Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Troy Barrett & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Troy Barrett, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Sickfic, Sick Troy Barrett, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Good Captain Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 7 of [challenge] Heated Rivalry Febuwhump 2026

Collections:

febuwhump 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-07 Words: 1,378 Chapters: 1/1

To Be Good

Summary

Troy just wants to do well in Ottawa. His body has other plans.

Notes

Day Seven: Alt prompt – Flu

Troy is also so very blorbo-shaped fr

The insistent blaring of the alarm pierces through Troy’s brain. Blearily, he hits the snooze button, and then thinks, fuck. His eyelids aren’t cooperating, like someone has glued them shut, and his mouth tastes like something died in it.

When did he last have a hangover as bad as this? He’s no stranger to bad morning afters, but – this is bad. Bad Bad. Worse than that first night back in Vancouver after Adrian. After getting traded to Ottawa.

And then it occurs to him, maybe stupidly, that he was not, in fact, out drinking last night. He hasn’t been out drinking at all since getting to Ottawa. If he ignores said night in Vancouver, which he’s inclined to do. He has a reputation now, and he’s aware that everyone’s mostly tolerating him. Waiting for him to either fuck up and be placed on waivers, or get his shit together. And Troy has really been trying to get his shit together.

Which makes this all the worse. It’s not just his head, is the thing. The entirety of his body feels like it’s filled with lead, and uncurling from his cosy position under the blankets makes him groan. Shit. He literally can’t remember the last time he didn’t wake before his alarm – again, that night in Vancouver aside, though technically, it was Roz who woke him, not Troy’s alarm – and so he knows he’s already running late. Shit shit shit.

With some effort, he rolls out of bed. The cold of the floor makes him hiss, and he squints into the darkness of his room. Thankfully, it remains steady. He’s okay. Well, maybe not okay, but at least close enough. Skate today isn’t optional – is a proper practice – and he can’t afford to miss one this early.

God, he suddenly misses his mom. He’s been missing her ever since Adrian ended things, of course, but everything today seems to feed into his longing, and the ache to feel her hands on his forehead, her fingers carding through his hair, is almost physical in its intensity.

He swallows past the urge to reach for his phone and pads over to his dresser instead.

Mornings are a well-honed routine, even running behind schedule: he gets dressed (the fabric of his clothes an uncomfortable scratch against his skin), brushes his teeth and does the abridged version of his skin care routine (wonderfully cool on his cheeks and eyelids), chugs half his protein shake before he’s reached his limit.

The walk to the training facility is short, which is fortunate, because Troy is shivering by the time he makes it into the rink. The cleaners must have been by not too long ago, because the floor is still damp in places, the chemical smell of cleaning products heavy in the air. It turns Troy’s stomach. Or maybe that’s the insistent whirr of the air conditioning and the glare of the overhead lights.

There’s nothing for it, though, so he grits his teeth and picks his way along the dry path towards their locker room. As it turns out, he really is running late: when he pushes the door to the room open, he’s greeted by a poppy tune (Mama said, “Burn your biographies / Rewrite your history…) that’s just a shade louder than comfortable. Damn. And that’s why he usually arrives way ahead of everyone – because it means getting ready on his own terms in blessed silence.

But Troy isn’t here to make a fuss, so he keeps his head down and tries to get into the hockey head space that’s been elusive ever since his life exploded spectacularly, even before adding his body betraying him into the mix.

“Goooood morning,” a chipper voice says behind him while Troy is buried in his stall, digging for his comfort socks, the ones he doesn’t usually wear to practice. He needs them today, though; it’s extenuating circumstances, and those call for desperate measures. Like comfort socks, and his lucky tape, and keeping his back to a way too cheerful Ilya Rozanov, considering it’s only him and Troy in the room.

“Morning,” Troy grits out, and waits until he hears rustling from Rozanov’s stall before he turns around. His hockey gear is no more comfortable than his street clothes were, but at least it’s familiar. Safe. And much as it galls, at this rate he’ll have no choice but to ask one of the trainers for ibuprofen since he left his medicine cabinet in his condo in Toronto untouched before driving over.

Fuck. His Toronto condo. He still hasn’t gotten around to having that packed up, which he probably should do at some point. Much like the past two weeks, he shoves the thought away. That’s something to deal with later; maybe during the Christmas break. Or the All Star break, since that one is longer and there’s absolutely no chance he’ll be invited to that.

“You alright?” Rozanov asks, pulling Troy from his thoughts.

Troy ducks his head again and tugs his skates on. “Yeah, of course.”

Rozanov squints at him. “You were not out drinking again, yes?”

“Of course not,” Troy says, maybe too quickly considering he actually wasn’t. “And I didn’t order in alcohol either,” he adds for good measure.

“Hm.”

Troy’s hands are shaking as he ties his second skate. “I’ll just – I’ll be out on the ice.”

He can feel Rozanov’s eyes following him out of the room. The air on the rink is blessedly cool, and the ice is home in a way that’s instinctual, even with his body trying to fall apart around him. He takes a slow lap around the rink, tests his crossovers, picks up a bit of speed. His lungs burn and his legs don’t feel quite right, but it’ll be fine. He’s fine. As long as Coach doesn’t bag skate them – which Wiebe has yet to do, despite their overall abysmal performance – he’ll be just fine.

He makes it through two drills. Keeping to himself works in his favour, because no one expects him to socialise anyway, and so he can devote the entirety of his focus to keeping himself upright, which gets harder and harder. Consequently, he flubs passes and easy drills, and if he wasn’t feeling altogether rotten, he’s pretty sure the humiliation would have his face hot enough to make breakfast on.

And then Rozanov skates over to Coach after the second drill, and Troy just knows it’s about him, even before Coach looks at him, then back at Rozanov, and nods once.

“Okay, Barry and I will take break. Rest of you – do not miss me, yes?” Rozanov calls out as he skates over to Troy. Oh, what a cruel twist – that the first time Rozanov (Roz?) calls him by something other than his last name is when he’s dropping the ball majorly during practice.

Roz doesn’t say anything else as he grabs Troy’s elbow and skates them over to the bench.

“I’m sorry,” Troy says quietly. “I’ll do better.”

“You will rest.” Roz gives him a hard look that Troy does his best to avoid.

“I’m fine, I just –”

“We will go to the trainers,” Roz continues like Troy hasn’t said anything, “they will check you over, and then I will tuck you in like a little boy who can not be trusted to make good decisions about his health.”

“It’s – not that bad.”

“You are very sick, Barret.” Troy flinches at his last name. Roz snorts as he drags him to the locker room, pushing Troy towards his own stall as he starts stripping out of his own gear. “So best you can do is rest.”

“But practice –”

“Will be fine without us. We have a duty to the team, and that is to be in best shape. That includes resting when you are sick.”

Troy doesn’t know how to argue with that, so he lets himself be dragged to the trainers while Roz makes them give him instructions – painkillers for the fever, fluids, soup – and then bundles Troy off to his car.

It should be humiliating. But Troy is exhausted, and yes, maybe he is very sick, and so he gives in and lets Roz do his thing. He can always hate himself for his weakness tomorrow, after all.