Page 104 of No Line Change

Did he, though?

The other thing about penalty shots was that he had to keep forward momentum. There was no rule about how fast he had to go, as long as he kept moving. So Henri slowed down to a near stop. He inched forward down the ice, stickhandling and waiting, waiting, waiting…

The goalie got frustrated. He flinched, but still Henri didn’t shoot. There wasn’t enough of an opening yet…

But then the goalie had had enough. Tired of Henri being a little shit and not just taking a fucking shot, he dove out to poke-check him. He misjudged the distance, or maybe didn’t account for Henri knowing how to move quickly, because he missed and fell forward. While he scrambled to get back up, Henri gently sent the puck over him and into the net.

The arena erupted in applause, loud enough to drown out the goalie’s angry curses. The bench might have screamed even louder. This would be the moment to do a celly, but all Henri managed was a clenched fist and a sigh of relief. Take that, every fucking coach ever who said he was shit in clutch moments. Fuck you guys.

When he arrived at the bench, Dylan hugged him so hard Henri found himself lifted a foot in the air. He grimaced (yep, definitely bruised) but allowed himself to enjoy the moment.

“That was so dirty,” Dylan said. “Put that on the highlight reel.”

“I’ve never seen a slow-motion penalty shot,” Novak said. He looked decidedly impressed. “I don’t think many people could pull that off. Nice.”

“Good work, Baptiste.” Krzysztofek patted Henri’s head with his rolled-up game notes. “That’s exactly what I like to see.” It didn’t even sound condescending.

“Exactly?” Duffy joked. “I think I have nightmares about playing that slow.”

Krzysztofek shrugged in conciliation. “Wasn’t how I expected it to go, but you can’t argue with results.”

The game continued, Henri back between Dylan and Novak. Dylan’s whole side was pressed against Henri’s (thankfully, it was the non-injured side) and buzzing with excitement. But his attention was fixed on the ice as he shouted encouragement.

“You know,” Novak said conversationally as they scooted down the bench, closer and closer to their next shift. “You both have two goals. That puts me in the awkward position of having to pick between you two for the hatty⁠—”

One of the second liner’s smacked him across the head. “Shut the fuck up with the H word, numb nuts.”

Novak put his glove in Hernandez’s face and otherwise ignored him. “I’m just saying that I’m open to bribes. Y’know. To ensure passes go to you and not Evers.”

Hernandez tore off Novak’s glove and threw it down the bench. “Give it to Baps. Evers has a bajillion hat tricks.”

“Right, but he’s also Captain America trying for whatever the fuck record. So, like, it’s historical.”

“Not until it’s that actual goal. No one’s looking at the goal, like, twenty before that one.”

Novak considered. Someone threw his glove back at him, and he caught it just before it flew onto the ice. “Good point. Baps, I’ll try to get it to you.”

“Can we focus on not losing?” Henri deflected. He hadn’t gotten a hat trick in many calendar years. It was one of those exciting things he’d craved when he was younger, but the appeal had faded. It put him in a bad headspace to worry about it when he needed to be a reliable center who helped defensively. Especially in a tight game.

“So responsible.” Novak nudged him. “You’re gonna have your hands full with the big guy, though. Evers isn’t really good at passing up scoring opportunities.”

As if on cue, Krzysztofek raised a hand. “Everett, sit this shift out. Hernandez, go out for him.”

“Boo!” Dylan cupped his hands over his mouth. “Booooo!”

“Save it for when they pull the goalie, Everett. You can take potshots at an empty net all you want.”

Henri, Novak, and Hernandez stood up, preparing to hop the boards. Dylan grabbed Henri’s arm, a twinkle in his eye. “Good luck.”

Luck wasn’t a factor. Henri didn’t even remember scoring was a thing while standing on his head trying to keep the Pythons to the outside. His legs were killing him again, that burn that told him he was done.

He wasn’t allowed to be done. The Pythons pulled their goalie, Briggs made a save, and Krzysztofek called a timeout.

“You’ve got thirty seconds, Baptiste and Novak. You’re back out. Give me Lynwood and Knox on defense. Everett, you’re up. No mistakes here, boys. Lock. It. Down.”

"Yes, sir!" the five of them said together and then skated to the left of Briggs.

Henri took a settling breath at the face-off dot. He looked up at the Jumbotron—thirty-seven seconds, a fucking lifetime—and mentally parceled out the time. If they iced it, that should eat up three seconds. If they could trap it along the boards, that could burn as much as ten seconds. If Henri could win this face-off, they could clear it to center and force them to reenter the zone, that could shave up maybe twenty seconds.