Chapter Text
Wyatt Hayes was normally a pretty upbeat guy- smiley, easygoing, fun loving- and, as a rule of thumb, got along with pretty much everyone. Normally. However, this week had not been his favourite.
It hadn’t started particularly well, with his beloved wife Lisa being on the night shift every day this week, meaning he’d barely seen her- simply in passing as he got home from practice, and she headed out to her shift, or vice versa.
Lisa being away also meant he hadn’t slept particularly well. Well, not directly, but he’d been more anxious than normal, and her not being there had not helped his condition.
Not that he’d blamed her at all- far from it- he was incredibly proud of her and endlessly grateful for everything she did, but it didn’t mean he didn’t miss his wife.
However, he did have a system for when he was anxious and missed his wife, which normally revolved around watching some of his favourite superhero films- Spider-Man, Deadpool- the usuals.
However, unlike normal, this system hadn’t worked, and Wyatt had ended up curled up in bed, tears threatening to spill, whilst he watched his wife’s favourite film- Moulin Rouge.
Wyatt hadn’t thought his week could have gotten much worse. Oh, how wrong he was.
Wyatt thought he’d left Toronto behind him, his days playing for the god awful franchise that was the Toronto Guardians a memory for the past.
But no.
Troy fucking Barrett. Sidekick to the despicable human being that was Dallas Kent, had to show up in fucking Ottawa.
If Wyatt was being honest, he was somewhat over reacting. Troy, in the man’s defence, hadn’t been awful to him in Toronto, at least not as awful as Kent.
Troy had never broken any of his bones intentionally, at least.
But Troy had a reputation for a reason- and it wasn’t a good one.
He was frequently in the top 5 for penalties at the end of the season and was known for his on-ice chirps, normally steeped in homophobia, misogyny, rascism and transphobia, every if he didn’t use explicit slurs, like other players.
So, yeah, not Wyatt’s favourite person.
And he was coming to Ottawa.
Where they had an openly gay social media manager, and two queer players, who, whilst not out to the public, were out to the team.
Thankfully, Ottawa was captained by one of these openly queer players, and he didn’t take any shit.
Ilya Rozanov.
He’d joined Ottawa the season after Wyatt, and whilst many of them had feared the Russians arrival, he’d soon revealed to be nothing more than a huge softie with a potty mouth.
But also, he was fiercely loyal and protective of his teammates, as well as incredibly caring.
The moment he’d walked into the locker room, Rozanov had made it clear he wouldn’t tolerate any bullshit from the players, but also made it clear that, if there was a problem, or anyone needed help, they could come to him, no matter what.
Wyatt was so thankful that he was their captain. He wouldn’t tolerate anything Troy Barrett would throw at their teammates.
Troy Barrett winced as his alarm blared through the dingy hotel room, next to the Canadian Tyre Centre, that his new team had put him up in.
Troy Barrett was pissed. He was having one of the worst weeks of his life. Two weeks ago, Troy had been wrapped up in his gorgeous boyfriend's arms, in his beautiful Toronto apartment, with an A on his jersey for one of the league’s best teams, and a best friend and team who respected him.
Now, he quite literally had none of that. His boyfriend had unceremoniously dumped him by text just to come out, publicly, engaged, to another man, whom he’d allegedly been deeply in love with, and dating for 10 months.
Adrian had been dating Troy for two years.
To say Troy had been pissed was an understatement.
That hadn’t been a good night. Tory couldn’t remember much of what had happened, but he remembered waking up, on his bathroom floor, arms and thighs covered in cuts, a razor blade discarded next to him, and blood under his fingernails.
He’d had to shower at home after practice that day.
The next event in Troy Barrett’s no good very bad week, came when he punched his former best friend in the faced, and accused his of rape. In front of his entire team. And his coach. His coach who both worshipped Dallas, but also was paid vast amounts of money by Dallas’ father to give him the captaincy, over not only Troy, but Marcel Houde, Troy’s former co-alternate.
Troy might have yelled something about Coach Cooper being corrupt as well.
He wasn’t sure.
He hadn’t dared watched back the video. He’d seen enough of the comments that people wer directing at him online, as it was.
He hadn’t had a very good night that night either.
To top off Troy Barrett’s no good very bad week, he woke up the day after yelling at both Dallas and his coach to a text from his coach.
It simply read:
Coach Cooper
You’ve bee traded to Ottawa. Effective immediately.
Well, if that had been a punch to the gut.
So, Troy Barrett had packed up what he could- his hockey bag and a small suitcase- and made the 4 and a bit hour drive from Toronto to Ottawa.
And that was how Troy ended up here- in a shitty hotel, playing for the league’s worst team.
And playing for the team that had Wyatt Hayes as it’s starting goalie.
Troy was dreading seeing Wyatt. Wyatt was a nice guy, but god, Troy had been awful to him in Toronto. Admittedly, he hadn’t been as bad as Dallas, but he still hadn’t been nice, and he’d certainly said stuff to Wyatt that he should never had said. And whilst, yeah, he hadn’t been as directly bad a Dallas, he hadn’t stopped him, and honestly, that was probably worse.
Thinking back, Troy had been horrible to Wyatt. He’d made fun of his intelligence, of his wife, of his interests, of literally every aspect of the man. Wyatt probably, and rightfully, hated him.
Troy thought about how to manage this. He definetly needed to apologise. The only thing was, he had no idea how to go about it. How did he make his apology seem sincere? He didn’t know. Perhaps, if he made himself as small as possible,e he’d be less hated? If he didn’t say anyhting, they couldn’t hate him, right?
Troy curled in on himself on his hotel bed. It was dingy, almost painfully so, but it was better than turning the overhead lights on. They were bright white, similar to the ones in hospitals, and they’d always given him a headache. They also whirred in a way that grated his nerves.
Troy wondered what the Centaurs’ changing room’s lights would be like. He’d always hated the Guardians ones.
Deciding he should in fact face the day, Troy rolled over in his bed and picked his phone up.
He had a few missed messages and calls, mostly from his father and Dallas, which he ignored, but he had a couple from unknown numbers as well.
Unknown number 1
Hi Barrett, this is Coach Wiebe. Would you be able to come to my office to chat over a couple of things before practice? If that doesn’t work, please let me know, and we’ll find an alternative time.
Troy replied to that one, saying that it was fine, and that he could come early, before opening the other two messages.
The next one did slightly scare Troy shitless.
Unknown number 2
Barret. This is Ilya Rozanov. I will not tolerate bullshit. Meet me for chat after practice.
Well. That was certainly an introduction to the captain. Troy couldn’t blame him though- he was indisputably an asshole.
Troy was, not Ilya. Thought Ilya did have a certain notoriety, in his rookie era.
Troy was still an asshole, even 7 years after his rookie year.
He hated that he was an asshole.
Sighing, Troy opened the last message.
Unknown number 3
Hi Troy! I’m Harris Drover (he/him), I’m the social media manager for the Centaurs! Would you be able to meet at 8am before today’s practice with me, and Gen (she/her), our head of communications, to sort out some social media stuff, and to give you a of the facilities? If not, please let me know, and we can arrange something else!
Harris seemed very friendly, in a way that almost irked Troy, but Troy knew he was being a dick, so simply replied politely to the man.
The inclusion of pronouns had shocked Troy- normally hockey franchises weren’t so forward thinking, but hey, Troy wasn’t complaining. Hopefully in meant the Centaurs were accepting. Maybe, one day, they would be accepting of him, because god knows they wouldn’t be at the moment.
Not that Troy could blame them.
He wouldn’t accept himself either.
Checking the time, Troy knew he needed to get moving, so he rolled himself out of bed and into the shower.
He bit back as wince as the scorching water hit the fairly fresh wounds on his skin.
Fuck.
He’d forgotten about them.
Well, he hoped that the Centaurs wouldn’t take offence at him showering after them.
As Troy got dressed, he felt the stress rising in his stomach. He was terrified. He knew that they were going to hate him. He hated himself as well, so they should hate him, too.
Fuck knows he deserved it.
It was all getting too much again.
Troy clutched his arms, dragging his jagged nails across already broken skin, causing scabs to re-open and crimson lines to bloom across his skin.
Fuck.
Troy hoped that the photoshoot shit he had to do was all in long sleeves.
Wyatt got to the ice rink that morning earlier than normal, too jittery to sleep, and needing to burn off some energy in the hope he might have some semblance of ability to focus in that day's practice.
Thankfully, Ilya was also there early, as was Zane Boodram, their alternate captain, so the three of them did some shooting drills on the ice, whilst also, of course, discussing the new trade.
“If he says anyhting, I will get him away,” Ilya said, firing puck across the ice at Wyatt, who somehow managed to stop them all. He was very grateful he didn’t have to play against Ilya anymore. Only Shane Hollander scared him more, scoring wise.
“Coach says we gotta give him a chance, at leat, Rozy. I know he’s a dick, but he did stand up to Kent and Cooper, so it’s gotta mean something, right?” Bood said.
“Oh yes, because knowing rape is wrong means you are good person, yes, yes,” Ilya said sarcastically, which caused Bood to roll his eyes.
“I don’t know. He was never as bad as Kent. He at least didn’t intentionally break people’s bones,” Wyatt said absentmindedly.
“What the fuck?” Both men on the ice turned around and face Wyatt.
“He broke my ankle, but it was an accident. Neither of us were looking where we were going, and I fell, broke my ankle. He got concussion. Kent was the one who intentionally broke people’s bones,” Wyatt said, firing pucks back down towards the two men.
“And you didn’t report it?” Bood said, incredulously. Wyatt gave Bood a look, which said it all. “Yeah, fair point Hazy, my bad,” Bood put a hand up in surrender.
“All I’m saying is, yeah he might have been a dick in the past, but I don’t know. There was always something about him, even in Toronto. Seemed like he was hiding. Just give him a chance. The minute he says anything outta line though, you have my permission to deck him, okay, Roz?” Wyatt said, looking up at his captain.
Ilya, at least, did grin at that. “Ah yes, violence. My favourite answer.”
Bood just sighed.
Following the three of them firing pucks back and forth along the ice at each other for a bit, both Roz and Bood called it quits, Roz calling someone before practice, and Bood going to grab a coffee and a bite to eat.
Wyatt, meanwhile, headed back into the changing room. He was minding his own business, his brain occupying itself with thoughts about TV shows he’d been watching, and books he’d been reading recently, when he noticed the other man in the room.
He had his back to the door, but the dark hair and tall body was instantly recognisable as Troy Barrett.
What did shock Wyatt was the red lines, scars and bruises that absolutely covered the man’s arms and torso.
They were too neat to be hockey scars. Too clustered in odd places to be hockey bruises. Too uniform, in too odd a place, to be accidental cuts.
Wyatt felt sick.
Before he could say anything, Troy pulled on a new practice jersey, and continued organising his locker.
Barrett hadn’t seen him at all.
Wyatt wasn’t sure what to do, but he shot a text to Ilya, telling him to be nice to Troy, which did confuse the Russian greatly, but Ilya, in the two seasons he’d been at Ottawa, had come to trust the goalie, so took his word.
When Barrett did notice Wyatt, the right wing looked terrified. “Hello Barrett,” Wyatt said with a smile, hoping the smile would ease the tension in the room.
Barrett still looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
“Hello, Hayes,” the taller man mumbled, before curling in on himself.
Huh. Weird.
Wyatt wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t… whatever that was.
Wyatt was worried about Barrett.
And god knew he never thought he’d be thinking that.
When Troy walked up to the Canadian Tyre Centre, just before 8am, he was almost shaking with fear.
It wasn’t a long walk from the hotel- about 20 minutes- but in there minute walk he’d been screamed at by 4 different people- both Ottawa and Toronto fans- calling him a traitor, scum, and other horrific things he didn’t wish to repeat.
Whether there were tear tracks down his cheeks, or new indentations in his wrists were only for him to worry about.
He was pretty sure he looked awful by the time he got to the Centaurs rink, and if the look on the two people who met him at the entrance- Harris and Gen’s- faces were anyhting to go by, it was worse than he thought.
Both of them were lovely, and definetly treating way nicer than he deserved, especially considering he was barely awake, barely hanging on to his sanity, and just grunting out monosyllabic answers that he hoped were correct.
The first thing that Troy noticed about both of them were the pin badges. Gen had a lanyard around her neck, which had two pin badges of note on- a pronoun badge, and a lesbian pride flag. Harris, on the other hand, had a pride lanyard on, with a pronouns badge, and then several pin badges adorning the red Centaurs beanie he wore, clearly trying to fight off some of the bitter Ottawa cold.
On the beanie there was a badge saying “Trans Ally,” and a “Support Queer Kids” badge, as well as a blue, green and white pride flag Troy didn’t recognise, and a general progress pride flag.
There was also an apple, which was of course rainbow, which said “Drover Farm Cider.” Troy remembered from the message Harris had sent him that the man’s surname was Drover, so he made the connection.
Troy hadn’t really been paying attention to what was being said, despite his best efforts. He was too in awe of Harris’ badges, of his bravery to display himself like this, to listen. He also might have been distracted slightly by the man’s beauty.
Soon, however, he was being manouevered into a chair in front a bunch of cameras, and Gen was attempting to fix what he knew were horrific dark circles under his eyes with concealer. Troy was pretty sure that all three of them in the room weren’t convinced the concealer had actually done anything.
Troy really had no memory of the whole interaction. What he did remember, however, was feeling safe with Harris, specifically, and the man’s smile.
God, it was a nice smile.
After the whirlwind of the media stuff, Harris led Troy down to Coach Wiebe’s office. Troy had said he didn’t have to, not wanting to take time off the probably very busy man, but Harris had insisted, and Troy found himself unable to argue with the smiley ball of sunshine that was their social media manager.
Once he was at Wiebe’s office, Harris left, and Troy hated it immediately. The coach’s office was probably warm and cozy when you knew him, but to Troy it felt intimidating. The coach’s calm, steady gaze was also unnerving him, and that was not helping the situation.
“Barrett, good to meet you, properly. Now, this trade isn’t ideal, it being mid season and whatever, but I am looking forward to seeing how you play with the team. That being said, that…stuff they let slide in Toronto, we do not tolerate here. Not at all. If I hear of you doing anything, to anyone, I will make sure that you never set foot in this arena again. Understood?”
Troy froze in fear, but somehow managed to nod, and whisper out a shaky, “Understood, sir.” Troy could feel his thoughts boiling over: they already hate you, the know you’re a piece of shit, you’re such a disappointment to everyone, you and your fucked up weird brain.
Troy tried to stop the thoughts, biting the inside of his cheek, hoping the small bit of pain would stop.
Wiebe didn’t seem to notice. “Good. Now, you’ve got a bit of time before practice. Go find you’re locker, and settle in. I’ll see you on the ice, Barrett,” Wiebe said, not coldly, but not exactly radiating tropical warmth, either.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Troy said, getting up.
“Oh, and Barrett?” Wiebe called, as Troy was leaving.
Troy turned to face the man.
“Don’t call me sir. I ain’t that old yet, kid,” Wiebe said, a ghost of a smile playing at the older man’s lips. Troy smiled nervously, but nodded before apologising and heading out.
Troy was confusing Wyatt. Like, a lot. It was almost concerning. Well, he was concerned after what he’d seen in the changing room, but he was deciding not to address that just yet.
Troy was known for having a mouth on him, notorious for penalties, and being a menace on the ice- and not in a good way.
But this Troy, the Troy currently on the ice, was unrecognisable from the one that Wyatt had played with in Toronto. Well, played with was a strong worse, he’d barely had any ice time, but still.
Troy also seemed exhausted. Wyatt was sure that he hadn’t had circles that dark last time he’d seen him.
Troy also kept flinching at something, and seemed uncomfortable. Maybe his pads were rubbing on his cuts?
Wyatt really needed to think about what to do about that.
He couldn’t leave it unaddressed, no matter how much history he and Barrett had, he simply couldn’t allow him to suffer.
Curse Wyatt as his overly empathetic brain.
Wyatt was having an awful practice. He knew he was.
His brain had been fried before he got to practice, and whilst the drills he’d run with Bood and Ilya had helped somewhat, seeing Troy like that in the changing room had sent him for a loop, and now he couldn’t focus on anything at all.
People were noticing as well, which also didn’t help. He kept letting pucks through, and he kept loosing focus.
Eventually, Ilya called him over.
“Hazy, what’s going on?” The Russian said voice full of concern.
“Nothing. Brain’s being stupid,” Wyatt muttered, bitterly.
“Barrett related or ADHD related?” Ilya said, no judgement clouding his tone at all. Wyatt had always been grateful of that.
“Both,” Wyatt said, not meeting Ilya’s eyes.
“What the fuck did he say to you?” Ilya said, already prepared to punch the right wing, who was currently standing innocently on the other side of the rink, drinking from a bottle.
“Nothing! Nothing! Honestly, he hasn’t done anything! It’s complicated. You’re meeting with him after practice, right?” Wyatt asked, placating his captain.
Ilya looked at Wyatt with confusion, but nodded. “I am. Why?”
Wyatt smiled, and took a breath of relief, “No, I just need to speak to him as well, but it can wait until after you two have spoken.”
“No, is okay. You can speak to him first. I need to make phone call anyway,” Ilya said, and seemingly didn’t notice the way Wyatt tensed, before skating away, probably going to inform Barrett.
Wyatt sighed. He was dreading this conversation.