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The final buzzer sounded in the arena, and the Ottawa Centaurs spilled onto the ice in a chaotic, cheerful pile. 4-3! A lucky win on the road against the Detroit, snatched in the dying seconds with a wrister from the point that somehow found its way through traffic. The crowd groaned, a sea of team's jerseys deflating under the arena lights, but in the visitors’ tunnel, the Centaurs were already whooping, gloves slapping backs, sticks clattering against the boards.
Troy skated off last, jaw clenched, helmet dangling from one hand. His bottom lip felt like it had been pumped full of helium. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, hot and tight, already twice its normal size. Blood had crusted at the corner of his mouth where the cut had split open. He could taste copper every time he swallowed.
The high stick had come in the last five minutes. It was a clean battle for the puck along the boards, Ilya wheeling around for a one- timer, and Troy had been right there, screening, exactly where he was supposed to be. Except Ilya’s stick had come up wild. Pure fucking hockey accident. Still hurt like hell.
Linda Biel, a petite woman in a sharp green blazer waited just inside the tunnel, mic already extended, camera guy hovering behind her. Post- game media was never optional, especially after a win on the road. Troy knew the drill. He stopped, still in full gear- shoulder pads bulky under his jersey, skates still on, laces dripping melted ice. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead. The swollen lip pulled his mouth into an awkward half- smirk whether he wanted it to or not.
“Troy Barrett, great game tonight for the Centaurs,” Linda started, voice bright and professional. “Four- three victory on the road- huge two points. But let’s talk about that late hit you took. Can you walk us through what happened with the high stick? That lip looks pretty nasty.”
Troy huffed a laugh that made the cut sting. He touched the swollen flesh warily with a gloved finger, then shrugged one massive shoulder. “Yeah, uh… feels like someone parked a truck on my face. But hey-” he grinned as wide as the swelling would allow, eyes crinkling with self- deprecating humor- “I feel like Kylie Jenner right now.”
Linda blinked once, then burst out laughing, a genuine giggle that echoed off the concrete walls. She covered her mouth with her free hand, mic dipping slightly. “Oh my god, I was not expecting that.”
Troy’s grin shyly, the spontaneous response fell on fertile ground. “What can I say? Four minutes left, I’m trying to screen the shot, and my best friend decides to give me a free lip filler session. Unfortunate, but that’s hockey. I’ll ice it and be fine. Probably look better tomorrow.” He paused, his resting bitch face already on but with hint of mischief in his eyes. “Or worse. Jury’s out.”
She was still chuckling, shaking her head. “Well, you’re handling it better than most. For the folks at home, that was Ilya Rozanov’s stick, right? Your captain and, from what I hear, partner in crime on and off the ice.”
“Yeah,” Troy said, voice warm despite the pain. “Ilya’s stick. Total accident. He’s probably dying in the locker room right now. But we got the W, so I’ll let him live. For now.”
Linda nodded, shifting back to game talk. “Speaking of the win- your assist on the game- winner in the third. Walk us through that play. Centaurs were down 3-2 late. How’d you see that lane?”
Troy kept it short, professional. “Puck came out of the corner, I saw space behind the defence. Just tried to get it on net. Lucky bounce for the boys. Whole team battled tonight. Detroit’s fast, physical. Feels good to steal one on the road.”
A couple more quick questions- penalty kill efficiency, how the new defensive pairings were gelling- and she wrapped it with a smile. “Thanks, Troy. Heal up on that lip. And tell Ilya we’re all waiting for his apology tour.”
Troy chuckled. “Will do. Always nice talking to you Linda.” He gave the camera a little salute with his stick and headed down the tunnel, skates scraping concrete, the weight of the win and the throb in his face settling heavy in his bones.
The locker room was a sauna of steam, sweat, and celebration. Music thumped from someone’s speaker- some bass-heavy track the younger guys loved. Gear littered the benches- tape rolls, socks, half empty Gatorade bottles.
Troy dropped onto his stall, unlacing his skates with careful fingers so he didn’t bump the lip again. The cut had stopped bleeding, but the swelling made talking feel like chewing on a golf ball.
Ilya Rozanov was already there, half dressed in compression leggings and a Centaurs hoodie, pacing like a caged bear. His curls were wild, face flushed from the game and- judging by the guilty twist of his mouth- something else. When he spotted Troy, he froze. “Barrett,” Ilya groaned, Russian accent thick with remorse. He crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees in front of Troy’s stall, hands clasped dramatically like he was proposing. “I am the worst. The actual worst. I saw the puck, I swung, and- boom. Your beautiful face. I will never forgive myself. Never. I'm going to put ice on your pretty face! Quick! Someone get me some ice.”
The room erupted in laughter. Zane Boodram howled from across the way, towel slung low on his hips. “Rozanov on his knees! Someone get a picture for the group chat.”
“Get up, you idiot,” Troy muttered, but he was smiling. “It was an accident. I was in the lane. You were trying to score.”
Ilya didn’t get up. Instead he grabbed Troy’s skate, pretending to polish it with the sleeve of his hoodie. “No, no. I am in time-out forever. Coach should bench me next game. Or trade me to Siberia. You tell Harris I said sorry first. He will kill me. Slow death. Suffocated with rainbow hockey tape.”
Shane, Ilya’s husband and somehow still the calm center of every storm, leaned against the stall beside them, arms crossed. His dark hair was damp, eyes sharp with amusement but edged with concern. “You two are ridiculous. Troy, you good? That looked ugly on the replay. Could’ve been teeth. Or worse.”
Troy shrugged. “Hurts like a bitch, but nothing’s loose. I’ve had worse.”
Shane winced. “Still, high sticks freak me out. One inch higher and we’re talking orbital fracture or busted eye. Ilya, stop groveling and get the trainer over here with ice.”
Ilya finally stood, but not before ruffling Troy’s sweaty hair. “See? Even my husband thinks I am monster. But you-” he poked Troy’s uninjured cheek- “you look good with the pout. Very sexy. Harris will love it. Very… pouty boyfriend. Like Instagram model. I make you famous.”
“Shut up,” Troy laughed, swatting at him. The movement pulled the lip and he hissed.
Other teammates piled on. Wyatt wandered over, still in his massive leg pads, and poked at Troy’s face with a careful finger. “Jesus, it’s like a tennis ball. You sure you don’t need stitches? Looks like you kissed a beehive.”
“Or a puck,” Luca added from the showers, voice echoing. “Ilya’s got a heavy stick, man. Glad it wasn’t me.”
Dykstra grinned, pulling on a shirt. “Bet the media loved it. What’d you tell them? ‘Ilya’s a clumsy Russian oaf’?”
Troy leaned back, letting one of the trainers- quiet, efficient Martin- press a bag of ice wrapped in a towel to his mouth. The cold was instant relief. “Nah. Told them I feel like Kylie Jenner.”
The room exploded again. Even Shane barked a laugh, covering his eyes. “You did not.”
“I did. Linda giggled like a teenager. Will go viral by breakfast, probably.”
Ilya clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Kylie Jenner? Barrett, I am honored. My high stick is high fashion. Next time I aim for cheekbones. Make you whole Kardashian.”
“There better not be a next time,” Troy shot back, voice muffled by ice.
The ribbing continued as they dressed. It was light and familiar, the kind that came from years of shared flights and hotel rooms and knowing exactly how far to push before it stopped being funny. But underneath, the worry was real. High sticks ended seasons. Careers, even. Shane’s hand lingered on Ilya’s shoulder a second longer than necessary, a silent be careful out there. Ilya’s teasing was his apology language- everyone knew it. When he wasn’t making jokes, he was quiet and miserable, and that was worse.
By the time they piled onto the bus for the short ride to the hotel, the ice had done its job. Troy’s lip was numb, purple, but manageable. Ilya claimed the seat beside him, shoulder bumping his. “You mad?” he asked quietly, accent softening.
Troy bumped him back. “Nah. You’re buying dinner, though.”
“Whole team dinner,” Ilya declared loud enough for the bus to hear. “My card. Troy’s face is my fault. We celebrate like kings.”
Cheers erupted. Someone started chanting “Rozzy! Rozzy!” and the bus driver cranked the music.
The taverna was a cozy spot a few blocks from the hotel- dark wood beams, strings of warm lights, tables crammed with baskets of fresh pita and bowls of tzatziki. Detroit had surprising pockets of Greek food, and the Centaurs had discovered this place two seasons ago. It smelled like grilled lamb, oregano, and ouzo. The team took over the back room, jerseys swapped for hoodies and jeans, but the energy still crackled.
Ilya made good on his promise. He waved his credit card left and right, ordering platters of souvlaki, moussaka, calamari, and endless rounds of Mythos beer. “Troy gets extra fries,” he announced to the waitress. “For emotional damage. And baklava. Two pieces. No- four! He is injured hero.”
Troy rolled his eyes but let the waitress pile his plate high. The lip made eating tricky- small bites, careful chewing- but the food was worth it. Laughter bounced off the walls. Stories from the game flew: Wyatt’s ridiculous glove save in the second, Boyle’s penalty kill block that left a bruise the size of a plum on his ribs.
Ilya retold the high-stick moment with theatrical flair, miming the swing and the slow-motion horror on his own face when he realized what he’d done. “You should have seen my eyes,” he said, fork waving. “Big as dinner plates. I think, oh no, I kill my best buddy. Harris will murder me in sleep. Shane will divorce me. Troy will haunt me with his big Kylie lips.”
Shane, seated across from him with a glass of ginger ale, kicked his shin under the table. “You’re not getting divorced. But maybe you should work on your stick control.” More laughter.
Troy leaned back, nursing a cold beer. He watched Ilya across the table- the way Luca’s hand rested casually on his shoulder, the easy way the team orbited around him. Captain material, best friend material, definitely. The accident had been scary for a second, but this was why he loved the game. The mess, the apologies, the way they turned pain into punchlines and happy memories.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Harris, his sunshine in human form, currently back in Ottawa holding down the fort and probably refreshing every hockey Twitter account. Troy answered with a careful smile. “Hey, babe.”
Harris’s voice was equal parts concern and exasperation. “Troy, I just saw the highlights. Your lip looks like it belongs on a reality TV star. What the hell? Are you okay? Do I need to fly out? Is Ilya dead yet?”
Troy laughed, then winced. “I’m fine. Ice and beer. Ilya’s buying me dinner to atone. He’s currently offering to sponsor my plastic surgery.”
Across the table, Ilya’s ears perked up. He made grabby hands for the phone. “Give. I speak to Harris. I fix this.” Troy handed it over, smirking. Ilya put it on speaker, voice dripping with mock innocence. “Harris, my favorite almost-brother-in-law! How is beautiful Ottawa? Snow still white? Listen, I am very sorry. Your boyfriend- he is very brave. Very handsome. Even with new lips. I think he looks better now. More… pouty. Like he is always ready for kiss. You should thank me. Free enhancement. No needles. Only hockey stick. Very exclusive treatment.” The table howled.
Harris’s voice crackled through the speaker, half-laughing, half-scolding. “Ilya Rozanov, I swear to God- if he has to miss games because of your wild stick, I’m coming for you. And not in the fun way. You owe him more than dinner. You owe him a spa day for Chiron. And bottle of- ”
“Done,” Ilya interrupted cheerfully. “Spa day for Chiron and Anya. We get them matching outfits. Troy gets extra cucumber mask for his pretty face. I pay. I am very rich half Canadian. Also, I tell him I love him. In platonic, non-Harris-jealous way.”
Harris sighed, fond. “You’re impossible. Put Troy back on.”
Troy took the phone, still grinning. “See? He’s rambling like mad man. We’re good.”
“Text me pics of the lip tomorrow,” Harris said, softer now. “And tell Ilya he’s buying me dinner too when you guys get home. Love you. Don’t let them get you drunk.”
“Love you more.” The call ended to more teasing.
Ilya raised his glass. “To Troy’s new modeling career. Kylie Jenner, watch out. Centaurs are coming for your brand.” Glasses clinked. The night stretched on-more food, more stories, the low hum of post-win contentment. Troy’s lip still hurt, but the ice had helped, and the company healed the rest. Ilya kept sliding extra napkins his way, kept checking with a quick, quiet “Okay?” when no one else was looking.
Shane caught Troy’s eye once and mouthed thank you- for letting Ilya off easy, for keeping the team light. By midnight the taverna was emptying, the team spilling out into the cool Detroit night, bellies full and hearts full. Ilya slung an arm around Troy’s shoulders as they walked back to the hotel, careful not to jostle the injury.
“You know I really am sorry,” he said, voice low amid the chatter of the group.
Troy leaned into the contact. “I know. Next time aim better, eh?”
“Next time I pass and you score. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Behind them, Shane shook his head, smiling. The rest of the boys ribbed each other about tomorrow’s practice, about who was going to play music in the locker room. The win felt bigger than the scoreboard showed. In the hotel elevator, Troy caught his reflection in the mirrored wall- purple lip, tired eyes, and a small grin that refused to go away.