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Dylan was watching him, his hands tucked under his chin where he rested on the back of the sofa. “Your dad?” He waited for Henri’s nod. “Everything okay? You sounded tense.”
Henri left his phone on the kitchen island and walked back to the sofa. “He’s worried about something. It’s fine.”
“What’s he worried about?”
Henri rubbed his chest. An ache had been building there for days now, that familiar knot that left him strangled and helpless. It hadn’t impacted his performance on the ice, thank fuck, but that might be due to Novak and Dylan’s calming presence. But maybe it would help if he played worse. He was having a career year. That made him attractive to other teams. The Turkeys had gotten him so cheap. They could cash out now without ever having to get into the messy business of negotiating a contract. Get something beaten up for cheap, fix it, and sell it for triple what they’d paid. No one would blame them. Good business. Maybe—
“Whoa.” Dylan was kneeling on the sofa, leaning over the back to cup Henri’s cheeks. “Talk to me. What’s wrong? Is your dad okay?”
“Huh?” Henri had to push aside his spiraling thoughts to remember what Dylan was talking about. Right. His dad was worried, and now Henri was spacing out as if he’d heard something tragic. “Sorry, he’s fine. It’s nothing.” He flushed at Dylan’s skeptical look. “Well, it’s…it’s not nothing, but it might be nothing. If it were a problem, I’d tell you—“
“How about,” Dylan interrupted, “you just tell me, anyway? Because if it’s bothering you, and there’s anything I can do to help, I want to do it. Even if it’s just listening and saying, ‘that sucks.’ ”
A knot twisted in his stomach. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Dylan to know. He just felt foolish for obsessing over it. Logically, he knew it wasn’t foolish. It was his career, his life, and now also his relationship, all tied up in decisions he had no control over. But how could Dylan understand? Dylan, who’d been drafted by the same team he currently played for. Dylan, who would stay captain of the Turkeys as long as he wanted to without having to worry. Dylan, who probably had not once worried about the trade deadline or free agency or anything like that before in his life.
“Well,” Henri said. “The trade deadline is coming up…”
“You want to be traded?” Dylan’s brow pinched in confusion. There was a spark of hurt in his eyes, and it killed Henri. He reminded himself it wouldn’t be the same as when Sokolov left, but to Dylan it might feel the same. The fact that Henri was thinking about leaving was hurting Dylan. The thought left a gaping hole in Henri’s chest.
“No.” Henri was blinking back tears. “No, I don’t want to be traded. But when have I ever gotten a fucking choice?” And then there was no more holding them back or the wrecked noise he made as he buried his face in Dylan’s chest.
Strong arms closed around him. Dylan said something, the rumble of his voice something Henri could feel but not decipher, and Henri was slowly manhandled onto the sofa until he was in Dylan’s lap. He was pulled firmly into a hug, and they rocked back and forth.
“This is the worst time of year,” Henri said. “When I want to leave, they don’t get rid of me. When I want to stay…”
“You’re gonna stay, Hen,” Dylan repeated again and again. “You’ll stay. I promise.”
Even the great Dylan Everett had no control over this. It was a nice sentiment all the same.
62 MARCH 2024
Dylan (March 2024)
Hey what’s the team planning to do for the trade deadline
We buyers or sellers?
Coach Krzysztofek
Buyers probably
I tell the GM what I want and then they do what they can
I said I need more depth at wing and D
They’ll shop around and see what they can do
But they don’t discuss the details with me
Why
Who might they trade to do that
Not you obviously
No shit they couldn’t trade me if they wanted to
But who MIGHT they trade?
