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Troy woke up on his birthday because he knew someone was staring at him before he even opened his eyes.
Living with Harris for nearly two years now, he had developed an instinctive recognition of his presence. He knew when Harris was pulling into the driveway, he knew when Harris was getting out of the shower, and apparently, he knew when Harris was lying six inches away silently watching him sleep.
“You’re creepy,” he mumbled, not opening his eyes yet.
Harris laughed softly.
“Happy birthday.”
“Still creepy.”
“Open your eyes.”
“No.”
“Troy.”
“It’s my birthday. I don’t have to.”
Harris kissed the tip of his nose. Troy’s mouth twitched towards a smile.
“That was manipulative.”
Another kiss landed on his cheek.
“Harassment.”
One against his forehead.
“Abuse of the birthday boy.”
Then Harris kissed his mouth, slow and warm and familiar. Troy finally gave up and opened his eyes to see Harris grinning at him.
“Oh, God,” Troy groaned.
“What?”
“You have plans.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The face you do when you know something I don’t know.”
Harris looked deeply offended. Troy rolled onto his back and stretched beneath the blankets.
It was late enough that sunlight had started sneaking through the gap in the curtains, painting a bright stripe across the bedroom wall. They had absolutely nowhere to be. The Centaurs had been given two days off after a brutal stretch of road games, and Troy’s birthday had happened to fall on the first one.
It was, according to Harris, fate.
Troy had spent the past week insisting he didn’t want a big deal made on his birthday. Harris had spent the past week responding to that statement with suspiciously noncommittal noises.
“What did you do?” Troy asked, narrowing his eyes at him.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“I made coffee.”
Troy considered that for a moment.
“Okay. That’s acceptable.”
“And breakfast.”
“Also acceptable.”
“And there might be presents…”
“Harris…”
“What?”
“I said I didn’t need presents.”
“I know.”
“So you bought me presents anyway?”
“Maybe…”
Troy stared at him. Harris stared back.
“Fine,” Troy sighed dramatically.
“Thank you.”
“But I’m not getting out of bed yet.”
“That’s okay.”
Harris shifted closer and tucked himself against Troy’s side. Troy immediately wrapped an arm around him.
That was another thing that had changed in the years since they first started dating. There had been a time where Troy had treated affection like something he had to ration. He’d wanted it, but he’d been almost painfully careful about asking for it, and especially careful about saying things that sounded too needy or too permanent. Now, Harris’s head landed against his shoulder and Troy’s arm went around him without thought.
Living together had changed things for him. They had moved in together after less than a year of dating, despite Troy spending several weeks insisting he should keep his apartment too, just in case, because moving in together too quickly could be the first step toward romantic disaster. Harris had pointed out that Troy already slept at his place more often than not, had half his clothes in Harris’s closet, had somehow taken over an entire drawer in the bathroom, and had moved his gaming console into the living room. Troy had tried to argue that none of those things constituted living together, but quickly admitted defeat when Harris had asked him where his toothbrush was.
They’d eventually moved out of Harris’s old apartment and into this house outside the city, choosing it together, signing the papers together, and naturally, arguing over furniture together. It was the first place Troy had ever lived that felt entirely like home.
Harris traced lazy circles over Troy’s chest.
“How old are you now?”
“Get out.”
“I forget.”
“You know exactly how old I am.”
“Thirty-eight?”
“Fuck you.”
“Forty-two?”
“I’m breaking up with you.”
Harris laughed. Troy rolled suddenly, trapping Harris beneath him.
“Oh no,” Harris laughed, “The elderly are attacking!”
“You’re only three months younger than me!”
“Still younger.”
Troy bent down and kissed him. Harris’s hands slid up his back. For a while, Troy forgot entirely about birthdays.
Eventually, Harris pulled back just enough to whisper, “Your coffee is getting cold.”
Troy froze.
“You actually made coffee?”
“Yes.”
“And left it downstairs?”
“On the ridiculously expensive warmer you insisted we need.”
Troy relaxed.
“You know me so well.”
“I do.”
Something about the simple certainty of that hit Troy unexpectedly hard. He did know Troy well. He knew that Troy hated tomatoes but liked tomato sauce. He knew that Troy got quiet when something was bothering him. He knew Troy secretly loved terrible reality television despite complaining through every episode. He knew Troy called his mom every Sunday night even when they had nothing to talk about. He knew when Troy needed space and when “space” was the absolute last thing he actually needed. He knew Troy hated having people sing “Happy Birthday” to him. And he knew Troy’s favorite cake (yellow cake with chocolate frosting).
Troy looked down at him. Harris’s smile softened.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Now you’re the one making a face. And that’s not a nothing face.”
“I love you.”
Harris’s whole expression warmed.
“I love you too.”
Troy kissed him once.
“Now feed me.”
Harris shoved at his shoulder as they both got out of the bed.
“Romance is alive!” he laughed.
Breakfast turned out to be waffles. More specifically, they were something Harris was calling “birthday waffles.” He had arranged a heaping pile of strawberries, whipped cream and sprinkles on top of a Belgian waffle before sticking a candle in the center.
Troy stood in the kitchen wearing sweatpants and a faded Drover Family Orchard t-shirt, staring down at the plate.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You put a candle in a waffle.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s your birthday.”
Harris lit the candle. Troy looked around suspiciously.
“If you start singing, I’m leaving.”
“I know the rule.”
The rule had been established during their first year celebrating Troy’s birthday together. No singing. Ever. Under any circumstances.
“Make a wish,” Harris ordered, leaning against the counter.
“I’m a grown man.”
“Make a wish, birthday boy.”
Troy rolled his eyes, but he looked at the tiny flame and thought about what he could possibly wish for. Another Cup was tempting. A long career. Healthy knees. Maybe even for their washing machine to stop making that weird noise during the spin cycle.
But then he looked at Harris, barefoot and hair still messy from sleep, smiling at him from across the kitchen. And Troy realized, with an almost embarrassing rush of emotion, that most of the things he’d once thought he would wish for had somehow become his life. He closed his eyes and made one anyway before blowing out the candle. Harris clapped.
“You’re obnoxious.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
After breakfast, Harris pushed a small wrapped box across the counter. Troy looked at is suspiciously.
“Harris.”
“One present.”
Troy looked at him again.
“Okay, I lied. There are multiple.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Open it.”
Troy pulled the paper away and opened the box. Inside was a key. He frowned.
“We already live together.”
Harris snorted.
“It’s not a house key.”
“A storage unit?”
“Wow. Romantic.”
Troy turned the key over. There was a tiny tag attached to it.
Drover Family Orchard
“What’s at the orchard?”
“You’ll find out.”
“Harris.”
“Finish your coffee.”
“You can’t give me a mysterious key and tell me to finish my coffee.”
“I literally just did.”
Harris kissed his cheek as he walked past.
“Get dressed. We leave in twenty minutes.”
When they got to the orchard, Harris led Troy towards the barn. Troy stood at the door looking between Harris and the small key in his hand.
“Why are we here?”
“You’ll see.”
“Harris, I swear to God, if there’s a surprise party waiting in there…”
“There’s not.”
Troy hesitated.
“You promise?”
“I promise there is no surprise party waiting for you in the barn.”
Troy opened the barn door to reveal an empty space. Well, almost empty. Sitting next to the tractor, there was a large wooden chest with a single birthday balloon.
“What the hell?”
Harris stayed behind him.
“Open it.”
Troy crossed the barn and kneeled down next to the chest. The key fit the lock. Inside were dozens of envelopes. Some had little drawings on the envelopes. Others had names written on them. Troy picked up the first envelope.
Mom
He glanced at Harris.
“Go ahead.”
Troy opened it. It was a birthday letter. A two page, handwritten letter. Troy read the first paragraph and had to stop.
“Harris…”
Harris stepped closer.
“What did you do?”
“I may have asked some people who love you to write you something.”
Troy looked inside the chest again. There were letters from his mom. Old coaches. Friends from high school. Teammates. His closest friends. Even a personal trainer Troy had worked with when he first moved to Ottawa who had apparently included a photograph from the time Troy fell asleep at the end of a yoga class.
Troy laughed despite the tightness in his throat.
“You contacted all these people?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Over the last couple months.”
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
Troy pulled another envelope out.
Harris
“That one’s for later,” Harris said.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“It’s my birthday.”
“And it’s my letter.”
Troy narrowed his eyes.
“Fine.”
They spent nearly an hour sitting together in the orchard while Troy opened letters. Some made him laugh. Some embarrassed him. A few made him cry. He tried very hard to hide that last part until Harris reached over and wiped beneath his eye with his thumb.
“Shut up,” Troy muttered.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking something.”
“I was thinking I love you.”
Troy swallowed.
“That’s worse.”
Harris kissed his temple.
When they finally packed everything away again, Troy sat back against a nearby tree.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“This is…”
He looked at the chest. Nobody had ever done anything like this for him. His family had celebrated birthdays when he was a kid with cakes and presents and parties. Teammates had dragged him out for drinks plenty of times over the years. But this was different. This wasn’t just about his birthday, it was evidence of the life he was building. And Harris had somehow understood that Troy needed to see that.
Troy reached out. Harris immediately took his hands.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
Troy tugged him closer until Harris was standing between his knees. He wrapped both arms around Harris’s waist and rested his forehead against his stomach. Harris slipped his fingers into his hair.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Just having emotions. It’s disgusting.”
“Tragic.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Never.”
After the orchard, Harris claimed they needed groceries. Troy should have known better. They did, technically stop at the grocery store, but Harris only bought a bottle of wine and tortilla chips.
When they got home, there were cars lining their street. Troy stared through the windshield.
“Harris.”
“What?”
“You promised.”
“I promised no surprise party in the barn.”
“You deliberately phrased it that way.”
“Correct.”
“You bastard.”
Harris parked the truck. Troy didn’t move.
“How many people?”
“Not many.”
“That means nothing coming from you.”
“It’s all people you like.”
“I like lots of people individually. That does not mean I want all of them in my house simultaneously.”
“It’s not a party.”
“There are at least ten cars in our driveway right now.”
“It’s dinner.”
“That’s a party.”
“A birthday dinner.”
“Party with food.”
Harris leaned across the console and kissed him.
“I promise it’s nothing crazy. Not even the whole team. Nobody you have to perform for. Just our people.”
Troy looked at him.
“Our people?”
“Our people.”
That softened something.
“Is Ilya here?”
“Of course.”
“Wyatt?”
“Yep.”
“Luca?”
“Yes.”
“Shane?”
“Of course.”
Troy sighed.
“Fine.”
Harris grinned.
“But if anyone sings…”
“They’ve been warned. Especially Ilya.”
The front door opened before they reached it. Ilya stepped onto the porch.
“Birthday boy!”
Troy pointed at him.
“Do not sing.”
“I would never.”
Shane appeared behind him.
“He absolutely tried.”
“Traitor,” Ilya mumbled.
Inside, the house was busy but not packed or overwhelming. Wyatt was in the kitchen opening wine with Lisa. Shane was trying to keep Ilya from knocking over the vegetable tray as he played with Chiron. A few of Troy’s closest teammates were scattered throughout the living room. There were balloons, but not an obnoxious number. A banner hung over the fireplace:
Happy Birthday Troy
Someone had added, in different handwriting:
OLD MAN
Troy looked at Harris.
“Ilya?”
“Ilya.”
“It’s true!” Ilya announced.
“You’re literally older than me.”
Everyone laughed, and that was it. The last bit of dread disappeared. Harris had been right. These were there people. Nobody expected Troy to be entertaining. There was far too much food. Everyone was getting along, and funny stories were being shared with photographic evidence whenever possible.
Eventually, Harris disappeared into the kitchen. Troy noticed immediately. He found him placing candles into a cake. Yellow cake, with chocolate frosting. Troy’s favorite.
“Need help?”
“Nope.”
Troy leaned against the counter.
“Did you make this?”
“Ordered it. From that bakery we tried the last time your mom was in town.”
“Incredible.”
“Go sit down.”
Troy caught his wrist and pulled him closer instead.
“Hey.”
“What?”
Troy kissed him.
“Best birthday I’ve ever had.”
Harris’s expression softened.
“We’re not done yet.”
“There’s more?”
“One more thing.”
Troy groaned.
“You’ve done enough.”
“I know.”
That answer made Troy pause. Harris touched his cheek.
“But you still have one more gift for when it’s just us.”
After cake - served without singing, under threat of Troy throwing Ilya into the pond in the backyard - the evening gradually wound down. People left shortly after Harris had cleared the cake away. Silence settled over the house.
“Thank God.”
Harris laughed from the living room.
“You had fun.”
“I had an excellent time. I’m also delighted they’re gone.”
“Fair.”
Troy looked around the house. There were half empty glasses on the table. Plates were stacked in the sink. Half a cake sat on the counter. Ordinarily, Troy would have started cleaning immediately. Instead, Harris caught his hand.
“Tomorrow.”
Troy looked at the mess, then looked at Harris.
“Tomorrow,” he agreed.
They went upstairs. Troy changed into pajamas and climbed into bed while Harris disappeared downstairs again.
When he came back, he was carrying the last envelope from the chest. Troy sat up.
“Oh.”
Harris handed it over before crawling into bed beside him.
“You want me to read it now?”
“If you want.”
Troy opened the envelope. The letter was longer than the others. Troy started reading. He got through half a page before his vision blurred.
“Jesus Christ.”
Harris shifted beside him.
“What?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“That good?”
Troy wiped his eyes.
“You know what you wrote.”
“I haven’t read it since.”
Troy continued reading. Harris had written about countless moments from their relationship. Big things, like their first date, the first time Troy had accidentally referred to Harris’s apartment as home, the day they signed the paperwork for the house. Tiny things, like the time Harris fell asleep on the couch waiting for Troy to get home after a late flight home from an away game, or making coffee together in the morning. Things Troy hadn’t known Harris remembered. And then, near the end:
I hope when you think about getting older, you don’t think about what you’re losing.
I hope you think about what you’re building.
Because I get to watch you build this life every day, and somehow I get to be part of it.
Troy froze. Harris watched him quietly as he read the last lines:
You are my favorite person to come home to.
You are my favorite person to wake up beside.
You are my family.
You are my whole world.
Happy birthday.
I love you.
Troy folded the letter carefully. For several seconds, he couldn’t speak. Then he put it on the nightstand.
“Harris?”
“Yeah?”
“Come here.”
Harris barely had time to move before Troy pulled him against his chest. They fell backward onto the pillows together. Harris laughed softly as Troy buried his face against his neck.
“You really liked it?”
“No. Terrible. Zero stars.”
“Though so.”
“I’m keeping it forever.”
Harris’s arms tightened around him.
“Okay.”
Troy was quiet for a moment.
“You know what I wished for this morning?”
“You’re not supposed to tell.”
“I think it’ll still work.”
“What?”
Troy pulled back enough to see his face.
“This.”
Harris frowned slightly.
“This?”
“More of this.”
Understanding slowly replaced the confusion as Troy gestured vaguely around them.
“This house. You. Our friends filling our kitchen. Ilya being mildly obnoxious. You putting candles in breakfast foods.”
Harris smiled.
“That’s what you wished for?”
“Pretty much.”
“But you already have it.”
“I know. That’s the point.”
For years, birthdays had always made Troy strangely restless. Another year older. In hockey, age was never just age. It was mileage. Questions about how many seasons you had left. He’d spent so much of his early twenties measuring his life in games played and goals scored and contracts signed.
But tonight, none of that seemed particularly important. Thirty years from now, nobody would care how many points he’d scored this season. But hopefully Harris would still be putting candles into waffles. Hopefully their friends would still be coming over for dinner. Maybe there would be more people around that table someday. Maybe their lives would change in ways Troy couldn’t even imagine yet.
But he wanted to find out. So that was his wish. More.
More ordinary mornings.
More crowded dinners.
More road trips.
More arguments over the thermostat.
More birthdays.
More years.
Harris kissed him.
“Happy birthday, Troy.”
Troy smiled against his mouth.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
Troy looked around their bedroom at the photographs on the dresser, at Harris’s book abandoned on the nightstand, at Troy’s sweatshirt hanging over the side of the hamper. All the small evidence of their shared life.
“For making it feel like there’s something worth celebrating.”
Harris’s expression went soft, then he kissed Troy again.
Sometime after midnight, Troy fell asleep with Harris tucked against him. The birthday letter was safely on the nightstand next to him. The remnants of a party waited downstairs. He was another year old.
And for once, he couldn’t think of anything better.