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Troy, against all odds, likes playing Ottawa. Not for any of Ottawa’s actual amenities or the team itself, but for the simple fact that Ottawa always leaves the ice open far before their pre-game practice. Unlike most other arenas, Troy has time to go skate some lonely circles around the ice before the raucous flood of his team comes in.
He likes his team, for the most part. It’s fine. It’s exactly the kind of team he expected, and he blends in perfectly well among the macho posturing. He feels like an interloper—like the out of place, oversized chick in the nest, stealing all the food. But he gets to play hockey, and in Ottawa, he gets 45 minutes on the ice by himself.
Or, he usually does. Troy doesn’t even bother to check, he’s so used to it. He doesn’t put all his pads on yet, but he’s changed into compression leggings and basketball shorts, as well as his jersey. He laces his skates without even looking around the locker room, shoves in his headphones, and goes out to the ice.
Voices are normal. It’s not uncommon for staff to be milling about, getting things ready. What’s not normal, are the two figures already on the ice. One of them is by the boards, hand tapping on his thigh, whilst the other is moving, fluid on the ice in a way Troy can’t possibly fathom.
He knows ice. He knows skating. He holds his breath as the person launches themselves in the air, spinning multiple times before landing with that same fluid grace. Troy wonders how he’s never seen figure skating like this before.
The jumper slows, flipping long blonde hair over their shoulder. Still, Troy can see the wide expanse of his chest, pulling in deep breaths of air. He can’t hear their words over the thundering music in his ears, but he can see his lips moving. He can’t parse any of the words.
Troy clacks down to the edge of the rink, valiantly not flinching when both skaters whirl to face him. The blond scowls, glancing down at his bare arm before barking out something towards the benches. Belatedly, Troy notices a silver haired man sitting there with a bright smile. Then, horrifically, the blond starts yelling at Troy.
Usually, Troy has Dallas to hide behind. Dallas would puff up his chest and ask what the fuck these fairies thought they were doing on NHL ice. He’d laugh at the anger on the blond’s face, and he wouldn’t notice how pretty his eyes are or the elegant braids coming into focus now that he’s skating rapidly towards Troy.
“Shit,” Troy says, taking a large step back as the man snows the fuck out of him. He quickly pulls out a headphone against his better judgement. “What?”
“We have 45 more minutes until your fucking kiddy game practice,” the skater snarls, an accent Troy is too bewildered to place. “Fuck off.”
The other skater glides to a stop next to the first, placing a hand on the first’s shoulder. He’s got glasses, and short black hair. His eyes are deep brown like Shane Hollander’s. Troy got a startlingly long look at them two weeks ago when Dallas snarked something at the face-off and Hollander rolled his eyes and looked at Troy instead. He doesn’t remember what Dallas said. Only Hollander’s deep brown eyes and arched brow silently asking “can you believe this guy?”
Troy’s stomach twists uncomfortably.
“Yurio,” he says, gentle. “We are winding down, he is fine to start his warmups, I should think.”
The blond—Yurio, apparently, it's not an English name, and Troy isn’t completely sure it is a name yet—huffs. “I’m not sharing with them any more than I have to.”
“I’m early,” Troy admits. He sounds pissed. Dammit. He’s scowling too, but he’s not really sure what other face to make.
“We can share!” The man on the bench calls. He stands up and fuck he’s tall. Their accent is Russian, him and possibly Yurio.
Yurio’s face goes from furious to indignant in an instant. “Vitya!”
“Yes, yes, it’s good training!” Vitya(?) walks over, on his own pair of skates. “Skating circles around hockey players is good for you.”
“He’s not a prop,” the Asian man scolds before Troy has a chance to complain himself.
Vitya laughs, then leans over the boards and presses a shameless kiss on the man's cheek. Troy’s stomach does a fucking backflip. He might’ve actually flinched.
“It’s big ice, and you aren’t running the whole program again,” he reasons. He tugs on the end of Yurio’s ponytail, earning himself a punch that makes him yelp. “It’s true! You need to work on—“ and then it’s definitely Russian. Troy has no idea what he’s saying. Yurio says something back that includes “NHL.” Viktor waves a hand flippantly with his reply. Yurio relaxes ever so slightly. The Asian man adds to their conversation too, definitely also Russian.
“Fine.” Yurio skates back off to center ice. “If he checks me, we can test that NHL salary in court.”
Troy huffs. “I’m not stupid.”
“Sorry about him,” the Asian man says, offering him a hand. “I’m Yuuri, by the way.”
Troy does not want to introduce himself, but his name is on his back, and this skater was nice. And really hot.
“Uh, Troy.” And he shakes Yuuri’s hand.
“Where do you play?” Vitya asks, leaning over him curiously.
“Toronto.”
Vitya nods to himself. “I know a man who plays in Boston.”
Yuuri throws him a curious glance, but all he says is: “This is Viktor, and that is also Yuri. We call him Yurio to try and avoid confusion.”
“Oh,” Troy says, because he’s really fucking good at this whole conversation thing, and it’s still reeling from seeing Viktor kiss Yuuri just on the cheek. “We’ve got like, three guys named Dave.”
Both men laugh, and something unwinds just a little bit in Troy’s chest.
“Come on, let’s skate,” Yuuri says, then pushes off to join Yuri.
Viktor sheds his skate guards and slides onto the ice in the time it takes Troy to fiddle with his headphones and music enough to have it on but still be able to hear if they try to talk to him again. Specifically if Yuri skates near him at all. He does not want to be anywhere near that guy. Both because of his anger and because of the sort of oppressive hotness that has Troy wanting to squirm out of his skin. He leaves his skate guards on the bench and pushes off.
For the most part, Troy idly watches as the figure skaters work. Yuuri is mostly directing, but he walks through some of the step work with Yuri a few times. Both of them showcase another couple jumps that make Troy’s skating look ugly and childish. All Viktor does is skate loose laps around them and stare like a lovesick puppy, but it’s markedly different from the way Troy skates. Troy does loose stretches—the ones that don’t require his unpadded ass on the ice—and spends his time doing casual laps in the short section of ice they’d left him. He’s fine with it.
Dallas would’ve fought for more. He would’ve gotten physical with Yuri, probably. Not throwing punches, but definitely a shove or two thinking it would get him to back down. Dallas would demand he takes up exactly as much space as he thinks he deserves.
Troy thinks he might be taking up too much himself. He doesn’t say that though. That’s not confident enough. He straightens his shoulders and skates on. His music thrums in his ears and he lets it guide his legs.
And for thirty minutes, that's fine. Then the figure skaters start stretching.
Troy narrowly avoids knocking his blades together and falling on his face as Yuri gracefully lifts a leg and sets it atop the boards. His torso leans forward, gently sliding his planted skate back until his split is further than perfectly flat. Troy’s never even seen a goalie go that far. After some time that Troy spends frozen, Yuri switches legs.
Yuuri and Viktor have left the ice, stretching instead on yoga mats spread out in the tunnel.
Troy doesn’t even notice he’s drifted closer until he’s too close for comfort and his skates make too loud a noise as he steers himself away. Yuri just looks at him with a sneer.
How the fuck did they do that? It’s fucking mesmerising. Alarmingly erotic. Could Troy get away with watching men’s figure skating? It’s not like anyone’s actually checking his search history but the fear persists like a tick stuck just out of sight.
Troy barely remembers practice. The game is so easy it hardly stands out. There’s a couple of guys on the team that are good, but something just never clicks. Someone jokes that Ottawa is where good men go to die. Troy laughs with everyone else and thinks about the lines already erased carved by the figure skaters’ blades.
What he wants to do is hide away in his room and watch incriminating skating videos until the morning when they can go back to Toronto and rest, since the nightlife in Ottawa just makes the other guys mad, but Dallas wants a drink anyways.
Troy goes to the bar.
It’s busy for Ottawa. Lively, too. Dallas looks around the room with a quiet wonder.
“Maybe we will get lucky,” he mutters, nudging Troy with his fist, grin spreading. “Check out all those chicks over there.”
Troy follows his gesture, nodding. There’s two groups of women sitting at the tables across the bar. “Think they’re figure skaters?”
Dallas raises a brow. “Why?”
“Oh. There’s a competition this weekend, didn’t you read any of the fuckin signs, man?”
Troy had only been looking because he nearly tripped over his stick when he caught a glimpse of Yuri on the poster.
Dallas shakes his head. “Nah. But that sucks, they’re probably gonna be fuckin’ uptight. Think they brought their fairy boyfriends with them?”
Troy shrugs. He hopes not. He doesn’t want any of them to recognize him. Especially not in front of Dallas. Especially not Yuri.
“Maybe you should offer to help with their stretches,” Troy says, thinking of the deep split Yuri had maintained like it was nothing.
“Ohhh, someone has been paying attention, huh? Actually gonna pick up?” Dallas teases. He passes over his card to start a tab, getting them both a beer. “Honestly, some of these bitches might perform better after a good fuck. Too bad we won’t see the fruits of our labor, eh?”
Troy snorts, rolling his eyes. “I’m not apologizing for keeping my dick out of every pussy that runs in front of me.” Better if Dallas doesn’t know he hasn’t touched any woman.
Dallas just shrugs and nods to the bartender when he gets his beer. He takes a long drink, wiping the wetness away with his thumb when he pulls the bottle away. “Maybe you’d relax if you did.”
“I’m relaxed,” Troy lies, very practiced in the art.
Dallas doesn’t call him out, instead surveying the room. Troy idly sips his own beer as he waits. The nicest thing about Dallas is that he never lets the silence suffocate—he will always find something to say. And Troy is safe in the knowledge that when Dallas is quiet, he isn’t looking at Troy.
“Those guys, over there,” Dallas says finally, gesturing with his bottle. “Those are the fags, I bet.”
Troy’s stomach curls uncomfortably. He takes another drink and looks.
He doesn’t know any other figure skaters, but Victor is hard to miss. He is tall even among the men and stands out with his shock of silver-blond hair. He’s laughing at something the man next to him has said, loud and unabashed.
“Why?” Troy asks, a practiced, even disinterest in his voice that borders on disgust.
He doesn’t say that the skaters look just like them, in a way. Strong, tall. Their muscles may be trained differently, but they’d hold in a fight. Troy would like to avoid a fight.
“There’s something faggoty about them,” Dallas says, disgust palpable.
Troy wonders, not for the first time, if he was ever so obvious that he could be picked out of a room and splayed open.
“Well they aren’t with the girls now, so this might be your only chance.”
Dallas nods, then flags the bartender down to send a round to a table. He had the money for it, and girls tended to like that show of… good faith? Dallas liked that it meant he didn’t have to pick just one girl to flirt with yet.
Troy keeps an eye on Victor, spotting Yuuri across the table from him. Water in his glass, it seems like. There’s another two other guys with them, a shorter one with blondish hair and a shock of red at the front. The other has light brown skin and thick eyebrows.
“The redhead looks your type,” Dallas comments. “Deadly.”
Troy looks over. There is a redhead. It looks too dark to be real but it’s hard to tell in the dim lighting. She’s grinning at the girl next to her, a dark skinned woman with a softer looking outfit compared to the harsh lines of the redhead’s low cut top. They’re sitting away from the other girls, just the pair of them. That must be where the drinks are going.
“You think I’m trying to get murdered just to get my dick wet?” Troy scoffs.
Dallas punches him, but it doesn’t hurt. It just rocks him a little, and they both chuckle.
“Alright, alright, what about the other one? The dark one. Pouty lips on her.” Dallas muses for a moment, surveying the women. Their drinks arrive and the bartender points towards them. Dallas gives a charming grin, and the girls give tittering laughs and wave. Dallas murmurs out of the corner of his mouth. “Bet she’d give a killer blowy.”
Troy could probably use a blowjob. Too bad he really doesn’t want one from any of the pretty women across the bar.
The girls are still glancing over, whispering to each other. Dallas takes his cue. “You comin’?”
Troy does not want to.
“Yeah, course.” Dallas put in all that effort, after all, choosing the table with a pair just for them. He’s a good wingman when he wants to be. Too bad Troy never wants him to be.
They make their way over, Dallas with his shoulders back like he’s the star of the room and Troy behind him like a horrible shadow. He feels the male skaters gazes finding them.
“How are you lovely ladies?” Dallas asks, a charmer until he isn’t.
The redhead laughs. “Very well, thank you.” Her accent is painfully familiar and Troy very bravely does not flinch. Russian.
“You’re in town for the competition?” Dallas asks. “What a coincidence, we’re here for one of our own.”
The darker woman leans forward, babydoll brown eyes wide with interest. They look nothing like Yuuri or Shane Hollander’s. “You are hockey players, then? The winners.”
Dallas puffs with pride and Troy feels a little bit of it too, even if it’s just Ottawa.
“Yeah,” he says. “We are.”
“Yurachka was so mad,” the redhead says, not to them. “Sharing ice with hockey men. Bleh!” She giggles.
Troy wishes he stayed at the bar and sips at his beer, even though there’s almost nothing left.
“Aw, baby, we aren’t so bad,” Dallas says, pulling up a chair to their table. He slides in next to the redhead, and she doesn’t shy away.
“He said it was a cute one, though,” the darker girl says, surveying Dallas and Troy thoughtfully. “I think you have been spared too many pucks to the face.”
Dallas laughs, and Troy tries to mimic it even though he feels like his nervous system is trying to vibrate out of his body. That couldn’t mean him, right? Anyone else. Literally anyone. Troy can’t have other men thinking he’s cute.
“And spared too many concussions,” Dallas says, leaning in. “Tell ya a secret, I’ve only had three.” He holds up four fingers and the girls laugh and laugh.
Troy gets why someone like Dallas gets around. He knows how to talk to people. He knows what to say to get people to open up just enough for him to worm his way in. Troy can’t seem to do the same. And with girls, he doesn’t really want to. All he’s done is made out with a few at clubs and when his dick wasn’t getting hard against their grinding ass, they left.
“So there is some brain still left,” the redhead says. “I am Mila, hockey boy. Who are you?”
“Dallas,” he says, with a grin. “But the boys call me Kent, like Superman.”
The other girl claps her hands together happily. “How fun! I’m Sara!”
“Troy.”
Mila looks at him curiously, but doesn’t dig at him. She focuses in on Dallas, the willing party.
“You score many goals tonight, Dallas Kent?”
“Two,” Dallas preens. Then he remembers to wingman and nudges Troy. “This guy right here got a goal and an assist.”
“An assist?” Sara asks.
Mila nods. “Means he helped another goal. Like pairs, rewards for teamwork.”
Sara nods. “That is cute.”
Troy resists the urge to squirm and settles himself with a snort.
“There are tons of ways to be rewarded for teamwork,” Dallas says, winking at Mila.
Mila does not blush, but she grins. Her eyes flicker over Dallas like she’s considering something, and Dallas leans back in a way that shows off the hard lines of his body. He trains not just for function, but for vanity. The occasional drugs probably make it harder, in Troy’s opinion.
“I like teamwork,” Mila comments, a little mildly. “Is important.”
“I can work with that,” Dallas says, shrugging.
Mila hums, but does not continue. Troy is somewhat glad he isn’t part of the dance.
Sara scoots over to Troy. “You know, you are very pretty.”
Troy hates that he blushes, heat on his cheeks and ears and the back of his neck. It’s fucking embarrassing. “Um, you are too.”
Sara giggles, a light little thing. “I do not think your friend will have as much luck with Mila as he wants. Will I have luck with you?”
The men in Troy’s head that rule his life tell him yes, of course. Be a man! His insides squirm and his traitorous heart pounds like he’s in danger.
“We have an early flight…” is what he says, which means everything and nothing all at once. Sara puts her hand on his forearm but backs her torso away from where it has leaned close.
“Yes, our competitions start so early! What time do you get up for practice? Mila says her coach has her up at 4 some days!”
Troy nods. “5:30, most days. But other guys show up closer to start, at like 7.”
“I prefer to sleep later. Then you have energy to practice later. Siesta, then go out!”
“Where are you from?” Troy asks. “Mila is Russian, right?”
“Yeah! I am Italian. Many Russians here this time, since Victor came with the Yuris. Coach Yakov is kicking around somewhere, though we all think he should be resting at home.”
Troy glances back at the men. Victor isn’t watching them. Neither are either of the Asian men. But the last one has his eye on them, half turned to them.
“Your friends?” he asks.
“Oh, yes, the male skaters. Mila trains with them, and my brother is one too. He didn’t get picked for this one, so I made him stay home. It’s good for him.”
“How so?”
Sara starts in on her brother, but Troy is only half listening. He watches the other man tracking them. He looks back at Mila to find her closing off. Her brows have dropped and her arms are loosely crossed across her chest. Flattening her breasts, not propping them up, which Troy knows to look for. Dallas had pointed out the difference before. When to change tactics, he called it. Troy thought it best to move on.
“I’m sure hockey stretches are different from dancin’ stretches,” Dallas says, leaning forward but not touching her yet. “I bet you could show me a thing or two.”
Mila rolls her eyes. “If you wanted to learn rather than watch, maybe.”
“I’m a great learner,” Dallas defends, as if he has ever tried.
The bar door opens, and Dallas doesn’t bother looking, but Troy does. He wishes he didn’t as his stomach solidifies into a pit that rolls around like a pinball.
Yuri looks as stunning as ever. His hair is pulled back still, braided tight on the sides. He slides off his sunglasses—as if he needed them in the night outside—and surveys the bar. Unlike his simple skating clothes, his outfit is made to draw attention. Tight pants with shiny studs up the side. A leather jacket with spikes across the shoulder and pins down the lapel. His shirt underneath is ripped to hell and shows the hint of his sleek muscles underneath.
Troy had always known figure skaters to be slim, feminine figures. Yuri’s hair fit the bill, shiny and long and distracting. But Yuri held his broad shoulders high and did not seem to care if that was not the norm. The cut of his jaw felt painfully masculine, and in the lowlight of the bar Troy could almost imagine the shadow of a beard.
He vaguely notes that there's a man with him, a little bit taller and broader, but more restrained in his simple tight jeans and plain leather jacket. He has two helmets at his hip—motorcycle ones.
Yuri exchanges a few words with the men before his gaze lands on Troy. Who is still staring at him. Fuck.
Yuri’s mouth quirks up just a tiny bit before it sets into a hard frown. Troy looks away even though he can feel Yuri’s approach.
“Yurachka!” Mila greets, suddenly lively again. “There you are, you are so late, we have had to speak to hockey players!”
“Well, get rid of them,” Yuri spits, forcing a chair between Mila and Dallas. He puts himself there like a hound and tilts his chin up as if daring Dallas to cause a scene. “We had to get rid of the fucking Angels.”
“Oh, how tragic, wasting away while snuggled up behind Otabek,” Sara sighs, chin in her hand.
Dallas' face twists into a grimace. His hand had touched Mila’s arm whilst Troy wasn’t looking, but now he’s skittered back to put distance between himself and Yuri.
“You fuck him then, if you think he is so great!” Yuri snaps. “He needs to get laid anyways.”
“Ah, you are right,” Mila says, nodding. “Do not need to teach him anything. Come, Sara.”
“Huh? Okay.” Sara stands, grabbing her drink. “Bye, Troy! It was nice to meet you!”
The man who was watching them greets Sara with kisses on both cheeks, whilst Mila presses into the biker—Otabek’s—side and begins speaking.
“Too bad,” Yuri says. “Just left with me.”
“What the fuck, man,” Dallas spits. “Why the hell did you—“
“Mila is smart woman,” Yuri says, cutting Dallas off without a care in the world. “If she wanted to fuck you, I could not stop her. And yet, she is not here.”
Dallas glowers at him. “If you think we’re gonna shack up with you just because you chased the girls off you’ve got another thing fuckin comin.”
Dallas’ hands are balling into fists on the table, rage bubbling under the surface.
“The fuck would I want you for?” Yuri asks, raising a brow. He’s not even looking at Troy but it still makes his stomach jolt uncomfortably. Troy really could throw up.
“Fuckin’ faggot coming in here and running off all your competition. Bet you think you’re pretty enough to be a girl with all that hair too, huh?” Dallas snarls, moving to get up.
Troy should do something. They can’t be getting into bar fights, not during the season—not in general, actually. Yuri has a competition tomorrow. Dallas and Troy need to be on a plane. This can’t go anywhere good.
But Yuri doesn’t shy away or even look particularly bothered by any of it. He fits his gloves more snugly on his hands like a threat. Troy wonders why he’s so fucking useless.
A hand lands on Dallas’ shoulder and pushes him back into his seat.
“Kent. Plisetkey.”
Dallas freezes.
“Rozanov,” Yuri says evenly.
What the fuck? What the fuck is he doing here? Where did he come from? Troy has never been so grateful to see a rival because Dallas looks like he’s regained a sense or two with another NHL player in the room. It would look even worse in the press like this.
“The hell are you doing here?” Dallas says, shrugging his hand away and turning to look at him.
Rozanov lets him go, stepping back into the space behind Dallas and Yuri’s shoulders.
“Meeting with friends.” He holds up a hand, his pinky splinted. “IR this week, you know. Can visit.”
“Who the fuck is in Ottawa?” Dallas demands.
Rozanov grins. “Plisetsky.” He nods towards the skaters. “Nikiforov. Russia’s pride, you know. Five gold in a row.”
“Why are you bragging about that shitty old man? Brag about me, loser!” Yuri spits, kicking at Rozanov, who dodges easily.
“Ah, your golds are not in a row, though. Katsuki keeps taking them, as I recall. Even Otabek has one, yes? Terrible for us, Yuri.”
Yuri punches him, and Rozanov pretends to be terribly hurt and rubs his arm. “I am sent to my grave. Tell Hollander I beat him there.”
Yuri rolls his eyes and says something in Russian, to which Rozanov huffs.
The bafflement is overriding Dallas’ anger, at least.
“Let’s go,” Troy says. “We have to get up early anyways.”
Dallas reluctantly agrees, paying his tab and trudging back to the hotel.
Troy feels Yuri’s eyes on his back long after they’ve left the bar.
He remembers, sitting alone in his room, that Victor had mentioned knowing a player in Boston. It makes sense, now, that it was the only Russian currently playing in Boston. Troy wonders if they’re friends enough that Rozanov would exaggerate an injury in order to come to their competition or if he’s actually that hurt. He’s pretty sure Rozanov is too serious a player to skip out on games, but what does he know?
At 3:00 am, Troy watches Yuri Plisetsky’s entire senior skating history.
At 5:00 am, they learn that there will be no planes leaving for Toronto, as a winter storm has engulfed the receiving airport and it’s unsafe to fly until the storm ceases, purportedly in two days time.
At 6:00 am, they learn the hotel cannot give them their same rooms, as everything is booked for the skating competition.
By 9:00 am, every player is grouped with three others and shoved in a room with vouchers and apologies from the airport that aren’t worth even a meal in the terminals.
By 11:00 am, they learn that several figure skaters had learned of their predicament and doubled or tripled up their rooms in order to give the hockey guys rooms.
Troy has never felt worse in his life.
The team lingers around the bar, unwilling to shove themselves into their rooms and also unwilling to get plastered yet.
Hayes is the only one who seems excited. Because of course he does.
“I’ve never gotten to watch figure skating in person,” he is telling a rookie. “Now we can just go? For basically free? It's awesome! I can’t believe everyone doesn’t wanna go.”
Troy doesn’t want to not go. He wants to watch Yuri do the things he did in practice in full. He doesn’t want to explain why he wants to go.
“Opening ceremony is tonight,” Hayes reads off of a pamphlet he got from somewhere. “Women tonight, and Paris? What does that mean?”
“That says Pairs,” the rookie says.
“Oh! Shit. I can read, okay. Women and pairs tonight. Men's tomorrow. And ice dancing, which is somehow different from pairs? I clearly have no idea.”
He wonders about pairs, and the guys will probably go to the women’s. No one will go to the men's. Hopefully, they’ll be gone by then.
“When does it start?” Troy asks.
Hayes' head snaps up. He looks as surprised as Troy feels.
“Really?”
“Not the ceremony. Fuck that shit. The actual skating.”
“7! I’ll save you a seat, man!”
“Uh, thanks.”
Hayes grins like this is the best day of his life—he kinda acts like every day is the best day of his life and it freaks Troy out. Where is he getting all this stuff to be happy about?
Troy finishes his shitty, barely diet approved but appropriately apologetic, free lunch and goes up to find his new room.
He finds it well enough. And in a twist of fate he should’ve seen coming, Yuri is coming out of the room next door.
“Troy,” Yuri says, smirking at him like he knows something he shouldn’t. He doesn’t seem mad anymore, and Troy almost wishes he did.
“Yuri. Hi.”
Yuri glances down the hall behind him. “Where’s your friend?”
“Dallas? I don’t know. I’m not his keeper.”
“I noticed.”
Fuck. Does he apologize? He should’ve told Dallas to shove it. How? What was safe?
“I do not promise to be quiet,” Yuri says.
Troy flinches. “He’s rooming with me. And two other guys.”
“Well, he’s not invited. But he can jerk off to it if a fairy moaning is what does it for him,” Yuri says, a vile kind of grin on his face. He likes that Troy is uncomfortable.
“Fuck off,” Troy says, fumbling with his room key.
Yuri’s voice lowers, a little deeper and a lot quieter. “You wanna be invited, Troy?”
“N-no! What the fuck?”
Yuri laughs. He’s laughing at him, and Troy should want to punch him, but he really would rather explode and cry in the shower for a while. Maybe he doesn’t want to watch any skating.
“You should watch Katsuson’s program from 2015. Eros. You will like it.”
“You’re fuckin’ weird.”
“I know what I want, Troy. I take steps to get it. What do you do?”
Hide, Troy thinks as he shoves his door open. Hide and cower and let others take the hits. He wishes the world was as easy as hockey, where absorbing hits felt natural. A bruise was just a bruise and faded with time.
Yuri, thankfully, does not try to follow him into his room or taunt him further.
Troy finds the program. Yuuri Katsuki, On Love: Eros, 2014.
It’s a lot.
Not only does he watch this program centered on sexual love, he also watches video after video of Yuuri and Viktor. Skating together, at first, then at the kiss and cry—which he learns is what it’s called while they wait for scores. It quickly devolves to compilations of them. Kissing their rings—matching bands of gold. Yuuri grabbing Viktor by the tie. Pictures of Viktor holding a wasted Yuuri. A moment caught from a million angles just called “the kiss.”
Troy learns of a world he’s never been invited to. A Scott Hunter moment hidden hundreds of miles away where no one ever thought to look. No one in hockey. Troy had never heard of them before today.
He wonders if that's how Rozanov knows them.
Scott Hunter talked about all the players who told him they gave him hope.
Troy had felt it, just a flicker. And the Guardians stamped it right back down. They ground him right back into his place by the season opener.
Yuri had Viktor and Yuuri. And he doesn’t seem ashamed. He seems free.
Troy clears his Youtube watch history and takes an ungodly cold shower. He’s shivering as he dresses.
The other guys come up sometime not long after.
“What do you wear to a figure skating competition?” one of them asks.
Troy shrugs. He’s only brought his suit and his sweats, and he’s sure as fuck not wearing his suit.
“Ugh, my T-shirt totally has a hole in the pit,” the other guy grumbles. “Barrett, you got a spare?”
“Never do, dude. I don’t spill my food every meal.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you, too.”
They chuckle, and Troy wonders if it will ever feel natural. If he will ever feel like he isn’t performing.
“Okay. Dress shirt and sweats look really bad, right?”
“Yes,” they both reply.
“Wow. Good to know. I didn’t even bring jeans because I knew we weren’t going out!” He groans, throwing his head back. “We should’ve gone shopping.”
“If we have to stay any longer, I’m buying underwear. No chance I’m rewearing game day underwear,” Troy mutters with a shudder.
“I think they have a cleaning service?”
“Do you think it’ll come out of our salary or the compensation from the unexpected stay?”
Everyone shrugs and Troy feels a little more normal. He stares at nothing on his phone whilst the guys change into something vaguely more presentable than what they were wearing in the lobby. They don’t look nice. But at least they don’t look like they’d gone to the gym first. They look like they’re going after.
They walk to the TD Arena, looking like a lost pack of jocks rather than intentional patrons, but they make it without being heckled or stopped, and that’s a nice thing on its own. Usually Dallas gets stopped, no matter the city. Well, he gets stopped or stops to chat with a cute girl he passes.
They get in as people are shuffling, but another guy who joined them in the way has a text of where Hayes is sitting so they pick their way through the crowd. It's odd to see the arena dressed up for something other than hockey, but it isn’t bad. It’s almost nice.
Hayes waves at them, who has apparently packed jeans and a nice polo that makes him look put together instead of like a douche. His curls are ruffled like they were done artfully. He looks better than the rest of them combined. Troy wonders if that's the effect of having a wife or if Hayes is just a little smarter than them.
“Women’s singles starts in like five, they just stopped doing their warmup thing,” Hayes explains as they get settled. “Here, I took a video for Lisa.”
A phone is pushed into Troy’s hand. He spots the girl from the bar instantly, her hair a bright winey red under the good lighting. She practices a leap that sends her high into the hair, spinning and landing in a graceful arc. He thinks he can see the other one in the background, but it’s harder to tell with her out of focus.
“Wow,” another guy says. “How the fuck do they spin like that? I think I’d break my damn ankle.”
Troy nods absently and scans the rink-side for a shock of red hair. He can’t see any, so she must not be first.
He doesn’t know the first woman, or the second, but their programs are beautiful. Before last night, he’d never seen anyone jump like that on the ice. Now he can only compare them to Yuri. He’s pretty sure Yuri is better.
The girl is third. Mila is her name. She waits patiently at the boards for the scores of her opponent to be announced.
“Damn,” someone says down the line. “She’s drop dead gorgeous.”
“She turned Dallas down at the bar last night,” Troy says, even though he really shouldn’t. “Rozanov was there.”
Everyone turns to look at him.
“What?”
“Bro, don’t drop that and act like we don’t have questions?!” a defenseman snaps and shoves him, mostly good naturedly. “Rozanov? Why?”
Troy shrugs. “He knows some of the Russian skaters. Her, too, I think.”
“What’s he doing in Ottawa?” someone else asks.
Hayes snorts. “Broke his pinky. Furious they won’t let him play on it straight up so he left to do IR somewhere else. No one knew where, till now I guess.”
“I’ve definitely played on a broken finger,” someone grumbles.
“Fuckin’ elites,” The defenseman huffs. “They baby those guys.”
Troy shrugs. “Protecting the assets or whatever. Isn’t he up for renewal this year?”
“Oh, yeah! He hasn’t re-signed with Boston yet. They’re nervous,” Hayes adds.
Troy didn’t know Hayes knew so much, to be honest.
“Where would he go, if not stay there?” Troy asks, a little mystified. Boston loves Rozanov. The fans, the women, the players. Why wouldn’t he stay?
Hayes shrugs. “No clue. He’s not said a damn thing about where he’s going, and I bet he won’t. I know a couple of their AHL guys, they’re saying nobody knows, not even the guys who have been hanging with him his whole career.”
Damn. Hayes is a gossip. Troy wonders what he says about them. Probably doesn’t have much to say. Nothing nice, at least. He hopes Hayes doesn’t know that Troy had been five minutes later than usual last week because he had stopped to let some ducks cross the road.
“When you’re Ilya Rozanov, I bet you can go wherever you want. You just have to say the word, and anybody’ll say just ask how much,” someone sighs.
“Unless it’s Montreal,” Troy jokes.
He almost smiles when everyone laughs.
Mila takes center ice, the lights dimming to focus on her. Based on the quiet whistles from the men beside him, her outfit on the ice is just as alluring as the one she had worn in the bar is.
She begins slow as sensual music peals out of the speakers. Troy leans forward as she moves, following her footwork with just a little more attention. Her speed ramps quickly and before Troy can blink, she’s in the air. The crowd gasps in awe, her skate carving a beautiful arc as she lands and continues.
The other women had been beautiful, of course. But Mila moves like Yuri, and it’s all Troy can see.
Yuri’s earlier programs had his body moving like this, arcing and swaying with the music. His steps fluid in a way that hockey never was and hair fluttering behind him. Mila’s jumps seem perfect, landing just like Yuri’s had to Troy’s untrained eye. All he can tell is that something about them is similar.
Mila stops with a flourish, posed elegantly back on center ice, her head back and chest pulling in air in short heaves. She’s smiling, he thinks. She’s beautiful.
Troy hopes they are stuck another day so he can watch Yuri skate.
Sara goes last. Troy remembers her name about half a second before it sounds over the speakers. Her program is a similar level of beautiful. Hayes says something about her being “absolutely breathtaking” and references some nerd shit that no one understands, but one of the guys humors him a little. He half pays attention when Hayes starts trying to explain the scoring, Wikipedia pulled up on his phone. They’ll earn more points later, but right now Mila is in first, and Sara is in second. Cool.
Troy watches the workers clear the ice of flowers and snow in preparation for the pairs skates. The first pair is preparing to take the ice when an accented voice calls from the stairs.
“Hey! Troy!”
He turns—as do most of his teammates—finding Mila off to the side. Sara stands next to her, grinning.
“Mila?”
“Yeah! Come sit with us,” she says, waving him over.
“Guess we know why Dally didn’t score with her,” the defenseman chuckles.
“Shut the fuck up,” Troy hisses, as if Dallas could hear him. To the girls, he says, “Um, right now?”
Sara laughs, nodding. “Yes, yes! Come watch with us.”
Troy glances back at his teammates. Unlike Dallas, none of them are looking at him with anything more than amusement. They don’t seem jealous. At least not outright hostile.
“Go!” Hayes chuckles, nudging him. “Our lips are sealed.”
Troy cannot even begin to explain any of the reasons why he may not want to go with them, so he shuts the fuck up and rises. At the very least, he doesn’t feel underdressed anymore. They’re both wearing leggings and pullovers.
“Hope you boys enjoy our old rooms!” Mila calls behind her as she leads Troy away. Thankfully, they laugh.
“Where are we going, exactly?” Troy asks, because his mother raised him not to run off with strangers.
“Yurio said you were coming tonight,” Sara explains, which just makes Troy feel a little sick. “And Viktor said his hockey friend won’t sit with him unless there’s more of you, so we figured you would come sit with us too!”
“You want me to sit with Rozanov?” Troy asks, closer to a squeak than he meant or wanted.
Mila raises a brow. “Vitya loves Ilyusha. You will get on fine, for one night. Yuuri says his cousin is coming too, yes?”
“Oh! Yes, I think so. He’s so cute, but it’s like flirting with a wall. He never notices.”
“Well, he is too busy talking technique with Yuuri to notice you anyways. Here we are, Troy.”
Mila all but shoves him into a seat, grinning all the while as if she was not sealing his horrible fate. At least an hour stuck next to Rozanov… as a social buffer? No one picks Troy as a social buffer for a reason.
The lights begin to dim and the first notes start.
“We found one!” Sara whispers. “So tell Ilya and Shun to come sit with us!”
Viktor chuckles quietly, shaking his head. “You are amazing, Mila. I never doubt you.”
Mila preens under the praise, dropping next to Troy. Sara sits on his other side and Troy wonders if this is better or worse than Rozanov directly next to him.
“Is Yuuri fetching Shun?” Mila asks as Viktor shifts to sit behind them. God, would Rozanov sit behind his head? Dangerous.
“Mhm~ I will call Ilyusha!” Then, he quietly scampers off, and Troy is left semi-alone with the two women again.
Not totally alone though, because Sara turns to a man sitting a few seats away that feels familiar.
“Leo, this is Troy. He’s one of the hockey players from last night. The nice one.”
Troy isn’t sure anyone has ever called him that in his life. He’s fucking stunned.
Leo appraises him. His brows are dark and thick and now Troy recognizes him as the man who was watching Dallas like a hawk at the bar. Troy tries not to look too much like a threat, and he can’t even explain why. He should be posturing up; show he isn’t afraid. He can feel himself glaring back, but he stays buried in his hoodie instead of squaring his shoulders like he knows he should.
“Hey,” Leo says, suddenly smiling. “Good to meet you. Have you enjoyed the programs?”
Troy melts into the seat a little and tries not to feel relieved. “Yeah. Congrats, by the way,” he murmurs to the girls.
They beam at him like he’s done something cute and, as usual, he does not know what to do with that. He wishes he had stayed with the guys. It was safer there, at least.
“I don’t pray for storms,” Sara says. “But it would be nice if you could watch our free skates tomorrow.”
“If they get to see anything, it will be the boys,” Mila says. “They’re first up.”
Leo chuckles, shaking his head. “Only if they are stuck.”
Troy is spared the need to answer by—Shane fucking Hollander?
“Shun! Hey!” Sara says, leaping up to cling to his arm. She looks microscopic next to him, and half as beautiful. Troy feels kinda bad for her. Especially since Hollander is looking at Troy with wide eyes.
“Barrett,” Hollander says, not like a question. Questions are said with high inflection at the end. Hollander says it with total assurance and not an ounce of pleasure.
“Hollander,” Troy replies, nodding his head in some kind of greeting. Can the floor open up and eat him? He’s never spoken to Hollander off the ice and this is how it happens? At the most faggoty place possible? He’s heard the rumors already, of course, but this is not exactly the place to stick his nose into it. Honestly, it would be best if he stayed as far away from Shane Hollander as humanly possible. He’s not brave enough or stupid enough to make a move. Guilt by association is dangerous enough. Troy can’t afford to take any chances.
“Good to see you,” Yuuri says, coming out from behind Hollander. He’s shorter, and Troy can still see how deeply and drowningly brown their eyes are. Did someone say cousins? Jesus.
“You know him?” Hollander says, gaze whipping to Yuuri.
“Oh, well not really.” Yuuri sits behind Sara’s seat and Hollander stiffly sits on the side specifically not behind Troy. “He had a game here last night, but you already knew that. Yurio’s practice butted up against theirs.”
“Oh,” Hollander says, looking at Troy with probably the right amount of suspicion. “And that was fine?”
“Oh, of course! We were off with plenty of space for the hockey boys. Troy was just early. We shared some ice time, that’s all.”
“Is he this quiet on the ice too?” Sara asks.
Yuuri laughs. “Yes.”
Hollander is squinting at him, but doesn’t refute the claim. He could, knowing things Troy has said. Nothing he hadn’t heard from hundreds of other players, of course, but nothing nice. He could say Troy is known for being mouthy almost more than being good. But he just settles back in his seat like that's the end of it.
The crowd erupts as the first pair finish their skate. It’s in the din that Viktor returns, beaming and holding Rozanov by the wrist. Rozanov, for his part, does not seem bothered by this at all. He lets himself be dragged and greets them with a hearty and pointed, “Hollander.”
Hollander nearly jumps out of his fucking skin.
He stares at Rozanov for several long seconds, jaw parted in utter disbelief. Then he rounds on Yuuri.
“You did not say Rozanov was going to be here!”
Rozanov fully ignores Troy—which is probably for the best—and sits down behind Mila. “Yes, hello Rozanov. So happy to see you, Rozanov.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Hollander snaps. “What the fuck are you doing here? You sa—“ His eyes snap to Troy and he huffs. “The whole league thinks you’re fucking missing, Rozanov.”
Rozanov grins. “You are mad? I thought you would be so excited, since I missed our game yesterday.”
“Well thank you for the easiest win of my career,” Hollander growls. “You’re being a fucking princess about it, you know that?”
Rozanov holds out his splinted hand, which Viktor pretends to grab as he plops into the seat behind Troy. Troy wishes he didn’t have to twist to see them, or that he wasn’t supposed to pay attention to them at all.
“Is broken bone, Hollander. You would not know this, but I am important asset.” He sniffs, shuffling to sink into his seat gingerly and puts his hands in his lap.
“Which is why you’re not playing, uh huh,” Hollander huffs. He seems mad. Troy elects to continue his streak of being fucking mute.
“We’re just glad you’re here,” Yuuri says.
Viktor slips his hand into Yuuri’s and holds their laced fingers on his thigh. Troy looks at their faces to avoid the way his stomach cramps like he might puke.
Hollander relaxes. “I wish I could be here for the whole thing.”
“No, no, it’s okay! I can’t ask you to skip work, that’s crazy,” Yuuri says, waving his free hand. His other thumb runs over Viktor’s.
Rozanov snorts. “Would be easier to get new president.”
Viktor and Mila laugh. Leo and Yuuri laugh after a moment of thinking. Sara lets out a tiny giggle a half-step after that. Somewhere Troy remembers that Russia’s president does not change, and he does not laugh. He just sinks a little further into his seat and lets Hollander’s rolling eyes cover his silence.
“You know, we missed you this summer,” Mila says suddenly.
Rozanov freezes, just a fraction of a second. “Ah. Was busy.”
She hums, nodding. “As it goes. Is so boring now without Vitya around! Only Yurachka yelling.”
Viktor’s smile falters, but doesn’t fall. “Japan is nice. You should visit.”
“I plan to,” she says, arms crossing. “Maybe someday.”
Yuuri sighs and leans into Viktor’s shoulder. “Maybe someday.”
Hollander looks at Troy again. Then at Yuuri.
“It’s been legalized in America now,” Hollander says eventually. “Two years ago. Since 2005, here.”
Troy keeps his mouth firmly fucking shut. Shane Hollander can know whatever the fuck trivia about whatever and it has no bearing on Troy at all. It tastes like rotten rumors in his mouth. He kinda wants to hurl.
“Oh, we know,” Viktor says, a little flippantly. “We have thoughts. There’s plenty of time to make decisions.”
Rozanov scowls. Troy hadn’t realized how little he seemed to do it until now. All his promos tended to go snarky or fierce.
“I wish you’d done it before Yurio got so big,” Sara sighs, either oblivious to or intentionally cutting through the tense air. “Then he could’ve been a little flower boy.”
The figure skaters burst into laughter, and this time even Troy can’t stop the snort that leaves him at the mental image.
“So he can smile.”
Troy freezes, eyes snapping back to the front aisle where two more figures are coming to join them. One is Yuri, and the other is the biker from the bar. Ot-something? He should’ve paid attention. He would’ve at least tried if he knew he would see them all again.
“Yurio, will you be the flower girl for our wedding?” Viktor asks, definitely oblivious to Troy’s wide eyes meeting Yuri’s sharp gaze.
Viktor may be his savior, though, because Yuri’s eyes snap up to Viktor with venom only matched by the looks he had been giving Dallas.
“Fucking what? Are the hockey morons filling your head with stupid ideas? I’m not a girl, dickhead.”
He’s not. He’s so, so not. Yuri was tiny at his senior debut, but puberty has filled him out. He’s taller now. Bigger. He’s not big like Troy and Rozanov and Hollander, but he’s still an imposing figure. The kind of guy you’d believe could lift a chick above his head and hold her there, no matter how dense her own muscles are.
“Flower boy, then!” Viktor says.
“Hah? You’re not going to make me best man? After all the bullshit I’ve put up with!” Yuri snarls.
Yuuri giggles, and Troy hopes this is a running joke and not some horrible argument they’ve placed him physically in the middle of.
“I suppose I must,” Viktor says. “How were the other girls? Did they want to come sit?”
Yuri huffs and doesn’t answer him. Instead, he turns to Mila and gruffly tells her to move. For some horrific reason, she does, and Yuri sits down next to Troy. In the front row of this section of seats.
“Most are with coaches,” the biker says. His voice is low and accented, but Troy has no idea where it’s from. He thinks he was in some of Yuri’s programs, but he wasn’t really looking at him. His name had to be listed, right? Troy wishes it wouldn’t be obvious and fucking rude if he googled it. “Their feelings are still hurt, I think.”
“Bah, so sensitive,” Mila gripes, settling in next to Leo. “Worse than the Madam.”
Rozanov snacks her thigh lightly, shaking his head and laughing. “You bite your tongue! She has ears everywhere.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” Yuuri says. “I would’ve liked everyone to be here. Minami is coming in a bit. He’s getting snacks. Oh, did you want something, Troy?”
Troy has to clear his throat before he speaks, shifting to look back at Yuuri. “No, I’m good.”
“Water, then!”
“No, I don’t need—“
“Accept the damn water, puck for brains.”
Troy shuts up again. His mother would probably want him to say thank you. He really doesn’t want to say anything else with Hollander and Rozanov staring at him.
For a few blissful minutes, they just watch the pairs skaters. Sara whispers some explanations of technical jargon even though Troy doesn’t think his confusion was that obvious. He tries to angle his body towards her. Away from Yuri.
It does not help that he can feel the heat of Yuri’s leg next to his, both of their muscled thighs strained to confine themselves to the little seats.
While the ice is being cleared, a young man rushes up with his arms full of snack bags and drinks, speaking in rapid fire Japanese the whole way.
Yuuri responds, a little slower.
Then, amazingly, Shane Hollander says something in Japanese, even slower and more hesitantly, but definitely not French or English. Troy bites his tongue.
“Wow,” Rozanov says. “Perfect Shane Hollander is learning another language. Polyglot, hm?”
Hollander glares at him. “I’ve spoken shitty Japanese my whole life, asshole.”
“No—no! It’s good!” the man who must be Minami says, doling out the drinks first. Troy gives a gruff nod when he gets a water bottle.
“He’s a good listener,” Yuuri says. “He can understand just about anything.”
“Yuuri…”
“It’s true! I wish you would’ve told me that before I said—“
“Yuuri.”
Yuuri laughs, nudging his cousin. “It is our nature to be humble, I think. Lord knows how Oba-san got so confident.”
“Shane Hollander is not humble,” Rozanov huffs, still smiling.
Troy would’ve thought he would be angrier with his rival. Instead, he just seems excited. Happy to be poking fun. Hollander seems to be the only one carrying any anger, and even then he lets it go as easily as he sweeps it up.
“You are the last person who can claim anything about humbleness,” Hollander replies, crossing his arms over his chest. He might be fighting a smile.
Troy watches the fucking pairs skaters. Anything that’s not Shane Hollander’s smile or Yuri Plisetsky’s warm thigh touching his under the arm rest. No one is gay and especially not him. He dutifully nods along to Sara’s words and tries to come up with something he could say that might be complimentary. Maybe she’d kiss him and he would have something to tell the guys and their flight would be rescheduled with a real time so he won’t have to make up an excuse to stay away from her bed.
Yuri’s shoe touches Troy’s ankle.
He glances over, but Yuri isn’t looking at him. He’s murmuring to his friend. Troy listens with all his might for familiar sounds and there. Otabek. Fuck yeah.
And Troy is staring at them. Yuri’s ponytail is messier today, less braids in it and some strands falling around his face. His profile is so sharp, all edges even at 19. Troy has to stop looking. He tears his eyes away and looks at Sara’s brown eyes that sparkle and shine but look nothing like the deep soulfulness of Shane Hollander and Yuuri Katsuki.
Troy flinches when Yuri’s knee presses hard into his thigh.
Yuri chuckles when he looks over. He’s facing Troy now, one leg folded into the seat and a violent point of contact. Otabek has shifted too, and he’s pulling Yuri’s hair out of its high ponytail.
“You are so fucking jumpy,” Yuri tells him as Otabek deftly unwinds a small braid near his temple.
“Your knees are fuckin’ pointy,” Troy grumbles. “Surprised me.”
Yuri snorts. “I’m sure that’s it.”
“The fuck do you want?” Troy asks, bristling. He’s fucking terrified of the answer.
Yuri’s head leans back as Otabek swipes his fingers through his hair. He looks down at Troy over his pristine features and smirks.
Behind him, Rozanov snaps and makes an enlightened sound. He rattles off something in Russian, still a little jovial.
Yuri replies, not jovial at all. He’s annoyed.
Rozanov’s smile drops. His eyes set into something hard and serious. His voice comes out stern, which Troy has never fucking heard from him. It’s fucking hot and fucking scary.
Yuri just rolls his eyes, but as Otabek braids down his head, he does not lean closer to Troy.
“Okay, okay. You are like fucking old man, Ilya.”
Rozanov hits him with an empty soda bottle. “You are fucking toddler. Barely old enough to walk! Respect your elders, Yurio.”
Yuri wrinkles his nose and bats at the bottle. Otabek grumbles something, and Yuri stills. It’s casual and beautiful and terrifying.
Troy turns back to Sara. She’s his safety in this storm even if it’s half her fault he’s here.
Soon after, Yuri sits normally again, and Troy only has to deal with the heat of his thigh. He can do that, he does that all the time. Granted, it’s with guys he isn’t attracted to at all. Not that he could be attracted to Yuri. He’s not.
The pair's skates finish soon after, and Troy is more than happy to escape.
“Thank you for sitting with us,” Sara says, genuine and sweet. She catches his hand before he can escape, and he’s pretty sure any other guy would’ve kissed her by now.
“Um, yeah,” he says. “Thanks for the invite.”
She lets his hand go, smile unfaltering. “If you are still stuck tomorrow, come find us. You can sit with us for the boys programs.”
“Oh,” he says, because he is good at this. “Will Rozanov be there?”
Sara thinks about that, glancing at where Rozanov is still talking to Hollander, Viktor, and Yuuri. “I think he will stay with Viktor. I could give you my number, to let you know.”
Sara is kind and beautiful and talented. Troy types his number into her phone and wishes her delighted smile filled him with something other than dread. He hopes he gets on a fucking plane and can avoid it all.
“Lots of us are going to dinner,” Sara says. “You could come, if you wanted.”
“I’ve gotta meet back up with the team,” he says, trying not to feel too fidgety.
“Have fun, then! I hope I can see you tomorrow if your luck does not change,” she says, teasing as she rolls lightly on the balls of her feet.
Troy nods a stiff goodbye and heads off with his hands in his pockets.
Halfway back to the hotel, Hayes texts that a group is going out to dinner. Troy ignores that. Two thirds of the way there, Sara texts him her name and a heart. Troy stares at it for the rest of the walk but says nothing. When he enters the lobby, he gets a text from an unknown number.
It can only be one person, really.
Half the reason he declined dinner is because his stomach has been in knots all night. His heart jackrabbits in his chest the entire elevator ride. He doesn’t know if he wants Dallas to be there or not.
The room is empty. The two men who will be sharing a bed with pillows stacked between are both at dinner with Hayes. Dallas isn’t here.
The logical part of Troy’s brain tells him that he should block this number and pretend he never got the texts if questioned. The frayed and horny part screams and rattles in his chest like a bird beating its wings against a cage.
Troy takes a breath.
Troy considers jumping out the window for the first two minutes.
For the third, he paces and looks to himself in the mirrors that all feel too big. He feels like his skin is too big.
He brushes his teeth in the last seconds to avoid thinking about lighting himself on fire. Alarm bells blare in his head as he tugs open his door and takes the two strides to Yuri’s.
He knocks, eyes fluttering around the hallway. Any door could open. Anyone could see him standing here.
Yuri opens the door in just a towel, hotel white against his pale hips. The fabric is already tented, just a little, drawing Troy’s attention downwards to the neatly trimmed hair on his navel. There’s still drops of water sliding down his torso, slipping over the slopes of his muscles.
Yuri grabs a fistful of his hoodie and drags him inside.
“You like what you see,” Yuri says, near slamming the door. It’s not even a question. Just a smug fucking statement.
“Shut the fuck up,” Troy breathes. Christ, this is dumb.
“How can I? We will sit in silence if I do.” Yuri lets him go at the foot of the bed, peering at him. “How long will your keeper be gone?”
“What? An hour, but he’s not my—“
“We will have to be fast then. I bet you are loud.”
Troy doesn’t have time to be affronted before Yuri kisses him.
He’s never been so grateful to be insulted. Yuri’s mouth is soft, insistent against his own. The stiffness Troy has been holding begins to bleed away. It’s infinitely better than any girl he’s ever kissed, and he licks against Yuri’s mouth to avoid thinking about it.
Yuri pulls at Troy’s lip with his teeth, and Troy groans into his mouth. Yuri’s hands tuck under his hoodie and his shirt and press flat against his torso. He hums into Troy’s mouth, one hand settling on his waist and tugging his hips forward.
“Oh fuck,” Troy gasps, lightheaded at the feel of Yuri’s erection pressing against his thigh. The fabric of the towel is too thick to feel the heat, but fuck he knows it’s there. There’s a dick that’s not his own against his thigh, and he’s kissing a man.
Yuri squeezes his hip, mouth dragging along his jaw. “Take this off, puck for brains. You look as sexy as you feel?”
Troy realizes that he’s not really done anything with his fucking hands. Taking off his clothes gives him something to do. He strips his hoodie and shirt off in one pull and lets it fall to the floor to be forgotten.
Yuri rolls his hips against Troy’s thigh, grinning wildly. His palm runs all the way from Troy’s hip to his collarbone with another deep hum of appreciation.
“Will your keeper be proud of hickeys?” Yuri asks, skimming his teeth over Troy’s neck.
“Don’t fucking talk about Dallas,” he groans, far too close to a whine for his comfort. Anyone but Dallas. Even if Yuri is right and Dallas will smack him on the back and make jokes about Troy scoring a wild one.
“Fine.” Yuri bites him and Troy arches into his hold, hard and throbbing in his sweats. “Hickeys or not?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Yuri pushes him onto the bed and crawls after him. His towel is pinned under his knee and slides away so easily, but Troy can’t see shit as Yuri’s teeth connect with his neck. Troy gasps, hands flying to Yuri’s waist.
After the first initial press of teeth, Yuri grows gentler. He licks and sucks at the spot until Troy is shaking under him and about to shove a hand down his pants with how bad he wants to continue.
Troy pushes at Yuri’s shoulder, a little bit surprised that he’s pushed back so easily. His lips are shining red, little strands of blond hair falling around his face. He’s beautiful. Almost girly. But so obviously, painfully a man. Troy surges back up to kiss him again and rolls them over. He kicks his shoes off as he kisses down Yuri’s neck.
“Use your teeth,” Yuri breathes, his fingers threading into Troy’s hair.
Troy nips at the side of his neck. “Don’t you have a competition?”
“I’ve hidden worse. Suck there. Bite here.” He yanks Troy’s head down to the meat of his shoulder and Troy obeys. It earns him a deep, fluttering moan and a jerk of Yuri’s hips up into his own. “Fuuuck. Take your pants off.”
Troy has his fingers in his waistband before the implication hits him.
“Wait. I can’t— I’m not—“
Yuri scoffs at him. It’s fucking insulting. It’s strangely settling.
“Like hell am I gonna spend time prepping some anal virgin. What do you think I showered for? Fun? No, dumbass. Take your pants off so I can put your cock in my ass.”
Troy takes his pants off. His underwear too, just to be sure. Yuri’s scathing gaze gets a little smug, he thinks, eyes roaming over all of Troy.
“Bigger than I guessed,” Yuri muses. Troy is pretty sure he’s never been redder. Especially not as he gets an eyeful of all of Yuri, splayed out on the bed and propped up on his elbows. His long legs and muscled torso—not as much visible muscle as Troy but certainly a lot of power, he had already felt that much. His cock is hard against his thigh, red and uncut and it looks smaller against the enormity of his thigh, but Troy knows from his bathroom mirror how looks can be deceiving. He wants to rub his tongue along it and find out for sure. Maybe rub their cocks together and find out who’s bigger.
“Fuck off,” is what Troy says out loud, because to say anything else is even more damning than having his cock be hard in the presence of another man.
Yuri rolls over, and Troy gets an unrestricted few of his ass, unblemished and pale and so fucking beautiful. He wonders if Yuri likes to be bitten everywhere.
Yuri rolls back over with a small bottle and a square packet. He tosses the packet on the pillows and pops the bottle open.
“You suck a dick yet, Troy?”
“Why do you have to say things in the worst way? Fuck you. No.”
Yuri laughs and squirts lube on his fingers. “Do you want to?”
Troy hates that he asked. He has to answer something. The damning, unequivocal answer is yes, absolutely. He cannot admit that out loud.
“Do you?” he asks, deflecting.
Yuri lifts one of his long, elegant legs and slips a hand behind himself. Troy’s mouth feels incredibly dry as his lubed fingers slide between the globes of his ass and spread them apart. His middle finger runs along the tight furl of his hole before pushing in without any resistance. He sighs, long and low and satisfied. Like it’s good. Exactly how Troy sounds in the depths of his lonely apartment on nights when he’s brave enough to touch himself in the ways he really wants to.
“Hell yeah,” Yuri breathes, fingers moving slowly. His second finger slips in without a sound. “I think it’s fun. Do you want me to suck your cock, Troy? I’ll give you a lesson.”
“I don’t need a fuckin’ lesson.”
Yuri spreads his fingers and gives another happy sigh. “Prove it, then.”
Troy takes the given out and crawls back onto the bed. Yuri guides him to his side, a little awkward over his leg but giving himself plenty of space to continue prepping himself. Troy doesn’t expect to take him deep anyways.
Yuri groans as Troy takes him in his hand. His head falls back, moaning unrestrained when Troy laps at the head. He lets out a small string of Russian when Troy wraps his lips around it and takes a fraction into his mouth.
It’s sloppy. Probably not very good. Troy doesn’t know what he’s doing other than that he likes having Yuri’s cock in his mouth and the sounds Yuri’s making while it’s there. He actually sucks on it just a little, and Yuri’s hips tick forward. Troy wants to feel it in the back of his fucking throat.
Unfortunately, Yuri pulls him away.
“On your back,” Yuri rasps, fumbling for the condom.
Troy rolls over, reminded of his aching cock, untouched and leaking painfully.
Yuri rips the packet open and takes the tip of the condom in his fingers. He lines it up with the head of Troy’s bobbing cock before placing his mouth there too. Troy watches in aroused bafflement as Yuri takes him to the hilt, rolling the condom on with his mouth. Troy moans like his blood is on fire.
Yuri smirks when he pulls back, shuffling on his knees to sit on Troy’s stomach. “Good lesson, yes?”
“Holy shit.”
“I have better lesson. This is what real men feel like, better than any toys.”
Troy doesn’t know if it's worse to admit that he’s far too embarrassed to buy any such toys or to let Yuri think he really does have one, but he’s spared the choice by Yuri rocking back and pressing his solid ass into Troy’s cock. He gyrates his hips as he pours more lube onto his hand before reaching back and slicking Troy’s cock with it.
Horrifically, Yuri was right. Troy is loud. He’s finally being touched and he can hardly fucking stand it. He bites back a keen when Yuri finally guides his cock to bump against his entrance.
Yuri slides onto Troy with a satisfied little moan, entirely eclipsed by Troy’s guttural groan. His hands fly to Yuri’s thighs, gripping for dear life.
“Ahh, hockey players are good for something,” Yuri all but purrs, rolling his hips. “Good cock to ride, nice abs to rut against.”
Troy makes an undignified sound and grips Yuri’s thighs a little harder.
“Keep moaning like that; I like the praise,” Yuri says, giving him another wicked smile. He rolls his hips once more before lifting them slowly. Troy can feel his muscles flexing under his palms and the cold air at the base of his dick where the tight pleasure of Yuri’s body escapes him. His hips tick upwards.
Yuri’s hands center on his chest, squeezing and clawing at him as he begins to bounce in earnest.
Troy drowns in the rhythmic pleasure, Yuri’s labored breathing, and his wild smile. He knows it can’t last forever, but he might want it to. He moves his hands from thighs to hips and tries to match Yuri’s efforts with thrusts of his own. Yuri’s head falls back with a howled moan.
Troy doesn’t want it to end, but he’s fucking close. For once, he doesn’t want to cum. He wants to keep going for just a little longer before he crests and it's over.
“Fuck,” he breathes, thrusts faltering. “Shit, Yuri—“
Yuri leans over him, grinding his ass down as their chests connect. He snaps a harsh bite to Troy’s neck before beginning to lick and suck at the skin again, groaning right against his ear.
“Fuck,” Troy wails, one hand in Yuri’s braid and the other around his waist, holding him as close as he can get as he tumbles over the edge.
Yuri gets a hand between their torsos and somewhere in the ringing of his ears Troy registers a wetness there.
He doesn’t know how much time passes before Yuri moves. It makes Troy gasp, sensitive and confused. He wants to go to bed. Fuck emotions and feelings, he needs a nap.
“Shut up, I’m not sitting on your cock all night,” Yuri huffs. “I have roommates too.”
Troy grunts, rolling his eyes. That makes him feel more awake. “Shut the fuck up. I didn’t ask.”
Yuri extracts himself slowly, gentle on himself and Troy. He pulls the condom off himself and ties it off. Then he picks his discarded towel off the floor and chucks it over Troy. “Wipe yourself off.”
Troy does, because he doesn’t want dried cum on his stomach. Or on his dick, which is still sensitive and displeased about the thick hotel towel, but he survives. It’s easy enough after that to find his underwear and joggers. He pulls his clothes back on to the sound of the water running and pats around for his phone.
It only took forty five minutes to fuck up his life. Huh.
Yuri comes out of the bathroom in boxers. “What are you doing? Lay back down.”
Troy frowns. “What?”
“God, lay down. Make out with me until you have to go back to your closet.”
“I don’t— whatever. Fifteen minutes.”
Yuri grins and jumps on the bed. “Perfect. Give me more hickeys. Yakov will be so fucking mad.”
“I don’t know who that is,” Troy grumbles, but he gets back into the bed and meets Yuri’s lips.
Yuri giggles, hooking a leg over Troy’s waist to hold him closer with his hands falling into his hair. He’s in no rush to clarify.
For fifteen minutes, Troy doesn’t have to be… anything. He doesn’t worry about anything. He kisses Yuri and sucks bruises into his collarbones and sighs happily as he gets another in return. Yuri runs his hands through Troy’s hair and scratches at his temple in a way that makes him so fucking sleepy and happy and when his time is up, he does not want to go.
Yuri stretches lazily, almost catlike in his full body motion. “You did good, puck for brains.”
Troy doesn’t think that’s what people usually say after a hookup, but he’s not about to complain about it. No one gets out of sports without a little bit of a praise kink.
“So did you,” Troy mutters, though he’s pretty sure Yuri is already well aware.
Yuri grins and kisses him again, filthy and biting. When he pulls away, he sits up and slides off the bed. “Come, you should shower.”
“Back into the closet,” Troy says. It sounds more bitter than he meant it to.
Yuri watches him sit up. Watches him pull on his sneakers and shove the laces in the side instead of tying them for his single door walk. When he stands Yuri meets him at the foot of the bed.
“I am not in the business of forcing anyone out,” Yuri says plainly. It settles something deep within Troy he hadn’t wanted to think about. “That’s your fucking problem, not mine. Hockey is fucked up.” His head tilts a little, a thoughtful expression on his face. “But you have that other guy now, the cup kisser.”
“Scott Hunter,” Troy supplies.
“Yes. Scott Hunter,” Yuri says, amused about something. Troy doesn’t think it’s weird to know other players. “He makes the way. Like Vitya paved the way for me. I can whore around with whoever I want as long as I keep getting golds.”
“You’re good,” Troy murmurs.
“You watched my programs,” Yuri says, grin turning lethal.
“I have to go.”
Yuri kisses him one more time against the door, hands in his hair and splayed over his abs again.
“Goodnight, Troy.”
“Goodnight, Yuri.”
Troy is grateful that there’s no one in the hall as he slinks back to his room. He grabs clothes and takes a long, scathingly hot shower. It does nothing to erase the ghosts of Yuri’s hands on his skin.
Dallas comes back sometime while he’s trying to burn away his shame. All his efforts are wasted as it comes back tenfold. God, he’s stupid. What the fuck does he tell Dallas about the unmussed sheets? He didn’t even nick a condom. He’s glad Yuri had one. He assumed Yuri would have one; he seemed like the prepared type.
Troy rests his head on the shower wall and stands there under the spray an extra five minutes before he’s brave enough to get out and get dressed.
Dallas is lounged on the bed, the comforter kicked down. He looks up from his phone, grinning.
“So?”
“Shut up,” Troy says, dropping his dirty clothes next to his bag. “I’m not telling you shit.”
“Booo! You finally get laid and won’t say anything? I know you ain’t that chivalrous.”
Troy snorts. Dallas is probably right. If Troy were straight, it would be easy to blend into this culture of conquest bragging and showboating. As it stands, the less detail, the better.
“She’s blond,” he allows. A safe enough admission.
Dallas whistles, low and appreciative. “Classic. How was she? Feisty, by the look of things.”
Troy's fingers ghost over his neck where Yuri’s teeth had been. He hadn’t tried to inspect his neck in the fogged mirror.
“Why are you so interested in where I put my dick? Faggot.”
Dallas laughs, shaking his head. “Man, I was starting to think you were a faggot with this celibate shit. No one’s actually celibate.”
“Not everyone needs a girl every night to be happy.” Troy pulls the comforter off the bed and folds it half assedly. It’ll make a shit mattress, but he won’t sleep if he sits in the chair. “Speaking of, you strike out again tonight?”
“Nope!” Dallas says, popping the P. He tosses Troy a pillow. “Fucked around in the bathroom at the club.“
“Gross, there’s gotta be a million diseases in there.”
“Relax, she just sucked me off. No loose bits on any nasty surfaces.”
Troy does not ask if Dallas ate her out or did anything to get the girl off. He has a pretty good hunch the answer is no.
If Yuri hadn’t come on his cock, Troy would’ve sucked him off. He would’ve really put himself between his thighs and worked for it.
“If we’re stuck in this hellhole tomorrow, I’ll take the floor,” Dallas says, hopping off the bed and heading for the bathroom. “But I’m seriously hoping to go home. We’ve already been to the two bars with anyone in them.”
“Awesome. I’m not surprised all the old guys got the cots, but I’m still fuckin’ jealous.”
“With their creaky bones and shitty backs,” Dallas laughs.
The door shuts and Troy is left alone with his thoughts. He sprawls in his makeshift bed and resolves to not fucking think. Thinking is dangerous.
At 6:00 am, the Toronto Guardians get on a plane.
At 9:00 am, Troy gets a text. No words, just a picture and a smiling devil emoji. Yuri’s pale thigh with five pinpoint bruises. Troy sears the image into his mind, deletes it, and blocks the number.
In July, Ilya Rozanov signs with the Ottawa Centaurs. No one can explain it. All Troy knows is that the figure skating must’ve been a cover for recon.
In September, they get Ryan Price. They skate rougher with an enforcer. Dallas gets mouthier.
Two weeks later, Troy ends up at a party in Vancouver. He goes home with an actor. The walls of his home feel far safer than the hotel room in Ottawa, and he learns to let go. Adrian lets him be soft. He lets him be rough—without bruises. He finds cloud nine in the sheets and laments that he has to leave.
In November, Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander announce the Irina Foundation. Troy doesn’t remember what he says in the shock and awe and healthy fear of Ryan Price. He doesn’t get punched in the face, but he does shut the fuck up.
In December, Hayes is traded to Ottawa.
By the end of the season, Price is retired. Without him, Dallas relaxes back into himself. Troy can do nothing but follow suit. He feels fuzzy around the edges, like an old sweater catching on splinters of wood.
In November, 2020 Troy has, quite possibly, the worst week of his entire life.
But, for once, things only get better.
In February 2022, Harris has the Olympics playing in the player lounge. Troy watches the skaters idly, mostly playing with Harris’ fingers and Chrion’s ears.
Ilya and Shane are on one of the couches, fingers laced and shoulders pressed together. Luca is sketching in the corner. Bood is on the other side of Chiron, petting him too. They’re all waiting for something or other, probably, but it’s nice to sit together. That still amazes Troy.
The TV announces the next skater.
Yuri Plisetsky.
Troy looks up. So does Ilya.
Yuri skates out to center ice. He looks just as beautiful at 23 as he did at 19.
“I know him,” Ilya says, proud. “Shane, do you remember him? 2017, here, for Skate Canada.”
“Oh, you mean when you were hiding a muscle tear from me?”
“Because you were a rival captain!”
“And your fucking boyfriend!”
“I went to that,” Troy interrupts before they can really get into it.
“Oh,” Shane says, pausing with one hand still laced in Ilya’s and the other digging a knuckle into his side. “I remember that.”
“What?” Bood asks as the music begins. It’s something a little clubby. If Troy remembers right, Yuri makes his friend make most of his music. Otabek, he thinks. He does not trust his memory enough to share this fun fact. “You were watching figure skating in 2017?”
Troy keeps his eyes on Yuri and the snappy but elegant footwork he begins. Harris’ hand finds his back and rubs small circles. Ilya yelps as he is pushed down the couch, only now starting to fight back by trying—and failing—to grab Shane’s wrist. “Yeah. We got stuck here after a game because of a snowstorm in Toronto. Nothing else to do.”
Yuri leaps into a beautiful spin and the announcer goes crazy with praise.
“Yuri thought you were hot,” Ilya says, teasing. He wriggles in Shane’s grip, voice coming out in puffs of laughter. “I tell him, Yurachka, you cannot flirt with NHL men in public, you will scare them. You have to corner them in the showers and start very long and complicated affair.”
“I know,” Troy says. “It wasn’t long, though.”
“What,” Ilya says, freezing. Shane’s hands still.
“I lost my virginity to that guy,” Troy says, watching Yuri twirl. He’s been trying to be more open, lately. Share some low stakes information. That’s what his therapist recommends, anyways.
“What?!” Ilya demands. “That bastard, how dare he? Barrett, you are so fragile. Did he hurt you?”
Harris tries, and fails, to stifle a laugh.
“What? No, of course not. He rode me.”
“Damn, dude. That’s a hell of a first time,” Bood says.
Troy flushes. This is why he doesn’t listen to his therapist. “Okay.”
Harris laughs louder. Traitor.
“This is life changing information. I have to call Vitya.”
“Oh my god. Shut up. Leave him alone,” Shane says, but he’s smiling like he might laugh too.
“I regret speaking,” Troy sighs, stroking Chiron. He’d like to cuddle his boyfriend, but said boyfriend is still laughing too hard to be a pillow.
“Phew—no, baby. You’re so cute. Do not give Ilya any more information,” Harris giggles. He pulls Troy in to press a quick kiss to his lips and his cheeks and maybe he’s pretty okay with a giggly pillow. “I have so many questions though, for later.”
Bood whistles and Troy reaches over Chiron to smack him.
“You guys make being gay so hard,” Luca says eventually. “Oh yeah, I pulled Yuri Plisetsky, international figure skating darling. I married the only other player who can compare to my stats. Cosmopolitan's hottest player, if you didn’t know. What the hell, guys?”
The room erupts in laughter. Chiron wriggles in an excited bark.
Troy grins into Harris’ chest.
“Is now a bad time to mention I dated an actor before Harris?”
“What?!”
“No way!”
“What the fuck, Barrett!”