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He did not win the face-off.

The Pythons got to work, setting up a cycle and putting the Turkeys on their heels. Henri was getting whiplash trying to keep up with the play. He just needed to be in the way. No free shots, no open lanes. Make them fucking work for it.

On an attempt to break up a pass, the puck happened to hit Henri's stick. Henri had about half a second to make a decision before he lost the chance.

“Hen! Center it!”

So he did. Blind passes in a close game when down a player were stupid. Henri never took such dumb risks. But he trusted Dylan. No one could fault him for passing it to the Great Dylan Everett if he called for it, right?

Henri looked up. Dylan was carrying the puck up the ice but still had a defenseman to beat. Most of the Turkeys seemed too tired to put in more than a token show of support, with half of them going for a change. Henri, despite the burn and the pretty decent odds Dylan had one-on-one, followed behind. This was his last push, then he could rest.

The defender saw Dylan load up for a shot and slid to block it. Which would've worked...except that Dylan didn’t shoot. He faked the shot and dropped the puck back to Henri just as he crossed the blue line. The only defender was sprawled on the ice and attempting to get back to his feet. He wasn’t even near the goal, leaving Henri with an open net.

So he shot.

It went in.

The hats came flying down onto the ice. It was a beautiful sight, though strange that it was for him.

“Player of the game!” Dylan crooned. His arms were open wide and Henri fully expected to be picked up again. Instead, Dylan grabbed Henri’s face in both hands and kissed him on the cheek.

Mostly the cheek. The corners of their mouths touched, and it was a challenge not to turn and seal the kiss. But he was rescued from such treacherous instincts as their teammates joined them. Dylan left the circle to grab the puck while everyone else did the honors of screaming in Henri’s ear and slowly smothering him.

There were three seconds left in the game, and Henri mercifully didn’t have to play them. He got to enjoy the victory from the bench, tucked into a one-armed hug from Dylan.

abqturkeysnhl (January 9, 2024): The Turkeys win They beat the Florida Pythons 5-3.

Joseph Knox with four blocked shots

Dylan Everett 2G 1A

Luc-Henri Baptiste 3G 2A

turkeytalk (January 9, 2024): did Baptiste just out-Everett Everett? Man was on fire!! Second career hat trick made up of a weird bounce, an insane penalty shot, and an EN. This is the kind of crap Everett’s been doing for years. (Remember when he had 1 goal going into the last five minutes of the game but got a hat trick because the other two were empty nets?? That’s what this feels like)

↪ gobblegoals: omg and Everett with that selfless pass to Baptiste to GET him that hat trick?? and leaving the celly huddle to get the puck?? and Novak getting Baptiste in the locker room with the shaving cream pie?? that top line is just *chef’s kiss* they get along so well and it totally shows on the ice

luc-henri-sourit (January 9, 2024): Have you seen a more perfect smile trio than this one? Surprised that the first goal went in, surprised that the penalty shot went in, delighted at the third one. Magnifique. Hang them in le Louvre.

CHAPTER 45

Once the euphoria (and adrenaline) of the night wore off, Henri felt exhausted. He’d driven himself to the rink and regretted the choice as soon as he left the arena. Dylan must’ve seen the look of defeat in the set of his shoulders, because he put a hand on his arm and said, “I’ll drive you.”

“But my car⁠—”

“I’ll drive your car. I can get someone to drop off mine. Perks of being the captain.”

The logistics of it were too taxing to deal with, so he shrugged and handed Dylan his keys. They were exiting the garage and heading east before Henri realized where they were going.

“No. Your house,” he said. It was a farther drive and would give him a chance to nap before he had to human again.

Dylan’s hand rested on his thigh. “You sure?”

He grunted what Dylan hopefully took as a yes and drifted off, content to sink into his seat with the heat of Dylan’s palm grounding him. He stuffed his hand into his peacoat pocket and clutched the hat trick puck. He didn’t believe in lucky charms, but wouldn’t that be nice?

The car coming to a halt jolted him awake, and he was comforted by the sight of Dylan’s home instead of his apartment building. Dylan’s hand was still on his thigh.

“You hungry?” Dylan offered once they were inside. He rolled his shoulders and then his neck, and as easily as that he seemed to have shaken off both the game and the drive. “I can make a snack.”