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On the morning of the trade deadline, Henri felt sick. Not actually sick—he had no fever, no stomach bug, nothing, but his head was pounding and he felt like he would throw up. He couldn’t handle the stress. He was going to walk out of this week with an ulcer.

But he forced himself to get up and go through the routine of showering off the smell of sex. To get dressed for practice. To sit and (almost) listen during the morning meeting.

As the team filed out of the room to get their gear on for drills, Coach Krzysztofek took one look at Henri and pulled him aside.

“You look like shit,” Krzysztofek said. “Go home. Rest up.”

“I’m fine⁠—”

“Kid, you’re green. We’ve got the skating coaches today. You skate better than half my guys. Everett included.” Krzysztofek put a hand on his shoulder. “The ice’ll still be here waiting for you tomorrow when you’re feeling better.”

The words echoed through his brain, ricocheting across his worries and offering a glimmer of hope.

“You sure?” Henri croaked. Maybe he was reading too much into it.

“You’re not going anywhere, Baptiste. Not this season, anyway. After playoffs, get your agent on the phone with the front office. Get that contract extension handled early. You’re doing good here. Don’t wanna mess with my lines if I don’t have to.” He released Henri’s shoulder with a slight push toward the door. “Seriously. Go the fuck home.”

When Henri exited the rink, the cold March air hit his lungs like a punch. It felt like the first breath of fresh air he’d had in months.

Henri

Coach said I look like shit and should go home

Don’t think I’m getting traded though

I’ll meet you at my place?

He didn’t want to lounge around Dylan’s big, empty house all day, refreshing the NHL website for trade news. He could do that just fine at his own apartment, thank you very much. He just needed to make it 1 p.m. and the window would close on trades until after the playoffs. That was only—he checked his watch—three hours from now. He could handle three hours.

Handling the time ended up as him sitting in his living room and stalking social media for trade rumors. His name came up, and for the first time in a while, it was mostly positive. How his ‘value was up’ and some teams ‘needed that kind of player’ and all the places fans suddenly wanted him because he could make a difference. The sort of kind words that hadn’t been his for years, not since his long-forgotten draft. He couldn’t deny that it felt good to be wanted and appreciated, just like he couldn’t deny that he would trade every nice thing being said about him for more time in Albuquerque.

Slowly, painfully slowly, time moved on. His phone was quiet until a text from Dylan nearly gave him a heart attack.

Dylan

I’m sure you look handsome as ever

I’ll grab food on the way back

How you holding up?

Surviving

I’ll get dessert too

Henri had been trembling in relief as the deadline approached, came, and left. He texted his father to say he’d made it, no trade. He had a few months at least.

Dylan didn’t walk into the apartment until just after 1:30 pm. He held up his bags of takeout and a pack of beer like a conquering hero. “My boyfriend gets to stay!”

He helped Dylan settle everything in the kitchen before he threw his arms around Dylan and let himself finally believe it.

“I’m so fucking relieved,” Henri said. Even his voice was shaking. “This is the worst day of the year.”

Dylan hugged him back and nuzzled him. “I told you it’d be fine, Hen. You’re exactly what this team needs, and they saw that. You couldn’t get away from us if you wanted to.”

They ate their burritos and chocolate cake, drank their beers, all while Dylan made fun of how bad the team did at their skating practice. “I have never heard the word mohawk so many fucking times in my life. I am also fucking terrible at it, apparently. I’d rather do suicides for an hour than all that fucking edge work. My thighs are killing me.”

“I’m sure it was fine,” Henri soothed. “You can’t be that bad at skating.”