Chapter Text
Wednesday, July 21, 2021
Troy wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm and set another heavy box of new sticks down with a soft grunt. When he came before noon to help Yuna, he felt great, ready to conquer the world and be helpful, but with each breath of air saturated with the smells of fresh plastic and detergents used to clean the premises of the Irina Foundation, his enthusiasm faded. In a few days the kids would arrive for the Game Changers camp, and he was supposed to be one of their coaches. Him! The thought still felt ridiculous. What was he suppose to teach them? How to call someone a faggot?
Harris was in Montreal with Shane, Ilya, and the rest of the crew, taking photos and videos of the first week of camp. Troy missed him already, but he had Chiron to keep him company. The big, still growing dog had claimed half the couch back at his apartment and followed Troy around like a shadow. That morning Chiron had tried to help him get ready by stealing one of Troy’s socks and parading it around the living room with his tail wagging so hard his whole butt shook. Troy had ended up on the floor laughing, scratching the dog’s ears while Chiron flopped onto his back for belly rubs. For a few minutes everything had felt light.
Now, back at the facility, Troy straightened a palette of equipment and frowned. One of the orders was mixed up- wrong sizes on half the pads. He needed to tell Yuna. Her office door stood open at the end of the hall, and as he walked closer he heard a familiar voice, loud and clear on loudspeaker. “…yeah, packing up the last of Shane’s stuff here so we can bring it back to Ottawa on Saturday,” Ilya was saying, his Russian accent warm even through the tinny speaker. “How’s everything on your end? And how’s your little helper?”
Troy stopped just outside the door, not wanting to interrupt. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Yuna’s reply was brisk but kind. “He’s been really polite and helpful, actually. Lifting everything I point at without complaint.”
Ilya chuckled. “Good. Harris saw some stuff online, people complaining that Troy’s coaching. You know how it is.” Troy’s stomach twisted. He should walk away. Instead he stood frozen.
Yuna sighed. “One father called yesterday. His son’s attending the Ottawa week. He was concerned because Troy used to be friends with Dallas Kent-”
That was all Troy needed to hear. He felt the sudden, suffocating certainty that the walls of the corridor were about to swallow him. Blood roared in his ears. He turned on his heel and strode toward the washrooms, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. The moment the door shut behind him he barely made it to a stall before he was violently sick, heaving until there was nothing left. His hands shook as he braced against the wall.
Of course they didn’t want him here. Why the hell would they? He was the guy who’d laughed at the wrong jokes for years, who’d stood next to Kent like it was nothing. Kids were supposed to look up to him? What a fucking joke. He was the worst possible role model. He couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror most days without seeing every shitty thing he’d done, every year spent hiding, pretending, and acting like an opportunistic asshole. Why had Ilya even asked him to coach? Pity? Some sense of obligation because Troy played for Ottawa now?
Twenty minutes later Troy sat in the small staff room, a bottle of water clutched in his clammy hands. He looked as miserable as he felt, with a pale face, red-rimmed eyes, and shoulders sagged as if all the air had been let out of him. All the eagerness he’d carried earlier had drained away.
Yuna walked in and paused, studying him. “Troy? You don’t look good. Everything okay?”
He forced a weak shrug. “Probably something I ate. I’m fine.”
She didn’t look entirely convinced, but she nodded. “We’ve done enough for today. Go home and rest. Tomorrow David and I will need your help moving the rest of the gear from the Foundation’s storage to the rink.”
Troy managed a small nod. “Yeah. Sure.” As Yuna left to collect her things, he stayed seated, staring at the water bottle. The camp started in five days. He had no idea how he was going to get through it without proving to everyone how fucked up he really was.
Troy pushed open the door to his apartment, and Chiron was there in seconds. His fluffy tail was whipping back and forth, his big paws tapping on the hardwood. The dog froze mid-wiggle, head tilting as he stared up at Troy. Chiron pressed his solid, warm body against Troy’s legs, then rose up to plant two heavy paws on his chest, licking at his jaw with soft, insistent whines.
“Yeah, hello to you too, pal,” Troy muttered, but his voice cracked. He dropped to one knee and buried his face in the dog’s thick fur. Chiron leaned harder into him, a living weighted blanket, breathing slow and steady. For a long minute Troy just held on, letting the dog’s warmth push back against the knot in his stomach.
Eventually Troy dragged himself over to the couch. Chiron stayed right at his heels, flopping on top of him once they were both settled. He wrapped his arms around the big puppy and closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar dog smell.
A couple of minutes into their cuddling session, his phone buzzed with a FaceTime call from Harris. Troy accepted it, forcing his face into something that hopefully looked normal. On the screen, Harris glowed with his usual energy, sporting a bucket hat stamped with the camp's logo and cheeks flushed from the day.
“Hey, buddy. We just wrapped up here. The kids were amazing today. Everyone just got to that pub Hayden recommended for dinner. You should see Ilya trying to order in French.” Harris grinned. In the background Troy could hear laughter and the clink of glasses. “How was your day? What are you two up to?”
Troy swallowed. “It was good. Just… helping Yuna. Now I’m playing with Chiron.”
Harris raised an eyebrow, clearly seeing the couch pillows behind Troy. “Playing? Looks more like you’re being held hostage by a giant furball right now. I can literally see you both being professional couch potatoes.”
Troy huffed a weak laugh. “You got us.”
Harris’s expression softened. “Did you eat anything yet?”
“Uh… not yet.”
Harris pretended to look scandalized. “Troy Barrett. I’m hanging up right now so my boys can go eat something yummy. Love you. Feed the dog first. He’s got those sad eyes.”
“Love you too,” Troy said quietly. The call ended. He looked down at Chiron. “What do you want for dinner, huh?” Chiron answered by licking his face with enthusiastic swipes. Troy smiled despite everything and hauled himself up.
In the kitchen he measured out the fancy dog food, added the vitamins, supplements, and a spoonful of omega-3 oil, then set the full bowl down. Chiron dove in happily. Troy opened the fridge to grab something for himself, but his movements stalled. On the shelf sat the sushi lunch box he had bought at a fancy delicatessen on his way to meet Yuna, only to bring back home completely uneaten. His eyes got stuck on that exact spot, locked onto the container. Suddenly Yuna’s voice echoed in his head again. One father called… Troy used to be best fucking friends with Dallas Kent.
Appetite gone, Troy grabbed the box and dropped it straight into the trash. He drifted to the counter, sat on a bar stool, and pulled out his phone. The Irina Foundation post introducing the list of Ottawa week coaches had mostly positive comments, filled with excited kids, parents thanking the foundation, and supportive messages about representation. But Troy couldn't shake the feeling that Harris or Yuna were heavily moderating the page. Seeking the unfiltered truth, he switched over to X and the hockey subreddits. Even there, the majority of the feedback remained supportive, but the wall of praise just blurred into background noise. His mind completely bypassed the good stuff, focusing entirely on the ugly ones.
“Why is Troy Barrett coaching kids at a queer camp? Dude was Dallas Kent’s ride-or-die for years. You don’t hang with a predator that long and stay clean. Hard pass on letting him near my son.”
“Game Changers is supposed to be a safe space for kids and now they’re letting Kent’s bestie coach? Absolutely disgusting.”
“Barrett suddenly comes out and wants to coach at the woke camp right after the Kent scandal blows up? Smells like damage control and clout-chasing.”
“Barrett spent years in the closet pretending to be a bro with Kent and now he’s the face of a gay hockey camp? Nah. He’s probably still got that same toxic shit in him. Protect the kids.”
“If Barrett knew what Kent was doing to women and stayed silent, what else is he hiding? I wouldn’t trust him alone with any minor, boy or girl. Irina Foundation dropped the ball big time.”
“Lmao Troy Barrett at Game Changers? The camp went from inspiring to ‘formerly associated with a rapist.’ Great role model for the youth.”
He kept scrolling.
“Kent’s lapdog coaching impressionable boys? Hope the Foundation has good lawyers when something happens.”
“Disgusting. Barrett is a walking red flag. Bet he’s still covering for his buddy behind closed doors.”
“Fake coming out for PR. This is why people don’t trust hockey players at ‘inclusive’ events. Cancel the whole thing.”
“Hope that dog mascot bites him. Traitor.”
He mechanically pushed the phone down the counter. A static noise filled his head, making it impossible to think clearly. Chiron padded over and laid his heavy head directly on Troy’s lap. A trembling hand found the dog’s ears automatically. He hugged Chiron tight, face pressed into warm fur again. “I need some air.” He got up abruptly.
The walk started well enough with the night air cool around them and Chiron trotting happily beside him on the leash, but Troy’s mind refused to quiet down. The comments looped louder with every step. He didn’t see the car until the horn blared. Tires screeched. Troy stumbled back onto the curb as the driver rolled down the window and shouted, “Watch where you’re going, idiot!” Chiron whined, pressing hard against his leg, tail tucked.
Stepping back into the apartment building, Troy knew he couldn't coach at the camp. He was the worst thing that could happen to those kids and to the Irina Foundation's good name. He just had to find a way out of it.
Back inside, Troy locked the door behind him and headed straight for the bathroom. He stripped off his clothes and stepped under an ice cold shower, hoping the shock would clear the spiraling thoughts. The water hit like needles, but it didn’t work. He was caught in a relentless cycle of overthinking. He shivered violently, turned the tap off, and dried himself with rough, impatient movements. He pulled on a pair of Harris’s pajama shorts with the tiny dachshund print all over them. They brought a sudden brief smile to his face. They were incredibly comfortable and wonderfully cheerful, a perfect reflection of his boyfriend.
Troy threw himself onto the bed where Chiron was already sprawled out, snoring softly. The dog barely stirred as Troy landed beside him. For a while Troy just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Then he grabbed his phone and started googling. “How to skip work.” The results were vague and unhelpful, just articles about crafting polite absence messages, suggesting excuses like medical appointments or personal emergencies. Troy dismissed them immediately. He had no real excuse, and he didn’t want to confront Yuna, Shane, or Ilya about his worries. They would be too polite and insist he stay on as a coach, even if keeping him meant dragging the Foundation’s good name through the mud. He couldn’t handle that conversation.
The third option seemed most reasonable: sudden illness. That would do. But it had to be realistic. Harris was coming home in two days and would see him. Sifting through his options for something convincing, Troy remembered a story from his junior years.
One of his teammates had tried to skip practice because he was struggling with a cruel guest coach, an ex-MHLer. The kid drank ridiculous amounts of milk and lemon juice in front of the team, thinking it would make him sick. Nothing happened except he had to pee constantly during practice. Their regular coach had called him a bed-wetter and threatened to bring diapers next time. The ex-MHLer had made it worse, pretending to piss at him with a water bottle. Back then, as a kid, Troy had laughed along with his teammates. Now, the memory filled him with disgust.
He googled “how to make yourself sick.” One obscure forum post suggested drinking water with baking soda. Troy dug deeper into that but eventually opted out. Serious food poisoning was not something he wanted on his bingo card.
He changed his approach and searched “what illness to fake to skip an event.” The top suggestions were useless. Laxatives to fake stomach flu and diarrhea- hard no. He had no allergies to worsen. Faking a back pain or sports injury wouldn’t work. Those took too long to heal, and he was a terrible actor. Pink eye was contagious, which would mean he couldn’t see Harris, and the idea of rubbing shampoo in his eyes to make them red seemed absurd. Some X post recommended faking a migraine, but Troy had never had one, so it would look suspicious.
He was running out of ideas when he stumbled on a blog entry by a Miami-based actor. The title grabbed him immediately. Troy clicked the link.
The Actor’s Secret: How to Die (Metaphorically) to Save Your Sanity
Posted by Yours_Truly_1994 | 7 Comments
Look, we’ve all been there. You sign up for an avantgarde, 10-day theater spectacle because you think it’s "art," and by day two, you realize you're just wearing a beige unitard and screaming at a chair. You need out. But you can't just quit- you have a reputation to protect.
Enter the ultimate escape hatch: Acute Vertigo / Labyrinthitis
It is the perfect crime. There is no blood test for dizziness. Here is my foolproof, step-by-step guide to faking an inner-ear catastrophe and getting a paid week off:
1. The Physical Evidence: Bosses hate vomit. To ensure you don't look like a liar, chug a glass of warm salt water right before you arrive. It’s disgusting, it tastes like absolute battery acid, but you will throw up on command. Instant medical credibility.
2. The Wobble: Pop a couple of Dramamine an hour before your doctor’s appointment. It won’t cure the fake vertigo, but it will make you genuinely woozy, clumsy, and look like you just stepped off a spinning teacup ride.
3. The Performance: When the doctor asks what's wrong, do not overact. Just stare at the ceiling, complain that the room won't stop tilting, and mention the sudden, crushing nausea.
Fair warning: the dry mouth from the pills is an absolute pain in the ass. You will feel like you've been eating sand. But was it worth it? Absolutely. I skipped all ten days of that stupid play, stayed in bed watching reality TV, and the cast even sent me a fruit basket. 10/10, would fake a neurological disorder again.
Troy did more research on Acute Vertigo and Labyrinthitis. It looked perfect on paper, far better than a stomach flu. The flu required a fever, but Labyrinthitis didn't, and he wouldn't have to fake endless vomiting or diarrhea. With vertigo, he could just puke once to scare Harris a tiny bit. The other symptoms included severe dizziness, vertigo attacks where the room spun, nausea, balance problems, and fatigue. It could come on suddenly, last several days, and didn’t require visible injuries. Recovery was gradual. No one would expect him to coach kids while dealing with that.
Exhausted, Troy set the phone aside. He rolled over and wrapped himself around the sleeping Chiron, big spoon to the dog’s little spoon, Chiron huffing a lazy sigh in his sleep as he pressed back comfortably against him. Troy closed his eyes, a plan beginning to morph in his head as he finally drifted off.