Work Text:
Troy’s on cloud nine. He’s seconds away from scoring the winning goal against Montreal, with Ilya and Shane flanking him, facing Patrice Drapeau with hard eyes as the guy sneers at the three of them. He’s never been sure of how Shane has been able to mostly brush off the covert homophobia from his former teammates of over a decade but, when he glances over to Shane, the guy’s smirking in a strikingly Ilya fashion at the goalie. Then, as if he senses Troy looking at him, he meets his gaze and his smirk only widens. Troy can’t help but grin. The smirk turns into one that’s unique to Shane Hollander and Troy knows exactly what it means.
Let’s fucking win this.
As Ilya manages to fight off a gaggle of their opponents, Shane shoots the puck towards Troy and everything goes slow. Troy skids against the ice as he raises his stick and he thinks about Harris and the prideful smile that takes over his face whenever Ottawa wins. Troy’s heart flutters as his brain supplies him with one of his favourite images, Harris’ sparking emerald eyes, and he puts everything he has into the way he slams his stick against the puck. It completely bypasses the goalie and collides with the net.
A buzzer. Ilya screaming in Russian. Shane grabbing Troy’s head and shaking it. A smile threatening to break his own face. Soon, the team is piling onto him and he can’t help but laugh.
Yeah, he’s on cloud fucking nine.
The locker room is lively with celebration, laughter and animated reenactments of the standout moments of the game. After a round of answering the same three questions that are phrased differently by nearly ten different reporters, Troy’s greeted with many a slap on the back and head ruffles from his teammates in various states of dress and Troy can hardly stop the laughter that bubbles out of his mouth as he steps around everyone to reach his temporary stall. Not even Dykstra’s shit music blaring throughout the room can stop him from soaking in the absolute joy that’s coursing through his veins. All he needs is a victory kiss from his boyfriend to make it all complete. He’ll have to settle for a FaceTime call in the privacy of his hotel room later but not even that dampens his mood.
Removing his sweat-soaked hockey gear, Troy runs his hands through his dark hair and grins at the whistles he gets from everyone, glancing back at his team.
“Fuck off, will ya?!” he chirps.
“Don’t stand in just your underwear if you can’t handle catcalling, Barrett!” Hazy shoots back, laughing.
“It’s too bad Harris ain’t here,” Bood butts in and Troy rolls his eyes fondly. “I’m sure he’d like to lick the sweat off you.”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Ilya booms to quiet everyone and they all look at him, Shane furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. Ilya points to Haasy, who’s frozen in his tie tying. “Not in front of the child.”
“I’m twenty-two!” Haasy argues.
Ilya nods like that proves his point. “Yes.”
He grins as Haasy rolls his eyes and then he turns to Shane, who’s staring up at his husband with an amused and loving smile. Troy watches as Ilya returns it with an equally soppy smile and puckers his lips.
“Gimme kiss.”
Shane rolls his eyes and leans up from pulling his socks on to press his lips against Ilya’s, causing another round of chirping from everyone. Both men flip them off and Troy laughs again, his heart feeling incredibly light. He can barely remember the time he wished to get traded from this team he now calls his family.
Not bothering to dress quite yet, Troy reaches up for his phone and smiles at the amount of notifications that greets him. They’re mostly from Harris, which makes his heart flutter of course, but there’s a couple from his mom too, congratulating him on his winning goal and saying how much she misses him. Of course, he replies, saying that he misses her too and that he and Harris were hoping to come see her and Charlie soon, before he navigates to his text thread with Harris. He loves how enthusiastic and into the game his boyfriend gets.
Then, noticing that was the last text Harris had sent him, Troy frowns. That’s not like him. He’d usually be still blowing up Troy’s phone until Troy was able to reply but, judging by the time the last text was sent… Harris hasn’t texted since midway through the second period.
“Hey, Troy,” Shane says, breaking Troy out of his trance, and Troy looks at him. “You okay?”
Troy nods automatically. “Yeah, just a weird tweet.”
He’s not sure why he’s lying. He can’t help but feel like he’s being dramatic. Harris is allowed to not text. It’s just unusual that he’d seemingly fell off the face of the earth halfway through a game. Shane nods, either believing the piss-poor lie or choosing to entertain it for Troy’s sake.
“Oh, yeah, I see those all the time,” he replies. “We’re all going back to the hotel for dinner, you might wanna get dressed.”
Troy looks down at himself, as if he only just remembered that he’s only in his underwear, and laughs awkwardly. “I probably should, huh?”
Shane smirks and walks back to Ilya, who’s notably impatiently waiting by the doorway. Troy watches for a second before looking back at the phone. He chews on his bottom lip as he looks at the time Harris’ last text was sent and sighs.
He watches for a few seconds, almost willing the three typing dots to show up, and sighs when almost two minutes pass and nothing about his screen changes. He can’t stay here forever, the others are waiting on him. So he reaches for his suit and shrugs it on quickly, packing his hockey gear as he does. His brain remains fixated on the fact that Harris hasn’t even responded to his ‘I love you’ text but he tries to push it away, counting his steps from the locker room down the corridor as a distraction.
When he nears the exit, he sees Coach Wiebe talking quietly into his phone, looking gravely concerned, and it throws Troy off. His coach is typically such a happy-go-lucky type person that any negative emotion that takes over his face is completely foreign. He doesn’t even realise that he’s frozen in his tracks until Wiebe looks up and spots him, his whole face somehow becoming even more sombre.
“He’s right here, I’ll let him know.”
Ice floods Troy’s veins as Wiebe sighs heavily and hangs up the phone, sending his player a pitying look. The worst starts barreling through his mind, renditions of his mom getting in an accident and being on life support on the other side of Canada and Harris suddenly succumbing to heart failure. The scenes swirl around his brain, turning from a heavy wind into a raging tornado, and he only just catches that his coach is telling him. He barely registers what he’s being told, the only words sticking out to him being ‘Harris’ and ‘heart’ and ‘ambulance’ and ‘hospital’. Static replaces Wiebe’s voice in Troy’s head and his feet move before he can even tell them to. He’s vaguely aware of Wiebe calling after him but it’s like he’s on autopilot with his own heart pounding.
Ilya and Shane are still in the parking lot, leaning against Ilya’s car and chatting to Hayden Pike and his wife, and, for some stupid reason, he beelines towards them. What the fuck is he doing?
“Barrett,” Ilya starts as Pike trails off speaking, all four of the people Troy’s staying at watching him worriedly. “What is wrong?”
He can’t even hate how shaky his voice is as he says. “Harris, h-he’s in hospital, I have to get back to Ottawa now.”
At once, the two couples react. Pike and his wife offer the three of them hurried goodbyes as Ilya practically shoves Troy into the backseat of his car. Troy vaguely hears Shane apologising profusely for having to bail on whatever plans the four had but the couple are all too quick to reassure him. Troy pulls his seatbelt on as Shane jumps into the car and Ilya immediately starts driving.
The car is silent for the whole two-hour drive. Troy doesn’t know if he finds it unnerving or not, he’s never had a car ride with Ilya Rozanov where one of them wasn’t blasting music but, at the same time, even talking feels too overstimulating right now. He tears his tie off and undoes his top two buttons so he feels like he can breathe again half an hour into the drive and spends the rest of the time either tapping his thigh or playing with his jacket sleeves, staring out of the window. He hears Shane on the phone and then telling Ilya about the call but every word just goes in one ear and out of the other. He feels sick. Crap, does Ilya have sick bags? Whatever, he’ll just breathe through it.
His anxiety spikes when he sees the familiar sights of Ottawa because he realises he doesn’t even know which hospital Harris was sent to. Is there even more than one hospital in Ottawa?
“Fuck, I didn't hear what hospital he was taken to,” he announces, nearly hyperventilating at the thought.
Shit, he was not good during a crisis.
“Is fine,” Ilya replies, his voice too calm for Troy’s liking. “Is his regular hospital. I assumed as much but Shane confirmed it after talking to Coach.”
“He also said not to worry about having to miss tomorrow’s game,” Shane follows.
“What about you two?”
Ilya speaks up again. “We’re flying from Ottawa, now stop worrying about that, Barrett. Harris needs you.”
He nods and keeps staring out of the window as Ilya drives them through the city streets, chewing his bottom lip so much that he knows Harris will complain when they next kiss. His eyes start burning as he thinks about Harris and what he would’ve been doing minutes before all of this. God, please don’t have him have been alone. Troy tries to wrack his brain to remember where Harris said he was going to watch the game but, in his hysteria, he can’t. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
As soon as Ilya turns into the hospital parking lot, Troy tears off his seatbelt and nearly falls out of the car, catching himself on his feet before legging it to the entrance. He knows people are staring at him, he must look a right state in his now-scruffy suit, soaked in sweat and unshed tears, but he can’t find it in him to care. He looks around for signs and swears under his breath because he can’t remember what the fucking heart department is called. It starts with ‘card’, right? He sees a word that looks familiar and sets off at a speed he thought he could only reach on skates. He deftly avoids colliding with doctors and nurses and patients in the corridors on his pursuit and he’s panting by the time he reaches the ward with the familiar name. The receptionist stares at him with wide eyes as he leans his hands on the desk, taking a moment to catch his breath.
“Har… fuck, sorry,” he says, quickly straightening up. “Harris Drover, what’s his room number?”
The receptionist’s wide-eyed gaze quickly turns into pity and Troy feels his heart drop. For fuck’s sake.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Barrett, it’s immediate family only.”
His eyes start to burn even more but he refuses to resort to tears. Harris needs him, for fuck’s sake, he can’t be this much of a mess. He opens his mouth to try and… do whatever he can to get this receptionist to let him see the love of his life when a familiar warm voice floods his ears.
“Troy!”
Marlene. Thank fuck.
He turns to face the woman, revelling in the relief that takes over the stress in his body at how calm she seems to be. That’s it, Harris was at the farm. Troy remembers now, Harris had made plans with his family to watch the game with them. Chiron could have time with his dog buddies and a giant field and the Drovers were having a potluck. Troy recalls being more jealous that he couldn’t be there, having to be in Montreal for the very game that centred around the potluck.
“How is he?” he asks hurriedly, walking up to her.
Marlene raises her hands as if soothing a wild animal and says. “He’s stable. Doctor doesn’t think he’ll have to go into surgery this time.”
“A-And the mechanical valve?”
“In perfect working order,” she reassures him. “It was likely just a scare.”
For the first time since he read the texts from Harris, Troy’s whole body relaxes and he allows himself to breathe, running his hand through his hair again. To calm himself down, he closes his eyes and exhales again, instinctively smiling when he feels Marlene’s gentle touch on his shoulder.
“You wanna see him?” she asks as he opens his eyes.
He goes to say yes immediately but the receptionist beats him to it.
“Actually, ma’am, I’m afraid it’s family only.”
“And this is my son’s husband,” Marlene says quickly yet sternly. “Come on, Troy.”
Troy’s heart flutters at the statement, though he tries his hardest to keep the surprise off his face. He’d be lying his ass off if he didn’t dream about spending the rest of his life with Harris, about how they’d double barrel their surnames. Would they go with Barrett-Drover or Drover-Barrett? Or, as a giant fuck-you to his dad, maybe Troy could completely drop Barrett. Troy Drover has a great ring to it.
Now is not the time for that.
He follows Marlene through the dull corridors of the heart department, he should really know the proper name for it, and stops when he hears the sweet sound of Harris’ loud laugh. Holy shit, that calms him right down. He speed-walks towards the door and smiles when he peers into the window and sees Harris laughing with his dad. The tubes up his nose scare Troy but, upon seeing how calm the Drovers seem to be, he calms himself down and knocks on the door. The laughter seems to calm as he opens the door and pokes his head in. Harris’ eyes catch his and Troy smiles wider, making his way into the room to sit in the chair on Harris’ left side.
“Sam, why don’t we go get some coffee at the Tim Hortons?” Marlene asks, making all three men look at her. “Troy, Harris, do you want anything?”
Both Troy and Harris shake their heads, clearly sensing the intentions behind Marlene’s words, and Sam nods, patting his son’s shoulder as he stands up. Harris nods in reply, reassuring his father that he’ll be okay, and Troy watches as the older Drovers leave the room before pressing his lips to Harris’ cheek.
“How are you?” he asks, grabbing Harris’ hand.
Harris doesn’t answer, instead asks in return. “What’re you doing here? You’re meant to be in Montreal.”
Troy scoffs. “I bailed on Montreal the second I was told you were sent into hospital.”
“But tom--”
“Harris,” he says sternly and Harris’ round cheeks turn a light pink. “There’s nowhere else I want to be.”
“I told them not to tell you,” Harris replies. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“That’s not your fucking decision to make.”
As if to soothe the bite of his words, Troy kisses the top of his boyfriend’s head and he feels Harris sigh against him. He pulls back to look at him and he can’t help but chuckle at the way Harris is pouting up at him for a kiss. And who is Troy to deny Harris of that? He kisses his lips gently and softly repeats his question.
“I’m fine, Troy,” Harris insists, patting his own chest. “It was just a scare. Doctor Melvin says I’m only here overnight for observation and I’ll be right as rain to leave in the morning.”
Troy nods. “Well, I’m staying here with you.”
Harris looks like he wants to argue with his boyfriend but, obviously knowing him like the back of his hand, knows he’ll never win the argument so he just sighs and squeezes his hand. Troy smiles, reaching up to gently stroke Harris’ blonde hair. Harris smiles too.
“Did you at least win the game? Montreal was shocking tonight.”
Troy’s smile quickly turns into a grin as he nods again. “Four to one, baby. Shane was on fire.”
Harris grins lazily. “He’s always on fire when you guys play Montreal.”
Chuckling, Troy agrees. Whenever Ottawa plays Montreal, the game always feels just that bit more personal and, honestly, with the way Montreal fucked Shane over after he and Ilya got outed, it probably was personal. Not that Troy’s necessarily surprised. He feels the same when they play Toronto.
For a few minutes, Troy ends up telling Harris about the rest of the game that Harris missed and, he admits, gets a bit boastful when he talks about the winning goal he scored. With Harris looking at him with stars in his eyes, it’s incredibly hard not to get so boastful at what was probably one of the best goals of his career.
“Wish I could’ve seen it,” Harris murmurs, his eyelids drooping.
Troy smiles and keeps stroking his hair. “It’s probably already on YouTube.”
“Show me?”
“Later, baby. You should sleep, you look exhausted.”
Harris pouts. “But you only just got here.”
“And I’m going to be here until I can take you home, even if they try to kick me out.”
Harris’ pout doesn’t disappear but he nods regardless and shifts so he’s laying on his side, facing Troy face-on. Troy keeps smiling and leans down to press a kiss to his forehead.
“Get some sleep, honey,” he whispers. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
Harris nods sleepily and readjusts slightly so he can be more comfortable. Troy’s smile widens as he watches Harris’ eyes flutter close and he keeps stroking his hair. He’s always adored how peaceful Harris looks when he sleeps, his face smooth and young, his lips parted ever-so-slightly. He loves everything about Harris but getting to see him like this, in a way nearly no-one else sees… Troy will never take it for granted.
He thinks back to how Marlene lied to the receptionist, calling Troy ‘her son’s husband’. How easily it fell off her tongue, how right it sounded. It makes Troy’s heart pound more and more as he thinks about it. He realises that it’s what he wants the most in life, even more than a Stanley Cup. He wants to spend the rest of his life with Harris, have the ugly days with him as well as the fun days, have a family with him, live on a cottage near the Drovers’ farm with a field for their five dogs. He wants to be a constant for when Harris’ health turns into uncertainty, he wants to have kids with Harris and be the kind, loving dad his father never was.
He looks down at the hand he’s holding, at the empty ring finger that suddenly feels odd. He wants them to be Troy and Harris Drover. More than anything.
So he pulls out his phone and opens his messaging app.