that grows on his face at the words, even as he feels his eyes sting with tears at the somehow unwavering good heart of the man in his arms.
“Yeah, honey. I saw them. Wouldn’t miss them for the world.”
“M’sorry we didn’t get to celebrate like we said.”
“That’s okay. We can celebrate tomorrow, yeah? Might even treat you to that ice cream I promised when we get home.” Harris narrowly avoids the break in his voice, pressing his lips firmly against Troy’s scalp in a long kiss instead as he blinks away the wetness in his eyes.
“Mmm. That sounds nice.”
Troy’s words are barely audible through the sleepy way they slur together, eyes already long closed and head growing heavier where it rests half on Harris’ shoulder. Harris smiles again and lowers his voice, continuing his gentle actions as he encourages Troy to finally drift off, allowing the day to draw to a close.
“Tomorrow, baby. Sleep now. I’ve got you.”
And there, cradled in the safety of the man he loves – the family he found for himself, Troy does.