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Go out with friends. Watch TV. Work out. Read a book. Play video games. There are so many other things you could’ve done with your day besides cook for your teammate/fuck buddy.

“Dylan…” He had no idea where that sentence was going, so he took his first bite and nearly died. It was the best chicken pot pie he’d ever eaten. Thank God for Dylan Everett’s cooking, holy shit. “This is so good,” he said through another mouthful. “Why are you so good at cooking?”

“Did the whole guy-who-can’t-cook thing for a few years. Got tired of eating basic bachelor food, so I learned. I don’t mind the occasional ramen or whatever, but I cannot live off that stuff anymore.”

He wondered if this was the real reason teenage-Dylan had been so thin. Not eating properly and starving for a real meal, only to put on weight that the whole league liked to poke fun at, but it was because he was finally eating well for the first time in his adult life. It had been the one time in Dylan’s career that Henri could remember the media being cruel to him. Photos all over supposedly hockey-focused news outlets that were just there to laugh at the great Dylan Everett putting on a few pounds one summer.

Dylan had then flattened many larger players game after game after game, and the reporters had been forced to shut up. Some even praised the rising star for adding a physical element to his game.

“I’m still in my basic bachelor food era,” Henri said. “As you’ve seen. I live on boxed pasta and takeout.”

“Not in this house you don’t.” Dylan winked at him. And before any implications could settle, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder to point at the kitchen. “I baked a pie, so don’t fill up too soon.”

“You baked a pie!?”

“Yeah. Apple. Sorry, I would’ve asked what kind of pie you like best but I only had apples, so.” He shrugged.

Henri stared at him. “How are you still single?”

Dylan laughed. “What?”

“How are you still single? You cook and bake and are a professional athlete and extremely handsome but also kind and give the best head I’ve ever had⁠—”

“The best head you’ve ever had?” Dylan whistled and leaned back in his chair. “That’s quite the praise.”

“That is probably the least interesting of the things I said,” Henri said dismissively. He would endure a lot of mediocre blowjobs in favor of the rest.

“Maybe people are looking for more than really good head,” Dylan said. His tone was light, but there was something guarded in his expression. Henri realized his mistake and was again reminded why he’d been so hesitant to come to Dylan’s house.

But he was too exhausted and greedy to ask about Sokolov. That relationship, whatever it’d been, was long over. It had left its mark, certainly, and Dylan was still working through the breakup, but Henri didn’t want to sour things by picking at old wounds.

So instead he reached across the table and offered his hand, palm-up. “You are an extraordinary human being, Dylan. You should focus on the people in your life who see that. If they don’t, it’s their loss, not yours.”

Shyly, Dylan reached out and took his hand. He squeezed, brought it to his lips to brush a feather-light kiss, then let go.

“Eat,” he said. “Five thousand calories. I’m counting. You’re at 100 so far.”

They didn’t have sex that night. Henri’s mind was willing but his body was still spent. Instead, they lay on the leather sofa with the big screen TV tuned to some movie Dylan pretended to watch while he held Henri close and jerked him off, again and again and again. They fell asleep there, a too-small blanket pulled over them and Dylan’s stomach his pillow.

It was one of the best nights of Henri’s life.

CHAPTER 44

“Are you at all nervous about the impending milestone?” The reporter batted his eyelashes at Dylan, and Henri tried not to seethe. Henri never much liked when reporters were in the locker room; he liked it less when they flirted with Dylan.

Dylan took a half-step back to put some space between himself and the phone hovering close to his nose. “550 isn’t a milestone,” he said with his polite yet still dazzling smile reserved for the media. “I’m looking more for 562. Or even 555, just for the repetition.”

The reporter laughed. “Why 562?”

“That would put me at second all-time for an American-born player. 561 to tie, but I want a clean second place. Then I’m gunning for first.”

“Do you think 562 is realistic for this season?” the reporter asked greedily, probably calculating how likely it would be for him to get an interview afterwards. Henri rolled his eyes and bent over to tie his laces so he wouldn’t be caught glaring daggers at the poor man doing his job.

“Well, I’d have to score twenty-one goals between now and the end of the season. That’d put me at, what, 56 goals this year?” He shrugged. “It’s doable. I’ve gotten more, but I don’t want to make any promises. This isn’t a league that’s easy to score in, and there are a lot of talented goaltenders out there.”

“Of course.” The reporter’s excitement deflated, and the interview turned to the regular, soulless questions about their opponent, complete with the dull, interchangeable answers about how they were a great team, the Turkeys were up to the challenge, everyone would enjoy all the hockey about to happen, etc.

“They sure love you, you lucky fucker,” Novak said with mock disgust once the media cleared the room.