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Well it turns out I never understood you even though you were speaking English the whole fucking time

All you did was teach me bad words I could use against other Russians

Most practical yes?

What else would you need?

Yes of course how silly of me

See you in a few weeks

CHAPTER 47

An unfortunate part of leaving a team was returning to the team. Henri had experienced this song and dance twice before and dreaded it. He still hated playing in Carolina, not because of anything they’d said about him recently but because they’d drafted him. The anxiety of walking into that arena had never left him, the weight of unfulfilled expectations like a noose around his neck.

LA he expected nothing from. They had been a blip, a team that had gotten him cheap and given him away quickly. They had put no effort into him and had been shocked that he’d been reluctant to buy into their system that had pushed him more and more to the periphery.

What, you’re not happy with scraps? Be a team player.

The team will continue to exist when I’m gone. I might not still exist in this league when you get rid of me.

Warm-ups were tense, if only because Henri refused to go anywhere near center ice. There had been players friendly to him, but he didn’t want to find out how fake that kindness had been. The last thing he wanted was to see those former supporters look at him with disdain.

Or worse, indifference.

“They probably don’t bite.”

Henri jumped. Their goalie, Briggs, was collecting snow in the corner with his stick.

“Huh?”

“The other team. They probably don’t bite. Even if you did use to play here.” He tapped the blade of his stick on the ice and then lifted it to clean it off against his jersey. “You’re hiding back here with me. Figured you were scared.”

“I’m not…” Henri drifted off as he looked down to the far end of the ice. His stomach did uncomfortable things. “Have you ever played anywhere else?”

“Yeah. Sucks, huh?”

“Yes.”

“You sad you left?”

Henri shook his head. “It’s always scary to go somewhere new, but it was a relief to be done here.” He turned back to Briggs. “You?”

He shrugged, a comical gesture in all that gear. “I was a backup on my old team and a starter here. I was excited to go and never looked back. Nothing feels better than beating your old team, right?”

Henri’s face tried to form a smile. He wasn’t sure if it took. “Of course.”

Briggs frowned. Probably. It wasn’t always easy to tell what a goalie was doing through the mask. “Just keep them to the outside, and I’ll do the rest. Maybe tell the big guy if they give you trouble. Evers’ll keep ‘em in line if they’re dicks to you.”

Of that Henri had no doubt. As captain and all-around decent human being, Dylan stood up for all of his teammates. Henri preferred to fight his own battles, but this was one he didn’t have the mental fortitude to handle. With people who didn’t know him aside from a name on a roster—fans, media, strangers—it didn’t bother him. They were just saying shit to say it, half of the time in places where they assumed he’d never encounter it. Even when it was the opposing team, they were just throwing insults at everyone to see what stuck. But hearing it from people who’d known him, had played with him, sat next to him on the plane…when they said those things, it always felt like it was true. Like they’d seen the truth of how small and useless Henri was, and now that they didn't have the veneer of being teammates, they were pointing it out.

So tonight, when he had no idea what to expect from his old team, he would gladly let Dylan shoulder that burden for him. If necessary. Maybe it wouldn’t be.

“I’m sure it'll be fine,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster. Briggs was nice enough not to call him out. No one else noticed that he’d not warmed up at all.

In the moments before the game started, as the team waited for the national anthem, Henri sat on the bench and disassociated. He wasn’t in LA awaiting possible humiliation. He was back in Albuquerque, tucked under a thick down comforter with warm arms wrapped snugly around him and a beard tickling the back of his neck.

As if he’d conjured him, Dylan appeared in front of him. He stood on the ice, rosy cheeks matching the red accents on his white jersey, and leaned over the boards into Henri’s space.