Page 121 of No Line Change

“One of what?”

“One of those guys who knows stuff. Keeps track of numbers and stats and shit.”

Henri’s lip quirked. He was fairly certain most of the team knew they were in the hunt for a wildcard playoff spot and that the Storm were having a decent run lately. Currently, it was the Prowlers and the Storm leading the West. Some of the team obsessed about it so much that it would be impossible not to know; Novak, however, rarely seemed to know or care what team they were playing.

“And what are you, then?” Henri asked. “If you don’t care about the stats?”

“I’m just along for the ride. Here to score some goals. Get some assists. Play some hockey. Drink with the boys. The fun stuff.” He leaned back in his chair and winked at Henri. It was very Dylan of him, and more and more Henri had noticed that the two acted more like brothers than teammates. It must be the years of playing together, and Henri couldn’t deny that had always been his dream. To have that kind of tenure on a team and experience that brotherhood.

Maybe someday. Maybe here.

“If it’s so fun,” Henri said, “then I wonder that you don’t have more points this season.”

Novak’s eyes went wide. He threw back his head and guffawed. Then he reached across the aisle and smacked Henri’s arm. “You dick. I’d get more points if you and Evers weren’t so friggin’ greedy. We need another goal competition so you’ll pass to me the way you pass to him.”

“I pass to both of you,” Henri said. He was confident he was the only one of the three of them that actually reviewed game footage outside of video sessions with the coaches. He knew for a fact that while about 42% of his passes were to Dylan, 35% were to Novak. If anyone had any right to complain, it was the defense.

They bickered good-naturedly as the plane filled up. Occasionally, someone would say something as they worked their way past them to their seats, and the argument would start all over again. Novak was getting fired up, making extravagant claims about his career shooting percentage and how he got a new curve on his stick so he was going to be off the charts the next few weeks. At the end of last season, Henri had thought these boasts and the anger behind them were about Novak marking his territory and telling Henri to back off. He’d since learned it was Novak’s love language: setting himself up to look ridiculous so his teammates would look great.

It was weirdly effective, especially when Novak dragged in the rookies Sandoval and Larsen into it. They’d settled into the season much better than Henri had at their age, and it was in no small part thanks to Dylan’s enthusiastic encouragement paired with Novak’s idiotic commentary. They made a good duo as captain and alternate captain, and Knox did a good job of balancing them out with a more grounded (and dare he say ‘adult’?) perspective.

By the time Dylan arrived, Henri was in a good mood. He was thoroughly distracted from his worries…until Dylan all but collapsed into the seat next to him with a thousand-yard stare.

Henri nudged him with his knee. “You okay?”

Dylan blinked several times, as if only now noticing where he was. “Huh?” He pulled at his collar, loosening his bright red tie. The vibrant color normally brought out his eyes, but today it only served to show how dim they were. “Yeah, I’m good.” To prove it, he offered the weakest smile Henri had ever seen.

He let it go. Sitting on a crowded plane wasn’t the time to press for details.

Once they were in the air, the team settled into their usual flight routines. The headphones went on, the decks of cards came out, and there was an equal mix of snores and chatter. And still, Henri could only watch Dylan from the corner of his eye. He traced the familiar lines of his face and wondered what was wrong.

That was a lie. He highly suspected he knew the problem. No doubt Sokolov stood prominent in Dylan’s mind as he did in Henri’s, only the shape of him would be different. The significance of facing your former lover would be stressful for anyone. Had he been this upset in November and Henri hadn’t noticed? Surely even a player of Dylan’s caliber was allowed some pre-game jitters.

Impulsively, he leaned into Dylan’s space, so close he could smell the gum he was barely chewing. He waited until he had Dylan’s attention, catching the way his pupils dilated slightly and his gaze snagged on Henri’s lips, before he whispered, “Would you like to arm wrestle?”

And just like that, Dylan’s foul mood melted into laughter. “Fuck, that’s not what I thought you were going to ask. No, thank you, though. I don’t need you to kick my ass before we land, and I don’t need to wrinkle my nice dress shirt.”

It was a completely average shirt, only rendered beautiful by the sculpted muscles underneath.

“Maybe in the hotel then?” he offered innocently.

Dylan rubbed his foot against Henri’s. “Definitely.”

It seemed everything was fixed. He’d gotten Dylan out of his head, and they could enjoy the rest of their flight⁠—

Buzz!

The sound of Dylan’s phone vibrating in his jacket pocket wiped the good mood right off Dylan’s face. He took out his phone and frowned at the message notification.

Dylan didn’t often frown. Henri had seen it so rarely that he felt he remembered each instance. The time he’d gotten a skunked beer in San Francisco. When his sister had texted him her white tinsel Christmas tree. At the beginning of the season, when they’d been informed there would be no team dog this year.

But this looked different. A more pronounced downward tilt to the corners of his lips and an angry glint in his eyes.

Without needing to ask who had messaged him or what he’d said, it put Dylan’s strange mood into perspective.

His left leg twitched an erratic rhythm as he tried to tamp back the urge to ask The Question. He and Dylan were…perhaps not boyfriends or anything so official as that, but they were something more than just linemates. More than just friends, even. Surely he had some sort of right to ask…? But Dylan also had the right to his privacy. He had the right not to answer Henri’s questions, just as he had the right to send whatever messages he wanted to whomever he wanted.

So it was a matter of deciding which hurt worse: asking and being rebuffed, or keeping his mouth shut and letting his imagination run wild.