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Dylan blinked, his eyes finally focusing on Henri. “My arm’s still attached, right?”

“For now.”

“Good.” He held up his left hand. “Help me up. We scored on that play, right?”

“Yes.” He pulled Dylan to his feet, mindful of his injured shoulder and looking carefully at his face for any sign of pain. Though his expression was tight, he didn’t look worse for wear. “Don’t do that again.”

“What? Distract their best defenseman?”

“Get pinned by a Swedish giant.”

“I’ll try not to. Prefer getting pinned by French-Canadians, anyway.” He winked at Henri before he skated to congratulate Knox, and it was only then that Henri breathed a sigh of relief. If he was joking like that, he wasn’t hurt.

Good. Henri didn’t think he could take Anders Nilsson in a fight.

turkeytalk (June 13, 2024): Turkeys win 3-1 with that empty netter!!! Still alive!!! Omfg I’m going to have a heart attack before this series is done…

↪ gobblegoals: everett looked a little slow to get up after that knox goal in the second. we still going with old or maybe injured?

↪ turkeytalk: Didn’t miss a shift and still registered 3 shots on goal. Low for him but not unreasonable, especially given this Otters defense. I’m thinking old and/or tired.

luc-henri-sourit (June 13, 2024): Look at that happy first line, proud to have won :D

Henri was sprawled across Dylan’s sofa, feeling his bones sag into the leather. Despite Dylan’s insistence that nothing at the house was his, it was all theirs, sometimes Henri couldn’t shake the feeling that he was in a space completely curated for someone else.

He would never in his life have chosen a leather sofa, for example.

But it was comfortable enough, with the throw blanket spread over it so he wouldn’t have to feel the strange texture against his over-warm skin.

Game six was tomorrow. They needed to win, or it was over. And Henri was so, so tired. It was no longer the physical strain catching up to him. His mind wandered, his temper flared with little provocation, and occasionally he was hit with a wave of I can’t do this anymore. Afterwards, he would reel against the thought, the weakness of it. But the thought would resurface again and again at unexpected times.

Like now, counting his breaths as he stared at Dylan’s ceiling. Why did they still need to go to practice? Could he not just sleep and slip into oblivion for a week while his body recovered? Couldn’t it just be over, either way?

But when he imagined that reality, the version where they lost, his stomach churned. He still wanted to win so desperately that it hurt. As long as that hurt more than his body, he’d keep going.

He heard Dylan approaching and lifted his legs. Dylan took the invitation and collapsed on the far end of the couch before pulling Henri’s legs over his lap. With his left hand, he rubbed up and down Henri’s bare skin from the bottom of his shorts down to his feet in long, gentle sweeps. Henri hummed in contented approval and closed his eyes.

After several minutes, Dylan said, “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

“What did I say?” Henri asked. He wasn’t asleep, per se, but he was dangerously close.

“A lot,” Dylan admitted with a half-laugh. Henri smiled; he loved the sound of Dylan laughing.

Loved a great many things about Dylan, including the man himself.

“That I was bothering you too much about being hurt. And, uh, if I bothered Alexei like that.”

Henri drew in a breath through his nose and tensed so hard he almost got a cramp in his foot. It was impossible to play off his reaction as casual or indifferent—not with his legs resting across Dylan’s lap and Dylan’s hands working the tight muscles of his calf—but he couldn’t bear to look at Dylan. Cowardly, he kept his eyes closed.

“Oh?” he said, pleased he didn’t sound like he wanted to cry. He hated that he’d said that. All he wanted to do was be a better partner than Sokolov, and yet he’d let his frustration get the better of him. He didn’t look forward to this, though he was glad Dylan felt he could bring it up; he got the impression Dylan hadn’t brought up very much of what made him uncomfortable when he’d been with Sokolov.

“Well, the answer is no, I didn’t. He’d get injured or sick or whatever, and I just…let him handle it, y’know? Like, I was there if he needed me, but I think I knew he didn’t. Or at least that he wouldn’t want my help.”

He dug his fingers a little too hard into the sole of Henri’s foot; he jerked it away.

“Sorry.”

Dylan grabbed his foot out of the air and brought it to his lips to kiss the spot before he went back to massaging it.