Page 89 of No Line Change

Henri flipped the camera around. “It’s not very interesting,” he said as he slowly panned around. “Closet with all my off-season clothes. Desk I haven’t used since high school. Bookshelf that’s mostly just hockey magazines. Dresser⁠—”

“Wait, wait, wait. Go back. To the left.”

Henri did as he was told. It was only once he focused on the wall over his desk that he realized he shouldn’t have.

“Is that me?” Dylan sounded delighted as the poster came into focus. In Henri’s defense, the poster of Dylan Everett was between several hockey-related posters. The 2001 Cup-winning Fleur-de-Lis team. A map with all the NHL teams marked by their logos. A Fleur-de-Lis pendant signed by five players. A few smaller player posters. But none of them compared to the four-page spread of Dylan in his Turkeys uniform taking a slapshot right at the camera.

“Uhm.” He was relieved that Dylan couldn’t see how much his face was burning; if he were looking at Henri, he’d be able to see the evidence of Henri’s teenage crush. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

Dylan cackled. His nose squished together as the laughter poured out of him. “That’s so cute. You liked me.”

“I liked your hockey playing.”

“I’m glad I’m older than you,” Dylan said. “I would’ve probably collected allll of your jerseys. Every team.”

“There are a lot.” Normally, it would bother him to talk about his failures. They never quite seemed like failures with Dylan. That was what gave him the courage to admit, “I did have a bit of a crush on you.”

A faint blush and eyes crinkling in delight. “That’s sweet of you to say,” Dylan said. “But if you’d really had a crush on me, that would not be the poster on your wall.”

Henri had anticipated this and was already thumbing through the stack of Sports Illustrated magazines.

“And what poster should I have up instead?” he asked to buy himself time. As if he didn’t know the exact one he meant. Ah, there it was. September 2012. He pulled the issue from the shelf and turned to a page so often visited, the magazine opened right to it.

“There was this one I did my rookie season. They did normal pictures, but also a bunch that was just me in hockey pants for some reason. I look ridicu—oh my God. Henri!” And again Dylan burst out laughing as Henri aimed his camera at the photo in question.

There he was, barely nineteen and fresh to the league, a star in the making. There’d been a two-page spread of him, more naked than the magazine had any reason to display a hockey player, back when Dylan was young and lean with a six-pack. As attractive as that was, Henri thought he preferred the current Dylan who’d gained a few pounds and not all of it muscle. Softer, which only hid that he was dense as a brick beneath the surface.

“I can’t believe you have that. Fuck, that’s embarrassing. I was hoping all those had disappeared.” Though he did indeed look embarrassed, based on the pink blooming under his freckles, he wore it well.

“Some of us are collectors,” Henri said. He wondered how much he could push, how far the pink would spread. Would that small spattering of freckles disappear completely? “Of course, my interest wasn’t purely professional.”

“Yeah, yeah. Cute teenage Henri had a crush on me,” Dylan said with an exaggerated eye roll, not getting it.

“Hmmm,” Henri hummed in agreement. “Yes. That’s why I used this”—he held up the magazine—“when I jerked off.”

Dylan’s mouth formed a perfectly round O as understanding finally hit him. To Henri’s satisfaction, the freckles did disappear.

The background behind Dylan shifted. He heard the sound of a lock clicking.

“Tell me more,” Dylan said. His voice had dropped an octave. Henri heard the sound of a mattress absorbing 200+ pounds and Dylan’s breathing picking up.

Nice.

Henri put the magazine on top of the pile and locked his own door. He didn’t expect any interruptions, but he wouldn’t tempt fate.

“What would you like to know?” Henri got comfortable on his bed, propping himself on both pillows against the headboard.

“Everything. Fuck, Hen. Did you really? Are you just making that up to get me going?”

Hen? That was new. He’d never much liked nicknames and endured the hockey-related ones because they were unavoidable. He didn’t mind it from Dylan.

“It’s true,” he admitted. “You were very hot, and I was very…curious, I suppose. First hockey player I objectified, though I think the reality was once or twice before I thought it was awkward, since my plan was to eventually play against you.”

Dylan’s laugh was breathy. Was he as hard as Henri was? He palmed himself through his too-tight joggers and wished he weren’t alone.

“And was it awkward?” Dylan asked.

“No. It was ten years ago. I’d forgotten until…” He nodded to the phone. “Until I had the real thing.”