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Dylan

For me? Gosh you guys are just so sweet and thoughtful

What would I do without you

Not fucking score I’ll tell you that

I can’t believe Luc-Henri Judas Brutus Baptiste passed to you

Served you that goal on a silver platter

Baps is just a good teammate

Not selfish

Unlike SOME people

Says the guy who never passes

I try to make the best hockey decision possible

And usually that’s me shooting

Can’t argue with the numbers

I mean I could pass it to you if you want

But then when you don’t score you won’t have any excuses

And it’ll just be more embarrassing for all of us

Room 1217

Grab baps on your way up

Just so you know I picked the cheapest fucking wine I could find

I hope this $10 bottle is worth it to you

Being able to rub it in your face is all the reward I’ll ever need

“I’m not saying I’m mad,” Novak said as he hit the 12 button on the elevator with his pinky. “But damn Evers can be insufferable. Smug, talented bastard. Like I love him, but I also hate him. Y’know?”

“Sure,” Henri said. It didn’t reflect his personal feelings on the matter, but he could understand the sentiment. “Sorry, I could’ve passed to you⁠—”

Novak waved his hand at him. “Nah, it’s fine. We won. I would’ve never heard the end of it if we’d lost because you or I couldn’t follow through. Rather win the war than the battle.”

Henri was relieved that Novak wasn’t upset. He didn’t think Novak would be, but he’d been wrong before about teammates’ reactions to perceived slights.

“As far as bets go, this isn’t that bad,” Henri said. He was holding both his and Novak’s contributions—cheap local wine that was a startling shade of red in the fluorescent light—and thought it was hardly a chore to drink with his linemates at the hotel. Everett had made it very clear that they had to pay up before they flew back home and that he expected them to polish off both bottles with him. Given that the alternative was obsessing over the past few games in his room alone, Henri welcomed the change of pace.

“True.” The elevator doors slid open, and Novak led the way out. “We could’ve had to shave our heads or dye our hair platinum blond or some shit like that.”

They walked down the hallway and around a corner before Novak checked his phone and then knocked on a door. Henri stood there awkwardly behind him, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Everett opened the door, leaning across it and inspecting them lazily. “About time,” he drawled.

“Oh, don’t look so smug,” Novak grumbled and shouldered his way inside. “You had to get a hat trick to beat us. You lucky, cheating motherfucker.”