Chapter Text
Troy was late.
This was the worst case scenario for the first day with a new team, especially when everyone on this team no doubt hates him cause well, he's a dick.
He wasn't meant to be late; he got up early. He’d even left buffer time.
Not just a little. A responsible amount that he'd spent the past 4 years perfecting
He’d spent that buffer time on the floor of a hotel room with a half-open suitcase, digging through it like a man who had lost something critical to national security, except it was a single pair of shoes.
Riley’s favourite shoes.
The ones with the slightly worn velcro strap, and they lit up when she walked, she refuses to wear anything else, even if they are objectively too small now.
Then there was leaving early.
Extra early. Because he accounted for traffic, he accounted for wrong turns, he accounted for Ottawa being unfamiliar, and the daycare being harder to find than it should be when you’ve already googled it three times.
He accounted for everything.
Except for the major meltdown Riley had thrown when she realised her dad was leaving.
It started with confusion. Then begging. Then, the tears that escalated so fast, Troy didn’t even have time to pick the right tone before she was fully in it, red-faced, clutching his sleeve like it was the only solid thing in the world.
It took too long to calm her down.
Too many minutes spent on the edge of panic, talking her through breaths she didn’t want to take, wiping her cheeks with his thumb, holding her until she stopped shaking like the world was too loud.
It broke Troy's heart, so once he finally left fifteen minutes later, he sat in his car for probably ten minutes, her little voice repeating "Don’t go" in his mind.
Now he’s here.
Late.
Standing outside the Ottawa Centaurs arena, trying to force himself inside so he's not even later, so they don't hate him even more.
Troy had only just worked up the nerve and made it through the arena doors before Coach Wiebe was there.
“Troy,” Coach says.
Troy stops. “Yeah.”
Coach doesn’t waste time. “My office.”
Troy exhales once through his nose.
Of course.
He follows.
The walk feels too long for how short it actually is. Every step sounds louder than it should. The only saving grace is that all his teammates are probably on the ice by now. Out of sight, out of immediate judgment, at least for a few more minutes.
He tells himself that it should help.
It doesn’t.
The coach’s office door shuts behind them with a clean, final click.
Back in Toronto, he wasn't in the coach's office very often, until he was being told he was being traded. Yet day one here.
“You were late,” Coach says.
Troy nods once. “Yeah.”
Troy braces himself for the yelling, but it never comes.
It never comes.
Coach Wiebe just studies him.
“That’s not a good look on day one,” he says.
Troy nods again. “I know. I'm sorry, sir, it was a rough morning."
Wiebe nods, "I can imagine, you only got in last night, right?"
Troy hesitates for half a second, then nods. “Yeah, I drove up last night."
That earns a small shift in Coach’s expression, less judgment, more understanding.
“From Toronto?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Coach exhales lightly through his nose, like he’s doing the math of that in his head. “Long drive. Especially with a kid."
Troy’s shoulders tighten on instinct, just for a second, barely noticeable, but there.
Coach notices anyway.
He holds up a hand slightly. “I’m just saying I get it. Mornings can go sideways fast when you’ve got responsibilities at home. I've got three daughters of my own."
Troy lets out a slow breath; he didn’t realise he was holding.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “They can. But I'll do better”
Coach studies him for a beat longer, then gives a small nod.
“Good,” he says simply. "Now go on."