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Henri continued to ignore him. “Will it help if he only wears it in his hotel room and at home?”

“Better than nothing.”

“You can give me the sling. I’ll make sure he wears it.”

That earned him the silent treatment all the way back to the hotel. The drugs must be working, because Dylan’s good mood with the team wasn’t forced and his grin not faked. But his expression pinched at the edges whenever he caught Henri watching him. No one seemed to notice Dylan wasn’t drinking with them, or that Henri and Novak took turns drinking his beers for him.

The alcohol hit Novak harder than it did Henri, because soon he was leaning heavily on Henri while he cradled one of the beers he’d stolen from Dylan.

“You’re the only reason we got this far, Baps.”

“No—” he protested.

“It’s true. Nothing against the rest of the team. Everyone played awesome. No complaints. But we can’t do this without the big guy, and you fixed him.”

Given that Dylan was very much injured, he didn’t understand and didn’t dare comment.

“He plays better when he’s happy,” Novak continued, eyes glassy but intent. “He hasn’t won a Rocket in years.”

“That’s not me,” Henri said. “You have as many assists as I do.” It was almost true, at least. You’d have to look at the numbers to know, and Henri was certain Novak didn’t.

“I don’t. And even if I did, it’s ‘cuz he loves playing with you. Makes him better. He’s my bro, but I can’t do that. He wants so bad to win it with you. For you.” Then a movement caught his attention, and he walked away shouting, “Big Rigg, you beautiful fuck!”

It was late, and soon the hotel bar was closing down and kicking them out. Henri was exhausted, and he knew everyone else must be too, but his relief at getting to end the festivities turned into unease as Dylan followed him back upstairs like a silent guardian.

Alone in their hotel room—Henri’s this time, because it had a slightly better view—Henri waited for it. He fully expected to feel the brunt of Dylan’s anger and braced for it.

Instead, Dylan looked gutted when he rounded on him.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Henri swallowed. He was prepared for shouting, not Dylan’s eyes rendered bluer by unshed tears. “I am on your side,” he said evenly. “But you’re hurting my boyfriend. If the choices are your health and your good graces, I pick your health.” Quietly, he added, “But I won’t ask you not to play. I understand why you will.”

His answer seemed to deflate Dylan. He just collapsed on the bed. Then, after several long moments of staring into space, he held out his left hand.

“Give me the damn sling.”

Henri helped him put it on.

“I look stupid,” he grumbled.

“You look like someone who still wants to have a working arm and shoulder next month,” Henri said and kissed him. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t shoot.”

“You told me I shouldn’t. I never agreed. Besides, that was too juicy of a chance to pass up.” He leaned in and kissed Henri again. “Did you check that guy for me?”

“Yes.” Another kiss.

“You should check more guys for me. That was a nice, clean hit. Textbook.” More kisses. He rubbed his chin against Henri’s, making Henri’s skin itch. He hated playoff beards. He’d never had one so long. Every time he looked into a mirror or touched his face, it surprised him.

“You taste like cheap beer,” Dylan said.

“I drank a lot of it. The things I do for you.” When he dipped in for another kiss, Dylan held him back with a hand on his chest. “What?”

“I…I don’t think I can get hard. With all the meds.”

“Okay,” Henri said and waited. Dylan stayed quiet, so he asked, “So?”

“Just wanted to tell you. In case you were hoping…” He shrugged.