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“S’il te plaît,” Dylan repeated and looked so pleased with himself that Henri had to ball his hands into fists to stop from doing something stupid like pinching Dylan’s cheek. “What time? I gotta…chores ’n stuff.”

“Me too.” He checked his watch. It was already nearly six. “In an hour or so?” That should give him enough time to make his apartment presentable. Make sure he actually had everything necessary to make spaghetti and meatballs or something.

“I can do an hour. I’ll text when I’m on the way.”

They stood there shyly in the walkway for another minute at least before Dylan settled his duffel more squarely on his shoulder and started speed-walking away.

“Wha—?”

“Sorry,” Dylan called back, his voice filling the space. He sounded so happy it made Henri happier just hearing it. “I’ve got a hot date in an hour. I gotta hurry up. Don’t wanna keep him waiting.”

Henri rushed to catch up. They were running when they reached the parking lot, cheeks flushed from the race and their excitement. An hour, and then he’d have Dylan to himself all over again.

“What was I thinking? An hour. Inviting him here. Saying I’d cook.”

Henri made a displeased noise at his own hubris. He hadn’t had a visitor to this apartment ever, not even bothering to hire a maid since it was just him and the place was so sparsely furnished it seemed unnecessary. Now he was cursing himself for not even having a means of dusting the stray cobweb in one corner of his living room. He wondered if he had an adequate number of towels, or if⁠—

“Towels!?” He smacked his own forehead. “It’s dinner, Henri! He’s not moving in! Get a fucking grip.”

Triage. That’s what he needed. Laundry in the hamper. Clean the books off the empty side of his bed. Run the dishwasher. Spray air freshener so it didn’t smell like an empty apartment.

When he got the text that Dylan was on his way, he put a pot of water on the stove and debated the merits of penne versus spaghetti. He didn’t even have the stupid frozen meatballs after all, but he had the fancy pasta sauce with chunks of vegetables in it. Some wine, but no beer. Fuck. Why did he have to invite Dylan over tonight? If he’d said tomorrow, like a reasonable person, he would’ve had time to make everything perfect.

Now it wouldn’t even be adequate⁠—

A knock at the door snapped him back to reality. He’d forgotten that he’d given Dylan the door code to the building. He stared at the bundle of throw blankets in his hands, ones that had no home besides crumpled in a pile at one edge of his sofa. He tossed them back to the same spot; they’d have to live there another day, it seemed.

Henri ran his hands through his hair as he walked to the front door. All his concentration went into putting one foot in front of the other, a careful balancing act that had never before required so much presence of mind. But sooner than he could account for, he was at the door and reaching for the doorknob.

“Hey stranger,” Dylan said and wow. Just wow.

Dylan’s hair was slicked back like when he was arriving at the rink on game day, but instead of a suit he wore a black denim jacket that hugged his broad shoulders and enormous arms. He wore a loose v-neck that was the same impossible shade of blue as his eyes. Henri didn’t dare look farther down. This was quite enough to make a hundred butterflies burst in his stomach. He might have a heart attack if his gaze dipped below Dylan’s waist.

“You look good,” Henri said. It just came out before he could think too much of it, and though he was immediately embarrassed, Dylan’s face brightened at the compliment. Henri couldn’t bring himself to regret saying it.

“You don’t look half bad yourself.” Dylan let himself in and closed the door behind him. But then his smile melted into a frown as he looked around the apartment.

Henri’s apartment was mostly one wide-open room that could’ve fit a nice dining area as well as the large sectional and TV. Instead, that empty space held an exercise ball and yoga mat, leaving much of it bare. The kitchen was in a wall that would’ve sealed it off from the rest of the living space if not for the large, three-foot gap cut in it. The gap left a perfect view from the kitchen island to the TV and the balcony. It was impossible to tell from these small glimpses of the apartment, but every room was decorated with the same plain but expensive furniture, a dull neutral palette, and a complete lack of personality.

The one thing most hockey players had that added character to their spaces was a trophy room or wall or shelf. All their plaques and medals and awards, an assembly of pucks labeled carefully with milestones. Photos of those Big Moments. And while Henri did have such an altar to his career, it was tucked away in his father’s study back in Saint-Jérôme, Quebec, where it could make an old man proud and not taunt the young man who only looked at the collection and saw what was missing from it instead of what was there.

As Dylan inspected the lifeless apartment, Henri buried his hands in his pockets.

“Nice place.” Then he frowned. “Wait, is this the apartment the team got for you?”

“Huh? Oh, yes.” Whenever Henri moved, his new team usually set him up with living accommodations. This might be a hotel or a teammate’s guest room at first, then an apartment that he could use until he found a better place. In LA, he’d stopped looking for other places. He would just take over the lease on whatever apartment they set him up in and stay there, always assuming it was temporary. He’d never finished out a contract in his life, always getting traded, re-signed, and then traded once more.

Which had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time, but now it sounded kind of morose. He didn’t want to admit any of that out loud, not to anyone on the Turkeys but least of all to Dylan.

“It’s got a good view,” Henri said defensively. “Close to the rink. And it came furnished. Once I’d unpacked and got settled in, it’d grown on me.”

Not that I had much to unpack.

“It’s not bad,” Dylan said, distracted. “Spacious.” Whatever else he was thinking, he shook his head to dispel it and turned his full attention back on Henri. “I smell pasta. Is that before or after?”

“Before or aft—” He cut himself off. “After,” he said. “Definitely after.”

Dylan’s mouth had crashed into his the second he finished answering. They made it all the way to the sofa with their clothes on and landed on the welcoming pile of blankets. The pasta had long gone cold by the time they got to eating it, though neither of them much minded.