The Long Game (Game Changers #6)(60)

Ilya glanced around the banquet hall the hotel had provided for their private team breakfast. “Have you guys seen Barrett?”

“This morning?” Bood asked. “No.”

Wyatt shook his head. “Haven’t seen him since yesterday when we arrived. Why?”

“No reason.” Ilya hadn’t been a good captain last night when he hadn’t stopped Barrett from taking a bottle of alcohol back to his hotel room, but maybe he could be a good captain today by respecting his privacy until Ilya had a good reason not to.

When he’d finished eating, he headed to the hotel lobby to see what kinds of chocolate bars they were selling in the little shop there. As he was crossing the middle of the room, where all the couches and chairs were for guests to lounge on, someone called his name.

“Ilya Rozanov.”

Ilya stopped walking, and turned in the direction of one of the couches. He couldn’t think of anyone he wanted to talk to who would call out his full name in a busy public place.

He found three men he didn’t recognize—two sitting, and one standing—grinning at him. “Yes?”

The standing man strode over to him like they were friends. He was older than Ilya, probably in his fifties, with piercing blue eyes, gray-flecked dark hair, and a reasonably fit physique for a man his age, though he was several inches shorter than Ilya. He extended his hand when he reached Ilya.

“Curtis Barrett,” he said in a loud, confident voice. “Troy’s father.”

“Oh. Okay,” Ilya said, and shook his hand. “I have not seen your son yet today.”

“Knowing him, he’s probably trying to kick some girls out of his hotel room.” He laughed, and it was horrible. “Fun’s over, ladies, right?”

Ilya wasn’t sure if he liked Troy, but he definitely didn’t like his father. “I can tell him you are here,” Ilya offered, mostly to get away from him.

“Sure, if you see him. I’ve been calling and texting all morning, but he forgot how a phone works, I guess.”

Ilya smiled tightly. “I will let him know. If I see him.”

He left quickly, continuing his journey to the store at the other side of the lobby. He bought himself a Caramilk bar and, after a moment’s consideration, added a bottle of Gatorade.

He checked the room assignments on his phone while he rode the elevator back up to the team’s floor, then walked directly to Troy’s room and banged on the door. “Barrett. Wake up.”

“What is it?” called the tattered remains of Troy’s voice. “What?”

“Open the door.”

Ilya heard moaning, and creaking, and shuffling, and then a bleary-eyed, and mostly naked, Troy Barrett opened the door. He reeked of alcohol and sweat, and his room was a mess. But he was, as Ilya had suspected, alone.

Ilya didn’t wait for an invitation. He pushed past Barrett, wrinkling his nose as he took everything in. “Smells terrible. You got drunk last night.”

“A little,” Troy mumbled.

“Not good, Barrett.” Ilya was legitimately annoyed. Troy had joined the team less than a week ago and already he was letting them down. Ilya held out the Gatorade. “Drink this.” Then, because Troy looked like he was about to topple over, Ilya added, “Sit down.”

Troy sat down heavily on the bed with a sigh and opened the Gatorade.

“I saw you in the lobby with the liquor store bag. Heading for the elevators,” Ilya explained before Troy could wonder how he knew what he’d been up to last night. “You were in a hurry, it looked like.”

Ilya spotted the cause of Troy’s condition—a bottle of horrible, cheap vodka on the nightstand, nearly empty. “This is something you do a lot?” he asked as he inspected the bottle’s label. He sniffed at the liquid inside. Disgusting.

“No,” Troy said miserably.

“We play tonight.”

“I know. It was stupid.”

“Yes.” Ilya wanted to be angry with him, but he found it difficult when Troy looked so pathetic, sitting on his bed in his underwear, curled over a bottle of Gatorade that he was clutching like it was precious.

“It won’t happen again,” Troy said in a small, tired voice. Ilya noticed the shimmer of tears in his eyes before Troy looked away. “I’m sorry. It was—”

His voice broke, and he pressed his lips together. The last of Ilya’s annoyance with him evaporated. “This is your town, yes? Where you are from?”

“Yes,” Troy said, barely more than a whisper.

“Your personal life is personal. If it does not affect your game, it does not matter to me. Coach will say the same thing.” About that, Ilya was confident. Coach Wiebe was kind and fair.

Troy didn’t really know Coach Wiebe yet, though. “Are you going to tell him?”

“Not this time.” It sounded a bit threatening, but Ilya couldn’t help that. He needed Troy to understand that this couldn’t be a habit.

Troy didn’t say anything. He just stared into the Gatorade bottle, probably hoping Ilya would leave.

“You look like shit,” Ilya said. “Practice is optional this morning. You are opting out.”

Troy didn’t protest. “Okay.”

Now Ilya had to give him the news he suspected Troy did not want to hear. “Also your dad is in the lobby.”