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Am I sick? he thought anxiously. That would be almost as disastrous as a concussion, because at least with a concussion, he could still be around the team. The last thing they needed was for him to get the whole fucking team sick.

Instead of heading to the locker room, boisterous and welcoming as they celebrated, Henri stumbled towards the medical room. They took one look at him, light-headed and still in full gear, and rushed him to an exam table.

“You look like shit,” one of the medics said.

“Feel like shit,” Henri grunted. “Threw up.”

They checked him over from head to toe, ruling out all the obvious things before settling on severe dehydration.

“That’s so stupid,” Henri said weakly. “I drink water on the bench. I do the sports drinks before the game and during intermission. How the hell am I dehydrated?” And why does it feel as bad as getting run over by a bulldozer?

“You had twenty-seven minutes of ice time. That’ll take anyone out. Also looks like you’re down about fifteen pounds from where you were at the start of the season. All that adds up.”

Henri didn’t argue. They were right, of course. He was so weak he could barely help them get his gear off and sent to the equipment manager. As soon as they said it was dehydration, Henri knew he’d get the nod to keep playing. He would drink however much water it fucking took to keep on the ice.

When Dylan found him, he had an IV pumping cold liquid through his veins. He was also down to his leggings and socks, no doubt looking more pathetic than if he’d just kept all the gear on.

“What the fuck?” Dylan looked alarmed. Granted, the IV was pretty scary. Henri suspected he wouldn’t look so hot without it, either.

“It’s fine,” Henri said. “I’m fine.”

“Somebody tell me what’s going on,” Dylan demanded with hands on his hips, that I’m-the-captain voice that he rarely broke out. Henri wondered vaguely if it hurt his shoulder to do that. “There’s clearly a language issue going on if he thinks he’s fine.”

The medical staff looked uneasily between Henri and Dylan. “Mr. Everett—” one said, but Henri cut in.

“It’s okay. You can tell him. I don’t mind.” Saves me from having to do it.

And while his English was up to the task of understanding what they’d told him about why his body was betraying him and how to recover, the nice thing about it being said in his second language was that he could now shut his brain off. He could lean back against the smooth tiled walls, enjoy the tingle of electrolytes working their way through his system, and ignore everything Dylan and the medics said.

“Hen, you ready to go home?”

Henri opened his eyes. Dylan’s hand was on his shoulder and was so close Henri could read every worry line marking his handsome face. He must have fallen asleep.

“Home?” he echoed to give himself time to wake up. Were they in Albuquerque? Oh, yes. Game Three. They’d won. Breathing room. “Yes. Let’s go home.”

The drive was tense. Henri didn’t like that Dylan was driving, sure he would agitate his shoulder. There were no sharp turns to navigate on the drive, Dylan had argued. No traffic this late. What was the alternative, anyway? Get an Uber to take two beaten-up hockey players home, to the same house? At least it was an automatic transmission. Henri would brave the Uber over letting Dylan drive a manual in his state.

Dylan’s left hand twitched restlessly against the steering wheel while his right was held close to his side, but still gently guiding the car. Henri watched, sipping his Gatorade while nodding off several times. He awoke with a start as the passenger door opened, and Dylan helped him out.

“I feel not good,” Henri admitted as they walked slowly to the front door. His voice was so weak that the stupid fountain in the driveway nearly drowned him out. It annoyed him that the bedroom was right there, but they had to take a detour through the foyer, the living room, the hallway before they got there. A thousand miles.

Dylan guided him with a hand around his waist. “You don’t look so good, either. Gotta hand it to you. Even in my prime, I never played a game so hard I threw up after.”

Henri had forgotten he’d done that. He wished the medics hadn’t told Dylan.

They shuffled into the house, pausing only to toe off their shoes and then head down the hallway. They’d taken so long getting Henri back to a reasonable condition that everyone had left the arena. They’d mercifully been allowed to leave wearing their spare workout clothes instead of their suits, a fact Henri was eternally grateful for as he melted onto the bed. He’d have died if he needed to take off a fucking suit first.

There were sounds from Dylan puttering about. Soothing, familiar sounds that made the last of the tension drain out of him. His body was not happy with him, but it was hard to care when he was snuggled up in his boyfriend’s bed.

Finally, the bed dipped as Dylan climbed on. Henri opened one eye halfway to look and was pleased that Dylan was wearing his sling. It was a fight every night as soon as they got through the door because why would a big strong hockey player need such a thing?

“What’s that smile for?” Dylan reached over and pinched Henri’s cheek, right at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re wearing the sling, and I didn’t even have to ask.” Henri closed his eyes, content.

The room was so still and silent, he thought the night was over, but then Dylan whispered, “I get it now. Why you were upset with me about my shoulder.”

“Hmm?” Henri didn’t get it, but was happy to listen to Dylan’s voice.