Page 24 of No Line Change

“Good,” Henri said. He tried not to sound too stilted as he worked to weed out the French from his voice. “I worked hard to make it that way.”

Henri continued walking to the locker room, certain Everett wouldn’t follow—he was dressed for the gym, after all—but Everett fell into step beside him.

“To make it sound like you don’t speak French?” Everett frowned. “Why?”

Henri shrugged. He didn’t really want to keep going, but he also didn’t want to give up Everett’s attention. Any positive interaction he could get from a teammate was like gold, and he hoarded them like a dragon. Everett in particular, as his lineman and captain, was someone he should try to get along with. At the end of last season, Everett had been friendly, but he’d also seemed to keep everyone at arm’s length. Distracted? Too focused on hockey? Henri had never quite figured it out, only noticed that there were times he’d catch Everett staring into space with a somber expression he’d erase as soon as he saw someone looking at him.

Henri could sympathize, so he gave a real answer.

“I wanted to sound normal,” Henri said. “Like the other North American players. I knew I’d never get to play at home, and it’s already hard enough to move across a continent when you’re 18. Harder when you don’t sound like you belong there.”

“I mean…you are a North American player,” Everett said. “Just one that speaks French.”

“I’m québécois,” he corrected, but he could see Everett’s confusion. “I just mean, I wanted them to talk about my playing, not my speaking. Once I realized I would have to speak English to play hockey, I studied a lot in school. Even if Quebec had drafted me, I would need English to be in the league. To talk to teammates and reporters. But it’s not very useful at home. I don’t know that I’ve spoken it at all since I left in June.”

Everett took this in, his brow furrowed in thought. And still, it looked like he could break into a smile at any moment.

“It’s always so impressive that French-Canadians and Europeans all learn English to play here,” he said. “I barely got through middle school Spanish. Hey, say something in French. I wanna hear the real Luc-Henri.”

He said it correctly, which made Henri’s chest constrict.

“Just Henri,” he said, and where did that come from? Usually he let his teammates call him whatever they wanted, and it usually ended up as some nonsense like Bapty or Bapper or Tista. “You…don’t know any French?”

They reached the locker room, mercifully empty except for their goalie Briggs, who was wearing massive headphones and a thousand-yard stare. Although physically present, he was clearly in some world only goalies could travel to.

“Just like…bonjour and au revoir and baguette and stuff,” Everett said as he took a seat at his stall. He made no move to change from his workout clothes for the ice; Henri didn’t understand why he’d followed him to the locker room at all.

“Baguette?” Henri asked, allowing a hint of playfulness into his tone that he wouldn’t if they had an audience. He sat down at his own stall, directly across from Everett’s. He’d planned to skate today, but maybe he’d go to the gym.

“Yeah,” Dylan said. “And croissant. Poutine. Crepe. Lots of food, I guess. Y’know, the real important stuff.”

And fuck, Henri was actually laughing. He never laughed with teammates. He’d stopped trying to be friendly back when he was with the Ice Owls, too worried about hockey and the coaches to have any extra capacity to make friends on top of that.

“C’mon,” Dylan encouraged. “Gimme some French.”

Henri hesitated. There was nothing good that could come from this, but he couldn’t help himself. It’d been a pleasant summer and his defenses were down, whittled away by a handsome man’s kind eyes and warm smile. His captain and teammate, who had been so welcoming to him and had never cared about Henri’s past teams, just what he could offer to this one.

So he said in rapid French, “You are very handsome and charming, Mr. Everett. I had a poster of you on my wall when I was in high school, and only partly because you have a good shot.”

Dylan beamed—beamed!—at him. “Your English sounds good”—he lifted a hand and pointed at Henri emphatically—“but that was fantastic.”

“You don’t even know what I said,” Henri protested. Oh God, did Everett know French? Was he just joking before?

“True.” And Henri’s relief was immediate. “But you said my name, so I assume it was telling me off for being an idiot American.”

“Close,” Henri said, taking the out and then deflecting. “Are the trainers in the gym today?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah, I was gonna work with Lisa if you wanna join. I think some of the guys are doing sprints on the treadmills, which sounds fucking awful, honestly, but you do you.”

“I’ll join you and Lisa,” he said, and Dylan’s answering smile was so large it was painful to look at. Brighter than the New Mexico sun outside. Hotter, too.

Dylan Everett’s search history (August 9, 2023):

luc-henri baptiste name pronunciation

where is luc-henri baptiste from

what is quebecois