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Henri shook his hand, trying not to choke up about something as simple as a goodbye from a teammate. “Bye, Briggs.”

“Night, Big Rigg,” Dylan called as the elevator doors closed. “He doesn’t know your room’s on this floor, right?”

“Since I haven’t used it, I doubt it.” They were only going up another floor, so he didn’t dare lean into Dylan’s space to steal his body heat. “I’ll have to check out in the morning, probably. Did you extend your reservation?”

“Yep.” Dylan’s leg was twitching. He’d been a mess of nervous energy since they’d gotten off the ice. Fidgeting in his seat at dinner. Tapping his fingers against the window on the bus. It was cute how excited he was to have almost a whole day together. No games or practice. Room service if they wanted it. Amazing.

It was disappointing when they got into Dylan’s room and he didn’t immediately kiss Henri senseless. Instead, he sat on his bed, twitching like he was about to vibrate out of his skin.

“Are you…okay?” Henri toed off his shoes. He hated that he was still in his stupid game-day suit. It worked for the fancy steak place, but it felt confining. Not him. Especially when it was just the two of them. He got to work on the jacket next, his belt.

Dylan made no move to undress. Instead, his left foot bounced and bounced. “Guess I’m a little jittery.”

“Ah.” Henri undid his tie and enjoyed how Dylan tracked the movement. Tracked every movement as Henri revealed more and more skin, inch by inch. “You have the jitters.” He emphasized the j sound to sound more French, despite how much he hated his accent sometimes. On the bench, in the locker room, during interviews…but not with Dylan, who loved it. “I’m not arm-wrestling you.”

Immediately, Dylan’s foot stilled. “Sorry.” He buried his face in his hands for a few heartbeats, then smoothed his hair. “I just…I want to ask you something, and I’m kind of nervous.”

This time, it was Henri who stilled, his hand frozen where he’d been undoing the buttons at his cuff. He searched Dylan’s face for any clues about what could make him nervous, found none, and felt his own blood pressure skyrocket. “Dylan, how could I possibly make you nervous?”

“I told you,” Dylan said. “Cute boys make me nervous.”

“Just ask,” Henri soothed. There were things Dylan might say that he didn’t want to hear, but he hoped all his worst-case scenarios were the product of his imagination more than a real threat. If Dylan were going to break up with him, this wasn’t how he’d do it. Honestly, he looked embarrassed and aroused, with a blush spreading across his cheeks and the unsteady hitch to his breathing. Taking a chance that he was reading Dylan correctly, he added, “I told you. You can do whatever you want to me.”

Dylan swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. He clasped his hands together and stared at them as he spoke. “I just, uh. I owe you a reward for that goal in Chicago”—Henri had to bite back a reminder that no, he didn’t—“and for that assist tonight. And…maybe I’d like a reward. For 550.”

Henri stepped forward. Dylan automatically spread his thighs to allow him closer, so Henri took the space and placed his arms around Dylan’s neck.

“You can do whatever you want to me,” he repeated. “No rewards necessary.” He dipped down and stole a chaste kiss, lingering for a breath before he pulled away, Dylan leaning forward to chase him. “What do you want, Dylan?”

“I…” He swallowed again. His eyes didn’t leave Henri’s lips. “Could you…?” Henri tilted his chin up with one hand and smoothed the hair from his brow with the other. “Fuck me, please. I want you to fuck me, Hen.”

He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring down in awe at the request. “You’ve never…”

Dylan shook his head. “No. Never.”

“Toys? Fingers?”

“Just my fingers,” he admitted. His leg was twitching again until Henri put a hand on his thigh. “In the shower. Like you showed me. Nothing bigger than that.”

“Are you sure?” Part of him felt a fool for trying to talk Dylan out of this. The other part cared too much about Dylan to rush into this. He would gladly take Dylan apart any way permitted him, but only if Dylan were sure. He had to know this wasn’t just some fantasy, not the idea of being fucked but the reality of it. “You don’t have to. You might not like it.”

“You like it.” Dylan pouted. Pouted! The great Dylan Everett, All-Star and American Hero and Generational Talent, he pouted because he wanted his boyfriend to fuck him.

“I do.” Henri kissed Dylan’s cheek, gentle and chaste. “But that doesn’t mean you will. And just because I do it for you, you don’t have to do it for⁠—”

“Yes, I know,” Dylan interrupted with an edge of frustration. “But I want to. Fuck, Hen. I’ve been imagining it. I need to try it.” His arms came up around Henri and pulled him onto his lap. “I need to feel you inside me. I gotta know.”

If there were any doubts that Henri wanted to fuck Dylan, his hard cock pressed against Dylan’s stomach was hopefully enough to convince Dylan that wasn’t the case. Henri really wanted to.

“Okay,” Henri said, and nearly died when Dylan’s face lit up. He looked so stupidly beautiful Henri wondered how he’d resisted at all. “You still might not like it,” he warned, trying to sound soft but serious. “If you change your mind⁠—”

“I won’t. Fuck, can you not feel how hard I am?” He rolled his hips to make sure Henri could indeed feel it.

Henri bit the inside of his cheek to steady himself, then: “But if you change your mind, that’s fine. We can try. I’d love to try.”

They took more care than necessary stripping out of their suits, hanging everything up as if they had another game tomorrow instead of plans to just lounge in bed all day. The routine was grounding when Henri felt untethered, like he’d float away in a wave of happiness. By the time Dylan was naked on the bed, lube and condom and towel within reach of where he lounged and idly stroked himself, Henri’s arousal was a low undercurrent. Not as intense and sharp as it’d been only a few minutes ago, not so urgent that he’d get ahead of himself.

Because Dylan was the priority tonight, not Henri.