Page 188 of No Line Change

Silence.

The crowd that had been screaming all night was suddenly so still Henri could hear his own breathing. Worse, he could hear Dylan’s. It was a wretched, pained sound. Henri didn’t understand what the quiet meant until it was shattered by the Turkeys yelling and charging down the ice towards them.

“We won?” Henri asked as he was pushed and pulled into the giant hug.

“Fuck yeah, we won!” Novak shook him and head-butted him. “Fuck, you’re fast.”

“That was beautiful,” Briggs agreed. He hit Henri with his blocker and grinned beneath his goalie mask. “You should do that more.”

It took forever to find Dylan in the crowd. His smile was plastered on. His jaw trembled unless he kept his mouth closed tight. He held his right arm close to his body, his left forced to do all the hugging and fistbumping and high fives. When he saw Henri, relief washed over him. He pulled Henri close and buried his face in his neck. Their helmets knocked together, and Henri could hear the ragged edge to his voice when he said, “Four more.”

“Four more.” He didn’t want to mention it’d taken them twenty-one games to get the twelve wins they had so far. Did Dylan have four more in him this season? Five? Six? Another seven?

They celebrated their victory in the envious, angry quiet of the arena. They lined up for the handshake line, and Henri winced in sympathy every time Dylan had to stretch out his hurt arm to the other team. But he did it. Again and again, without hesitation. Then it was the Clarence S. Campbell Bowl, their trophy for winning the Western Conference. No one dared touch it—a stupid superstition, but Henri was glad no one expected Dylan to lift it—but they dutifully lined up for pictures around it.

There were beers waiting for them in the locker room. They’d celebrated the other victories so little, but they were the best team in the west. They’d earned this, hadn’t they?

Dylan cracked open the first beer and held it up in his left hand. He still had his jersey on, but had lost his gloves and helmet. He probably couldn’t take off the jersey without help, not after that shot.

“Great game, babes.” His voice was strong; it carried through the locker room. Henri thought maybe he was worrying for nothing. “Everyone played a heck of a game tonight. It could’ve been any one of us during any shift that scored. I’m proud of everyone in this room. We were down a lot on our way here, but never out. Four more. Let’s get it done!”

They all held up their lukewarm beers and chanted, “Four more!”

Henri downed half his beer at once. A long chug with his eyes closed as he enjoyed the shitty beer more for what it meant than how it tasted. When he opened his eyes, Dylan was gone; he handed his beer off to Lynwood and quickly stripped out of his gear. When he was down to his socks and under armour, he snuck away and down the hall to the medical room. He got lost twice, nearly ending up back at the rink and then at the other team’s locker room before he found it.

Without thinking, he barged in.

There was Dylan, naked from the waist up, with a trainer slowly moving his arm. Dylan’s back was to the door, so it was the trainer who spotted him first.

“You all right, Baptiste?”

Dylan turned to face him. He looked…awful. Every feature was etched in pain, and he seemed so tired. So defeated.

“I’m fine.” He gulped. “Is Dy—Everett…?”

The trainer frowned. “If you don’t need anything, you should head back to the team. Just doing some maintenance⁠—”

“He already knows,” Dylan said. “He can stay.”

The trainer raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

Dylan beckoned him to his left side and draped his good arm over his shoulder

“Is it worse?” Henri asked. Should I have let you check that guy instead of taking a shot?

“No,” Dylan said firmly, while the trainer said, “Mmm, maybe.”

“Maybe!?” Dylan protested. “You said it wasn’t torn!”

“You did an MRI?” Henri asked in surprise. What kind of facility did Edmonton have at the rink?

“Ultrasound,” the trainer said. “It’s not torn, but it’s very inflamed and swollen. We’re giving him a cortisone shot and a helluva lot of pain relievers. You going to wear the sling?”

“No,” Dylan hissed.

“Will it help?” Henri asked and ignored Dylan’s look of betrayal. The trainer nodded. “Then he’ll wear it.”

“I will not. I don’t want anyone knowing about this. You think I’m the only one hiding an injury right now? This is private until playoffs are done.”