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Troy Barrett knew what it was to be unwelcome.
He had grown familiar with the careful distance that people kept away from him over the years for any number of reasons. He knew the neutral expressions that people used to mask their rage or disgust with him.
He was not, however, used to receiving that treatment from his fellow team members. That had been a recent development since he blew up all his bridges with Toronto, and more specifically, Dallas Kent. The Centaurs, he was coming to realize, had very little in common with his former team.
These men were openly affectionate with one another, knew each other thoroughly, were intertwined into one anothers' lives, and Troy recognized what it meant for a team to feel like a family. Or rather, to feel like a support system, considering that own family dynamic had little in common with the uplifting team spirit he saw in the locker room.
Troy just wasn't on the receiving end of it.
It broke his heart, but he couldn't blame them, really. They were perfectly cordial and professional to him, just cautious. Rozanov had been the only one who had taken any interest in him, and the only one who ever listened to him. He found that he had shared more with Rozanov than just about anyone else, really.
It had been the first team event that Troy attended with the Centaurs, one of Bood's barbecues, and he knew he had to be on his best behavior. His reputation had preceded him, and he couldn't give anyone a reason to doubt his intentions. He was no longer afforded the benefit of any doubt.
An apology was a good start, he thought. Each teammate deserved to hear it from him firsthand. He would be as sincere as he possibly could, and try to prove to his new teammates that they could trust him. Maybe it would take a while, but it could at least be a first step.
Rozanov was the first on his apology tour while they were at the barbecue, but it was not the reaction that Troy had been expecting.
"Barrett, you do not apologize to me. This is not necessary."
"Wait, what do you mean? I know I've said some shitty things to you - "
"Yes, Barrett, but we are the same, da? You and me, both villains of the league. Everyone hates us, and maybe we don't like it, but we play part anyway." Rozanov took a sip of his beer and shrugged. "You say something shitty, I smile and say something shittier back to you. Or maybe give you black eye."
"Cap, I'm being serious. I'm trying to, like, atone here. I know I need to earn everyone's trust."
"Yes, I agree, I am serious, too. But I am not everyone. Your words, they were not, eh, not so bad for me. I have heard worse. It was your anger, your hurt, like projection, yes? I have done the same. Believe me, we have very much in common. This apology is not for me."
Troy was about to protest that they were, in fact, very different people when Rozanov looked him dead in the face, and Troy knew enough to shut up at the intense glint in his eyes.
"But this team?" Rozanov gestured out to the players sprawled out across the patio and backyard. "They are good men. They deserve your apology. Not me." Rozanov took another sip and looked away. "And maybe we can learn to be better men, too."
The earnestness from Rozanov had caught him off-guard, but it struck a chord in Troy's chest. He truly wanted to be a better man, a stronger man than the one that had let Dallas Kent walk all over him. Stronger than the man that was quiet when his mother suffered the criticisms of his father. Stronger than the man that was too scared to be seen with his boyfriend in public and still slung homophobic chirps to emasculate other players.
Slowly, Rozanov helped coax him into minor acts of bravery, and looked out for him more than Troy thought he deserved. Those flashes of earnestness eventually got Troy to share some of his most closely guarded secrets over the months. And the world kept spinning.
The team still held him at arm's length despite his apologies. Wyatt Hayes, a fellow former Toronto Guardian, had explained it to him patiently when Troy decided to apologize for old behavior and promised to do better.
"It's the paradox of tolerance, Barrett. Tolerance cannot tolerate intolerance," Hayes said simply, as though that would explain the chilly welcome he had received. When it was clear that Troy was completely lost, he continued with only mild impatience.
"We want to be a welcoming team. Maybe we're the only welcoming, accepting team, really. It can be a tough league to be in if you're different. If we want to be known for our allyship, we can't be accepting of bigotry. I don't want this to turn into another Toronto."
Troy wanted to argue about that label, he wanted to disprove their idea of him and tell him he wasn't a bigot, but he knew where it came from. He hadn't earned their trust back yet. He also knew his identity was not an excuse for his past behavior, though nobody besides Rozanov even knew that he was gay. He had waited so long to say anything back to Kent, had egged him on the entire time, and he didn't even know how many bridges he was burning. He didn't realize that there was a place for him in the league all along.
He would have laughed at the irony if it didn't hurt so much.
On this particular night, he was just hoping to be strong enough to get through a few hours at a gay bar with all of his teammates and the New York Admirals without having a panic attack. Maybe he could even enjoy himself a bit and shed some of his old reputation. Maybe he could even find a hookup for the night and invite him back to the hotel. Maybe his teammates wouldn't notice, or wouldn't even care.
Troy realized that was a pipe dream by the second time he rushed to the bathroom to run through some breathing exercises just from seeing a cute guy wink at him across the room. His discomfort was probably not doing him any favors with his teammates, who were clearly being extra cautious about what they were saying in his presence.
There were several Admirals crowding in with the Centaurs around their booth at the Kingfisher, including Scott Hunter, who was definitely giving Troy the side-eye every once in a while. It was just enough to remind him to be careful about his own behavior, to be extra friendly and smile at all the right times. None of it came naturally to him. He wondered how obvious it was that he was putting up a front, or how obvious it was that he had no idea how to even go about being more authentic.
As Troy was wallowing in self-pity around his lack of self-actualization, Luca Haas was walking towards the table with a new drink in hand and a bright flush across his cheeks. Vaughn was the first to catch the man at the bar who had paid for the drink. The man was tattooed and wore dark clothes with leather accessories and a single diamond stud caught the light. There was a light smirk across his lips as he watched Haas walk away.
Vaughn gave a playful little tap on Haas's shoulder, which only deepened the blush on his face.
"Man, Haas, you know you can afford your own drinks on an NHL salary, right?" Vaughn teased the younger player.
"Nah, man, with a face card like that, he ain't paying for a drink at any bar," came the response from Holmberg, another Centaur who had been in the same rookie year as Haas. He reached out to ruffle Haas's hair, but Haas ducked away from him.
"Who says I was there for the drink?" Haas shrugged coyly before revealing a phone number written onto a cocktail napkin.
Dykstra let out a low whistle. "Dang, a number on a napkin? That's old-school."
"Yeah, but great for the aesthetic," Wagner countered from the Admirals' side. At some confused looks from his teammates, he put his hands up defensively. "What? My wife is a Pinterest addict."
"Good for you, rookie," Rozanov sighed, then took a large swig of his drink, just as Haas tried to protest the rookie status. Troy filed the drinking away as a question for another time.
"So are you breaking hearts in every city? Or just the fun ones like New York?" Hunter joked. Troy thought he caught a slight edge of concern in the veteran player's voice.
Haas didn't hear the same edge, and just shrugged. His blush didn't fade, though. "Eh, I don't really think I have the energy for that. Haven't really figured out what I'm into yet, anyway, though, so might as well explore while I'm young, right?"
A few of the older players, included both Hunter and Bennett, looked a little stunned at Haas's nonchalance. Before any of them could respond, though, the music on the speaker changed in the second room where there was some open flooring. Young jumped out of his seat and grabbed the shoulders of Haas and Holmberg.
"Holy shit, guys, this is our song! Remember? We have to go dance!"
"I'm not doing that stupid TikTok dance with you, Young," Haas groaned.
"If you change the choreo again and start twerking, I'm leaving," Holmberg said with conviction.
Despite their protests, the trio of second-year players trudged off to the dance floor following Young. Or rather, the empty space near the pool table that Young was about to turn into a dance floor through sheer determination.
"Can you imagine that scene playing out with any of our teams when we were rookies?" Bennett asked Hunter, chuckling and shaking his head. "Kids these days, man. Makes me feel so old."
Hunter smiled, clearly sharing the sentiment.
"Yes, was not the same before dinosaur went and kissed his child groom," Rozanov responded, gesturing to Hunter with his nearly-empty glass, but his delivery made the joke sound more bitter than fun. Bennett forced a laugh anyway while Hunter threw him the finger.
"Yeah, things sure have changed a lot in the last few years," Troy nodded. The remaining players shot him a sideways glance. Troy's face flushed. "For the better! To be clear. Things have changed, like, in a positive way. I'm happy to see it."
Rozanov blew a small raspberry beside him. "If only it was so simple. Has not changed everywhere. Some places are still shit." He took another drink. His accent was already getting a little thicker.
Troy remembered the little tidbits he had heard about Russia over the years and shuddered at the thought. He was glad he was born somewhere he at least had the law on his side. He was pretty sure that Rozanov hadn't gone back in a year or two, though, so he wasn't sure why that comment sounded so depressing. Perhaps he was just disappointed in the politics of his home country.
Before the conversation went any further, Kip and Kyle wedged themselves into the conversation between Hunter and Bennett. Kip laid his head on Hunter's shoulder and Kyle snuck a quick kiss to the underside of Bennett's beard. The easy PDA nearly brought jealous tears to Troy's eyes. He had no desire to go back to his cheating ex, but it was still a brutal reminder of his own loneliness.
"So there appears to be a dance floor opening in the other room…" Kip started, looking up at his boyfriend with exaggerated puppy eyes.
"And we're going to be pretty lonely if we're in there without our arm candy," Kyle finished with a peck to the back of Bennett's knuckles.
That was apparently all the encouragement the players needed to slip away from the table and onto the makeshift dance floor with their boyfriends. The crowd had begun to grow, and some more players seemed to consider joining, too.
"You coming, Hazy? Roz?" Bood asked as he got up to follow a couple of Admirals to the other room. Hayes got up, only slightly reluctant.
Rozanov shook his head, too, and tipped back the remainder of his drink. "No."
"Not even for one dance?" Chouinard clapped him on the back. "C'mon, we want to see 'Party Boy' Roz!"
Rozanov glared at him.
"Alright, have it your way, Cap." Chouinard backed off and joined the others.
Troy noticed that none of them asked him to join. He tried not to feel too hurt.
Eventually, Rozanov was the only one left at the table with Troy. Neither of them tried to start a conversation. Troy tried to look around and see if there was anyone worth meeting, but he couldn't find the courage.
There was one man who finally caught his eye, smiled, and headed towards their table. Troy's heart started pounding harder, until the man came close enough and it was clear that his eyes were trained on his captain instead.
"Ilya Rozanov?" Ah, so maybe the man was just a fan looking for an autograph.
"The one and only," Rozanov grumbled, staring at his empty glass instead of the new patron joining their now-empty table.
"I'm Matt," the other man extended his hand. When Rozanov didn't shake it, he slid into the round booth anyway. "How's your night going so far?"
"Weather is cold and rainy, we lost game, I am drowning my sorrows," Rozanov hummed as he listed his complaints. "Good music here, though. Senior citizens have discovered Spotify."
The other man laughed as though Rozanov's statement was a stand-up comedy routine.
"Wow, you're funnier than I expected. Sorry you've had a bad night. Your glass seems a little empty to drown in, though."
At that, Rozanov looked up at the bartender and raised his glass to signal another round. He was boxed in on either side of the booth, and getting out to actually walk to the bar would interrupt his sulking.
"Surely you can't be too upset about losing to the Admirals, though, they're a solid team."
"Eh," Rozanov waved his hand as if to say they were only so-so. "They were lucky."
"They've got a better record than the Centaurs this season."
Rozanov let out a breath and didn't respond.
"So what are you drinking?" The man asked after a few moments of awkward silence.
Maybe Matt was shooting his shot. Rozanov didn't seem very interested, though Troy didn't always trust his instincts on that front. He realized he had never actually seen Rozanov interested in people at bars.
"A mule," Rozanov finally answered.
"Oh, like a Moscow mule? Does it remind you of home in Russia?"
Rozanov gave him a withering stare. Matt didn't seem to notice or care.
"No. It is American drink."
Matt let out another obnoxious cackle. Rozanov did not laugh.
"Wow, you learn something new every day, huh?"
Troy wished that he knew how to end this particular kind of suffering. Second-hand embarrassment felt like needles under his skin.
"Do you miss the east coast at all, when you come back to visit?"
"Boston is not New York," Rozanov replied simply.
"And how do both of those compare with Ottawa now?"
"Very different."
"Yeah? What makes them so different?"
"One is in Canada."
Matt laughed. Rozanov did not. Troy tried to melt onto the floor.
His new drink arrived, and Rozanov took a large gulp. It was obvious he was deliberately avoiding eye contact. The silence hung again, and Troy wished he was anywhere else on earth. At least he wasn't the focus of this attention. Maybe, if he stayed still enough, they would forget he was ever there.
"Did you come here with anyone tonight?"
"Yes, I am here with the team. Both teams. We were invited."
"So there's no lucky woman tonight?"
Rozanov threw a sideways glance towards him. "We are at gay sports bar. Not many women."
"Hmm," the man sighed. "Are you not a fan of gay bars?"
Rozanov gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Being Russian does not make me homophobe."
"No, but you always seemed much happier at straight night clubs, if I recall correctly. So, have you hung up the womanizing for good? Or lost your touch, perhaps?"
Rozanov leaned back and faced the stranger, looking upset. He narrowed his eyes and scrutinized him.
"Who even are you?" He spat the words out. "What do you fucking want?"
Matt held his breath a second, then seemingly gave up the ruse.
"I'm a reporter with LIPZ Media. You skipped doing press earlier, so I just wanted to catch up with you after the game."
Rozanov's face fell. "Why did you not say so? I would have told you to fuck off much sooner. So please, fuck off, Max."
"It's actually Matt, Matt Beardsley."
The name hung in the air for a moment. Rozanov's face contorted into an angry sneer. There was clear recognition in his eyes. He took a deep breath, but it did nothing to cool the rage that seemed to be boiling over.
"Matthew fucking Beardsley," he growled. "You call yourself reporter? Think you are big journalist now? You are a fucking stalker, Beardsley. Every fucking time I walk out of club in Boston, oh, there you are, taking ugly drunk photos for your fucking blog. Telling whole world new rumors each week, new scandals every time I step out the fucking door. You think I do not remember your name after every tabloid runs your photos to call me names?"
"Now, Ilya, that's hardly —"
"No, I do not want to listen to your stupid voice!" His voice was rising in volume and pitch, and a couple of eyes started to dart over to their table. "No fucking comment for your bullshit article, I do not want to hear your voice or see your stupid fucking face!"
Troy just got out of the way in time for Rozanov to hurl himself off the seat and storm towards the back door of the bar. Hunter was summoned to the noise from their table right as Rozanov was leaving. He looked to Troy for answers, bewildered.
"He's a tabloid reporter," Troy said instantly, pointing at the frozen man across from him. "Roz hates him."
Troy hated how much he sounded like a petulant child. Hunter seemed to absorb the information regardless, and stared down at Matt with a stony expression. Matt opened his mouth with a wide smile, presumably to try and charm Hunter, too, but didn't get anywhere.
"Alright, up and out, man." Hunter waved him out.
By then, Bennett was on his way, too, and Troy wanted to remove himself from the scene as quickly as possible. He followed Rozanov's trail, realizing he must have gone out the back exit. Troy found him outside, hovering near the fence of the tiny back patio. There was nobody else there, given that it was barely above freezing.
Rozanov's fingers trembled as he shook out a cigarette from a crumpled pack and tried to light it. He muttered angrily in Russian each time the wind blew out his lighter. Troy approached with caution and joined him at the fence.
They stood there together in silence for a few moments. If Rozanov needed a minute before saying anything, Troy was not about to rush him. Eventually, his breathing evened out.
"I was sixteen the first time that a tabloid wrote about me. Was only hockey, at first." Rozanov's first words came out just above a whisper. He took a drag. "Then I developed reputatsiya… reputation. I earned reputation. Wanted attention, so much, vsegda zhadnyy, wanted very badly."
Troy's stomach turned at the thought of so much public scrutiny. He was always glad to hide in someone else's shadow and avoid anyone looking at him too closely or too directly.
"But I was just serdityy, a teenager, chertov rebenok. It does not matter to them. Does not matter if I change, That was twelve fucking years ago, and I am still chased by ghosts who only live in past." He paused and took another long drag. Some of the anger dropped from his shoulders as his drunken rant lost steam, and his voice cracked. "Too many fucking ghosts."
Rozanov's eyes seemed to glisten in the dim streetlights. Troy opened his mouth to try and come up with anything to say in response. After a few beats with his mind still woefully blank, the doors opened and Hayes emerged, trailed by Scott Hunter.
"Cap? Shit, are you doing okay? The fuck happened back there?" Hayes' face scrunched into a tight ball of concern.
"Roz, I'm so sorry, man, fuck," Hunter said frantically. "We kicked him out, Benny's making sure the bartenders and bouncer know he's not welcome back."
Rozanov waved them off, but kept his face turned away.
"Is fine. Should have known you cannot control your patrons, hmm?" Rozanov's chirp came out half-hearted at best.
"Cap, come on now —" Hayes started.
"No, it's fair. Did he say some shit to you?"
"Is fine, go fucking dance," Roz shot back bitterly, now turning towards them to sneer. "Is nothing new."
The three other players glanced at each other. Clearly none of them were about to go back inside.
"Roz," Troy gulped, "he was out of line. You didn't deserve all that."
Rozanov just scoffed. "He said I was womanizer. This is what everybody knows. 'Oh Rozanov, new woman every week.' Was true, once." There were new tears pricking at his eyes as he faced Hunter and gestured at him wearily. "I am not golden fucking hockey boy. Blyat. I can never be this."
"Rozanov," Hunter warned, though Troy wasn't sure what the warning was for.
"No, is true, I will never be known as something good. Never good enough." Rozanov appeared to be speaking directly to Hunter now, barely remembering the presence of his own teammates.
"And I cannot share moya lyubov, best thing in my life, show everyone is fucking wrong, because it would razoryat, ruin him," Rozanov sighed. Troy was starting to lose the thread of the conversation.
"Rozanov, stop talking," Hunter commanded. "You're drunk."
"Because he has so much to lose, because I am 'bad influence' and he is, fuck, so good, and I am not worth — fuck, and it doesn't matter how much I love him —"
In a second, Hunter's hand was clamped over Rozanov's mouth.
"Shut. Your. Mouth." Hunter's body was rigid, holding the drunk Russian in place.
Slowly, Rozanov's eyes wandered over to Hayes and Troy as if remembering they were there. He slumped into a crouching position then as a sob broke out of his chest, followed by quiet Russian mumblings. Hunter slowly turned around and looked each of them dead in the eye with the full authority of the veteran captain that he was.
"You're both going to keep your mouths shut. Understood?" His tone indicated it really wasn't a question.
Hayes, wide-eyed, nodded vigorously. "Fuck, dude, absolutely."
Troy sucked in a breath, taking a moment to fully process what had just happened. Hunter focused his glare on Troy then, taking a step forward.
"Barrett. Got something to say?"
"Oh, yeah. Totally," Troy nodded.
"Um, try again, Barrett," Hayes now piped up, one worried eyebrow raised.
"Yes, I will not tell anyone. I owe it to him, anyway." Troy took a breath. "Considering he didn't tell anyone about my boyfriend. Well, ex-boyfriend."
Hunter and Hayes both gaped at him.
"What?" Hunter finally managed. "You?"
Troy nodded.
"A boyfriend?" Hunter asked again, incredulous.
"Yes," Troy answered, shrinking back slightly, "for two years. Then, he cheated, then I punched Dallas, then I moved, and, well, Rozanov seemed to catch on. And, you know, he didn't tell anyone. So… yeah. I owe him."
"Right. Okay. Fine," Hunter responded, rubbing at his temples. Then he turned to Hayes. "Have you got any deep secrets to confess to?"
"Um, not really? Perfectly happy with my wife." Hayes shrugged. "I mean, I'm afraid of needles? Nobody really knows that, I guess."
Troy looked over at Rozanov. Crouched on the ground, he looked tired, shrunken, like the weight on his shoulders was collapsing him in on himself. He was tapping furiously at his phone, the remainder of his cigarette in his mouth. When he reached for a new one, Troy stepped over and crouched down beside him.
"So. Uh, you're in love with this guy?" Troy stuttered out awkwardly.
Rozanov sniffled and gave a small nod. Troy took a breath.
"Does he love you?"
Rozanov took a second, then gave another nod.
"Would he pick up if you called him right now?" Troy held his breath, really hoping he wasn't saying the wrong thing.
Rozanov hesitated. "Ah, is late, so."
"He'd answer," Hunter answered instead. He gave a small nod to Troy. The vice on Troy's lungs eased by a fraction.
Troy gestured at the phone already in Rozanov's hands. A hint of a smile crept across Rozanov's face as he opened his contacts list. Troy turned away, wanting to give him as much privacy as possible. After a few rings, the call clearly connected, and Rozanov let out a string of tearful Russian endearments.
Troy stepped away and faced the other players in front of him.
"You guys go and enjoy the rest of your night. I'll stay with him and get him back to the hotel when he's ready." He figured the team probably wouldn't mind his absence.
Hunter glanced between Troy and Hayes. "Really?"
Hayes shrugged again. "Honestly, Roz likes him." Hayes cut his eyes towards Troy. "I guess I'm starting to understand."
Troy nodded solemnly. "I am trying. I promise."
Hayes gave a squeeze to Troy's shoulder. His pitiful heart leapt at the show of trust and affection, however small it was. It didn't feel insignificant.
Hunter nodded. He looked again at Troy appraisingly, as though seeing him for the first time.
"I guess I had some things wrong about you, Barrett." Hunter gave him a nod as he headed back inside.
Troy exhaled and slumped against the wall. The night had gone quiet again, littered with sounds of muffled bar patrons and quiet murmurings from Rozanov on the phone. Troy pulled his jacket tighter around him and breathed in the cold night air.
When Rozanov finally hung up the phone, Troy took a small step towards him. His posture was more relaxed, but his eyelashes were still shiny with tears. He tipped out a new cigarette.
"Hey," Troy ventured. "We can head back to the hotel whenever you're ready. If you want to go early, I mean."
Rozanov tilted his head and shrugged. "Need to finish cigarette first."
"You got any more of those?"
"You smoke?" Rozanov raised an eyebrow as he fished out a new one from his carton.
"Not usually," Barrett replied as he lit the cigarette and put it to his lips, "but I think tonight calls for one."
"Harris will not like the smell of smoke on you, Barrett," Rozanov chirped as Barrett took a long drag.
"So I'll shower before I see him." His head snapped up after a moment. "Wait, the fuck are you talking about? How do you know —"
Rozanov chuckled and laid his head back against the cool brick wall.
"Your crush is not very, eh, subtle, Barrett. Good choice, though, Harris. You would be hot couple. Beautiful babies."
"Alright, fuck you." Troy snorted.
"Ah, no thanks."
They sat in silence for a beat, listening to the distant, never-ending hum of city traffic.
"You should talk to him. To Harris," Rozanov started quietly. "I think you may be very good fit." He took another drag of his cigarette. "Do not be coward like me. I have wasted so much time."
Troy let the words sink in slowly. It was maybe the most vulnerable thing he had ever heard him say. Neither of them had the strength for eye contact in that moment.
"I think I want to be brave," Troy whispered.
Rozanov smiled. "Me too."
They sat on the balcony together, wishing for the strength to do something better. Maybe, above the skyscrapers and the light pollution and the clouds, there was a star worth wishing upon. Maybe it would hear their unspoken pleas.
Troy took another drag and watched the smoke as it floated and disappeared silently into the night air.