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“Feel free to score some goals and steal the spotlight,” Dylan quipped back. “Might take you a while to catch up, though.”

Novak gave him the finger.

They were about to play the Florida Pythons, one of the leading teams in the Eastern Conference. They were all but guaranteed to make the playoffs this season, and as a team that was as physical as they were fast, Henri wasn’t looking forward to this game. But the Turkeys needed the points, needed everyone to give 100% so they could get them.

Henri was not 100%. His muscles still ached despite trying to take it easy at practice the past two days. Another rest day would’ve been ideal, but Henri had never felt like he was in a position to ask the coaches for a maintenance day. The one time in his rookie season that he’d tried, the coach had instead benched him for two games. He’d learned his lesson early.

Besides, it was manageable. He was trying so hard to outrun the reputation for being difficult; unless he was injured, he’d grit and bear it. As long as he got to play his regular minutes and the team didn’t take too many penalties, he’d be fine. Just a game tonight, an optional skate tomorrow, and then a travel day. Easy.

During warm-ups, he tested his legs. Not sprint-every-shift levels, but not bad.

Dylan skated to a stop next to him. “Best cure in the world, isn’t it?”

Henri squinted at him. “What, orgasms?” he asked, glove in front of his face so no one could read his lips.

“No,” Dylan sputtered around a laugh. “A home-cooked meal.”

“Those are nice too.” He tapped Dylan with the butt of his stick. “Get a hat trick or something so I can take it easy.”

“I’ll do my best.” Dylan grabbed a nearby puck with his stick. “C’mon, help me warm up. Feed me some one-timers so I can make sure Briggs is awake in net.”

It was good to play at home. The Turkeys didn’t have the most fans in the league, but the ones they had were loud and enthusiastic enough to make up for the arena only being half-full. New Mexico wasn’t exactly hockey country. The Turkeys were also a decade past their glory days, so Henri got it.

Henri stood at center ice, awaiting the first face-off and soaking it all in. If he had the choice, he’d like to stay here.

The ref blew the whistle and motioned the centers forward. Henri got into position. He won the face-off.

He, in fact, won all the face-offs. That probably wasn’t technically true, but it felt like it. He was on fire, winning the puck cleanly to the D and getting them rolling. One offensive zone draw, he won it straight back and the goal horn sounded before he’d even straightened up. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw Dylan had lined up right behind him.

“Let’s go, babes!” Dylan whooped and pointed to Henri before he was enveloped from behind by Knox.

Later, with less than a minute left in the first period, Dylan and Novak went for a line change. If there’d been more than a handful of seconds left, Henri might’ve as well. He didn’t see the point of making someone jump the boards, and if he chased after the loose puck, it should be enough pressure to keep the Pythons deep in their own zone. So he rushed in after the defenseman corralling the puck a little casually on the boards.

“On you!” the goalie warned, and the defender sent the puck blindly up the boards. Whether he hadn’t understood his goalie or misjudged the time, the puck bounced up the boards and landed directly on Henri’s stick.

Oh, he had time to think before he shot at the net. That was lucky.

What was really lucky was the puck nicking the goalie’s blocker before rolling into the net a second, maybe two, before the buzzer sounded.

“Wow,” Henri said, more shocked than pleased.

“Fuck you,” the defenseman said as he skated by and swatted Henri’s stick out of his hands. The fans standing nearby threw up their hands and pounded on the glass at the player, giving him more middle fingers than was strictly necessary.

“Pythons Number 80, two minutes for unsportsmanlike,” a ref shouted over the roar of the fans.

“Fuck!” he yelled. “Are you shitting me!?”

Henri picked up his stick and left the ice, giving the other player a wide berth.

“We start the second on the power play,” Coach Krzysztofek said in the locker room. “Those two goals from Evers and Baps are huge. Let’s build off that momentum. Foot on the gas, people.”

Foot on the gas worked for the power play, when Novak dove to keep the puck in the zone. He tipped it just enough that Henri grabbed it.

“Hen!” Dylan screamed. Henri sent it to him, trusting that the path there was clear, and he hadn’t just turned it over.

The goal horn was such a relief he actually sighed.

“Beautiful pass.” Dylan head-butted him. It wasn’t gentle.