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“Yeah. My place or yours? We’ve been out of town for a couple weeks, so I get it if you actually have laundry to do.” He winked.

Henri was too tired to be embarrassed. “It can wait. I just need a bed, Advil, and ten hours of sleep. Maybe some food.”

“Well,” Dylan drawled and started guiding him out the doors into the parking lot. “I happen to have a very nice bed, lots of Advil, and can get you any food you want. I’m also very good at massaging sore muscles. Where’d you park?”

“At my apartment.”

Dylan’s stride momentarily stuttered, then he grinned mischievously. “So what you’re saying is you need a ride.”

“I can⁠—”

“And that I could take you aaaanywhere I want.”

“Are you kidnapping me?”

“I’m definitely kidnapping you.” He opened the passenger-side door of a matte-black Mercedes. “But I think it only counts as kidnapping if it’s somewhere you don’t want to go.”

Fair enough. Dylan Everett’s giant bed with its thick down comforter and soft sheets sounded amazing. The fact that it came with Dylan was an added bonus.

“Then I am officially kidnapped.” He got into the car.

Henri woke up some indeterminate time later to a view of a sunset over the desert. He was tucked into Dylan’s bed—tucked!!—with a surprising number of pillows stacked around him. He shifted experimentally, wiggling his toes and stretching his legs, and was satisfied that his body didn’t recoil from the movement. He would need to go easy at practice for the next couple of days, eat his bodyweight in food, but he wasn’t much worse for wear.

Except he was alone.

Not a new state of things, really. Henri had gone out of his way to avoid roommates for years now. Even when new teammates offered him space in their homes, he turned them down in favor of living solo. That had been his favorite thing about joining the NHL: having the means to afford his own space. No more billet families, no more awkward small talk, no more having to let someone else know his schedule and routine.

Then, in the span of a month, he’d gotten used to Dylan’s presence. Longed for it in ways he’d never longed for anyone. If it were just sexual desire or physical need, Henri would understand that. He’d experienced that intensity before in relationships. It burned bright and all-consuming until it fizzled out, sometimes rather abruptly, and Henri moved on satisfied.

But the itch under his skin that only Dylan could scratch, it’d been there long before sex had been involved. Henri, moody and tired and anxious, craved Dylan’s levity, his smile, his kindness. If they never had sex again, Henri was certain he’d still find himself leaning in whenever Dylan was near, like a starved plant reaching for whatever sun it could find.

This should scare him. As he lay in Dylan’s bed and considered how far he’d let himself go down this path, he should have been terrified. He was fostering feelings for someone when he had no control over his life. He was risking his career for an affair with one of the most recognizable names in the hockey world. Dylan would come out the other side unscathed no matter what; if Henri were caught with a man—any man—he’d be done.

And yet…

It would hurt when this was over, no matter how it ended; it would haunt him for the rest of his life if he didn’t see how far it went.

“Stop being so fucking maudlin,” he scolded himself in French. He kicked aside the blankets, like ripping off a band-aid, and jumped out of bed.

The smell of hot food hit him as soon as he opened the bedroom door, as did the sound of music turned low. As Henri padded down the hallway, he tried to pick out the aromas and place the songs, but only decided it was chicken and possibly a movie soundtrack. Then he spotted Dylan leaning against his kitchen counter wearing nothing but loose sweats and an apron as he played with his phone.

Domestic and hot, he thought dumbly. A man who can do both.

“Sorry I slept all day,” Henri said. Dylan immediately smiled and put his phone away. “Apparently I was running on fumes.”

“You were doing fine. If we didn’t take so many penalties, you’d be okay.” Dylan pulled out a chair for Henri, then started bringing over plate after plate of food. Chicken pot pie. Potato salad. Green beans. Salad. Cheese and crackers. If he hadn’t already experienced a Dylan Everett dinner, he would’ve thought more people were coming over.

“Yes, maybe I should start taking penalties so I can get a break,” he joked. “This is enough food to feed an army, Dylan.”

“One army or two hockey players. You probably need, like, five thousand calories.”

“You made this?” Henri asked, poking at the chicken pot pie in front of him with his fork. The crust was flaky, and he could tell the vegetables were perfectly cooked inside.

“ ‘Course.” Dylan spoke as if this meal were nothing. As simple as putting a pre-baked pizza in the oven or popping a dish in the microwave. Henri glanced at the kitchen and saw the devastation of dirty mixing bowls, cutting boards, and ingredients strewn across the place.

“Were you cooking all day?” Henri asked, scared what the answer might signify.

“Uh, well yeah. You were sleeping, and I knew you’d be hungry. What else was I gonna do?”