Page 114 of No Line Change

“Ready?” Dylan asked.

No. “Sure. It’s just a game.”

“Well, yeah. I meant for your return thank-you video or whatever.”

“Oh. I doubt they’ll do anything.” Henri would be shocked if they acknowledged him at all. A video montage was out of the question. Unless they’d put together a reel of all his worst moments on the team, but their cruelty had always been in the form of neglect, not malice.

Dylan’s smile, the default expression he wore every game day, shifted into confusion. “What do you mean? Didn’t you play here for a few seasons?”

“A year and a half.” It was actually the shortest of his contracts. The Ice Owls and Reapers had at least kept him until the end of the season.

“So won’t they at least say welcome back and show you on the Jumbotron or whatever?”

So they can boo me?

“No,” Henri said.

“But you’re so good. Don’t teams always⁠—”

Henri reached out and touched his elbow. “I’m not that good, and it wouldn’t matter. They didn’t like me here. I never fit. They’re not going to say goodbye like they were upset to see me go.”

“But—but—” he sputtered. “How many points did you get?”

“I don’t remember,” he lied. It’d been forty-two altogether, which was embarrassingly low when talking to a man who put up more goals than that each season. There was no answer he could give that wouldn’t annoy Dylan more.

“That’s some fucking bullshi⁠—”

He was cut off by a whistle—their cue to head to center ice—and Henri was left unsure whose bullshit Dylan was calling out, his or the Devils’.

Henri reluctantly got on the ice, continued to dissociate during the national anthem, and then rolled his neck until it cracked as he approached center ice.

There’s only ever one first game back, he reminded himself as he lined up against Grab.

Grab had been one of the nicer ones. He was an alternate captain, so he’d made an effort to be friendly. Generally, the first and second-line centers hadn’t seen him as much of a threat or liability.

Grab said in perfectly inflectionless and highly accented English, “Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” he said, matching the tone but with much better pronunciation.

“First line. Big jump.”

Henri couldn’t help it; his brow furrowed. “Yes,” he said.

“Guess a team like the Turkeys is a good fit.” He bent over and got into position for the face-off. “No pressure when it’s a team that can’t make the playoffs.”

Henri stood there, frozen. The beauty of the comment was in how subtle the dig was. It could even be framed as a compliment, which might be worse. Grab thought he was being nice, that same casual disregard that had been Henri’s life for years. After how kind the Turkeys had been, he’d forgotten how much worse this was than outright hostility.

“Baptiste.” The ref blew the whistle right in Henri’s face. “Let’s go. We’ve got a game to play.”

“Huh?” He rubbed a hand self-consciously over the turkey logo on his chest.

We’re doing well.

We’ll make the playoffs.

I’m good enough to be on any first line.

“Baptiste—”