are you a troy enjoyer at all? if so i am always here for more of troy in the Torment Nexus
HOWEVER if not then uhhhhh im always down for shane experiencing shenanigans; like hey what if he got stuck in a mini timeloop during a montreal/ottawa game bc he missed a goal and has to replay it over and over and slowly loses his mind meanwhile ilya is like ‘shane my love what the fuck is happening’
i just read role model 2 days ago so i would LOVE to present my first attempt at the Troy Torment Nexus. it's troy, so CW for discussions of sexual assault (canon and also not canon), and general curtis barrett and dallas kent warning. due to the aforementioned warnings this whole thing will be under a cut
Troy traces the outline of the bruise on his chest in the locker room shower. Half the guys are done, and the other half are on the other side of the showers, so Troy has plenty privacy—at least, plenty by hockey standards.
This hit is brutal—not the worst he's had, but top three, probably. Definitely a cracked rib, maybe a bruised collarbone. He should probably get some painkillers into himself before the adrenaline wears off, but he can't seem to make himself move.
Troy's dad liked it when he got hit. Not in a weird way, like the Brock U18 doctor that the kid from Kawartha couldn't talk about. He never said anything, but he didn't like going into medical even when it was really fucking bad, 'cause he said the guy from Brock was weird about it, and everybody knew what that meant.
Anyway, Curtis Barrett wasn't a pedophile. He was just a mean asshole. He liked when Troy got hit because getting hit toughened a man up. "Kid's growin' up," he would say to Mom whenever Troy limped in from practice, and Mom wouldn't say anything, because she didn't like it, but what she liked didn't get much airtime in the Barrett household.
"You should see doctor," Rozanov says, and Troy flinches. He didn't notice Roz coming up. He looks up, and Rozanov leans against the shower wall, hands by his sides. Nonthreatening. "Sorry. Did not mean to scare you."
"You didn't." Now that Dallas is on trial and Troy's come out, everybody thinks Troy is a sad little baby who got manipulated into being a dickhead by enemy #1 Dallas Kent. It's not true. Troy was responsible for it all.
Rozanov watches him, and Troy looks away. Not to the side or anything dramatic, just lets his eyes slide off Roz's face. They're both still fucking naked. "Team doctor is very good. Nothing to worry about."
As if Troy was worried. The Toronto doctor was a nice guy, too. His problems have nothing to do with hospital beds. "Okay. Thanks."
"Don't drown in shower," Rozanov says, and then, finally, leaves.
Troy soaps his pits, his thighs. The hit is starting to ache really bad. Thinking about bruises always makes him think of Dallas. Dallas also liked it when he bruised, just like Curtis. Probably because they're both, essentially, fucking assholes.
Troy recognized one of the women from Dallas's trial. Troy didn't want to watch it, but he did, watched everything he could get his hands on without going into the courtroom, felt like it was the least he could do. She'd come to one of the parties just before a two-week break back in the 2017-18 season. Right after Scott Hunter, when Dallas was on a rampage about fags invading his sport or some bullshit. Troy had given her a beer. He wonders if that was the drink that put her over the edge, the one that made her too drunk to fight back.
His stomach twists. Troy wishes he could've stopped it. He would give anything to have taken her place. Maybe that was a fucked up thing to think.
Three years ago Troy got high-sticked. No concussion, just bruised all on one side of his face, from his swollen eye down to his busted lip. Dallas had put a hand on him in the locker room, thumb over his cheek, fingers gentle and cool against Troy's hot, reddened skin. "You look like someone's wife, bro," he'd said, and the guys laughed and laughed and laughed. Troy, spineless and full of shame, had laughed too.
He scrubs a hand through his hair to rinse out the shampoo and turns off the water. Harris won't like the bruise. Troy could try making it sexy if he wanted. "Your man got in a fight for you," he could say, which was kind of true. Troy defended his honour. Hockey was all about honour and rage, hockey was the leash that tied them together.
Apple farmer Harris wouldn't like that, though. Harris came from a family where nobody hit a bruise just to make it last longer. Harris would just say, "My baby," and pull Troy's face into his thick chest and stroke his hair. Not like Dallas, who would've dug his fingers into the ache until it tipped over into something sharp and stinging, fireworks in the night sky. Nights out with cold shot glasses pressed against the bruises, Dallas telling Troy what to drink, what to swallow. Troy looks down helplessly at his own dick, twitching. He has to leave. He has to get out of here.
Harris is waiting for him in the locker room, and Troy puts on pants and a sweater. Like this he doesn't even look injured. Harris touches him—soft, sweet, avoiding the pain—and Troy lets himself be rescued.
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the assistant manager where i work thought it would be appropriate to inform me that i smell bad and used the spanish word equivalent to saying i'm a disgusting person who doesn't wash their genitals so my response of "I AM MENSTRUATING AND IF YOU *EVER* FUCKING MAKE A COMMENT LIKE THAT ABOUT ME AGAIN I CAN GUARANTEE THAT THE REASON I'LL BE FIRED FROM HERE IS FOR PUNCHING YOU IN YOUR SMUG ASS FACE YOU FUCKING DICK" was totally warranted right???
