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During a TV timeout, Dylan skated over to where Henri sat on the bench. The broadcast was showing commercials while people skated across the ice with shovels to clear away excess snow that had accumulated during the first half of the period. A brief moment of respite.

“You doing okay?” Dylan asked for the thousandth time. “You need another water?”

Henri tried not to grit his teeth. He kept his eyes fixed on his stick as he re-taped the blade. He hated doing this on the bench, but he hadn’t had time during the first intermission because of an interview, and then Dylan’s mother-henning had eaten up most of his time.

He ignored Dylan until he was satisfied with the tape job, then glanced around. Much of the team was on the ice chatting, some were looking over video with the coaches. They were, relatively speaking, alone.

“How much water do I have to drink before you’ll let me come?” His lips barely moved as he spoke, and he was so quiet that he only knew Dylan had heard him from how brightly he blushed.

“Baptiste,” he said in a voice so strangled that their backup goalie looked at him. Dylan somehow grew redder.

“When have you called me Baptiste?” Henri scoffed. “It’d be less suspicious if you’d called me sweetheart.”

“Hen,” he whispered. “I’m begging you.”

Henri grabbed wax and started back to work on his stick. “I’m fine. I will not faint on the ice. I will not throw up. I will survive this game.” He flashed Dylan an annoyed look; Dylan wilted. “I don’t ask every two seconds if your arm is going to fall off.”

He was being harsh. He knew that. But his nerves were fried. Though he wasn’t as bad as he’d been after that game in Ohio, he wasn’t at a hundred percent. Honestly, that last time had snuck up on him so quickly he hadn’t noticed any warning signs; Henri wasn’t convinced he would if it did happen again, but he wasn’t going to tell Dylan that. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and was agitated because they needed to fucking win this game.

The Ohio Otters were good. Very good. Henri had been losing face-offs to their new center, RJ Russell, since long before this series, and he’d only gotten worse at it as the games drew on. Henri was faster than him, though that was little consolation. Getting past Russell only meant having to contend with the brick wall that was Anders Nilsson. Henri already had a few new bruises from a hit at the beginning of the first. They had a tenuous one-goal lead, and all Henri wanted to focus on was building that lead.

And here Dylan was, harping on irrelevant details that could wait until after the game.

The ref blew a whistle. Timeout over.

“Get me the first line out,” Coach Krzysztofek shouted. Henri jumped the boards and skated down the ice for a much-needed offensive face-off draw. He frowned when he saw Russell also approaching the dot.

“I'm not allowed to worry about you?” Dylan grumbled from just behind him. “I can’t ask how you’re doing?”

Still in a bitchy mood, he snapped, “Did you pester Sokolov this much about his injuries?” He made it a few more feet before he realized Dylan was no longer behind him. He turned around and saw where Dylan stood frozen, looking as if Henri had just stabbed him with a dagger.

Fuck.

Henri skated back to him and laid a gloved hand over Dylan’s heart. “I’m sorry. I’m being a dick. I just want to win this game. What’s the point of running ourselves ragged if we can’t even win a fucking game?”

Dylan stared at him. “What’s the point of winning any of them if we’re not doing it together?”

The words gutted Henri, no doubt the same as his had hurt Dylan. What were they doing to each other?

He leaned forward and knocked their helmets together. “We are doing it together. So let’s go over there, win this face-off, and get a goal.”

Dylan relaxed minutely. He swallowed, his jaw so tight it looked made of stone, but he nodded and followed him to the left circle where everyone was staring at them, waiting. The ref seemed annoyed, but to their credit, the Otters didn’t seem angry. They stood in position, patient and calm as if this were any regular-season game. As if they weren’t currently losing in their own fucking arena. As if they fully expected to win, anyway.

Time to rattle them, Henri thought angrily as he squared up with Russell. They need to feel as tired as we do.

He looked at Russell and tried to spot a weakness, anything he could exploit. But after playing against him for five years, he knew there weren’t any. So when the puck dropped, Henri won it the only way he could.

He knocked Russell over and tried to kick the puck toward his team.

Tangled on the ice with Russell, both centers tried to scramble to their feet to help their teams. Henri watched as Novak grabbed the loose puck and sent it back to Knox at the blue line. Dylan took off for the net, only to find Nilsson waiting for him. Henri tried to muscle his way past Russell because he did not want Dylan to be pushing and shoving with Nilsson in front of the net.

Too late, of course. He grimaced as Dylan held his ground, leaning into Nilsson’s shoves with his stupid right shoulder. He didn’t budge at first, which was impressive—Dylan was big, but Nilsson was bigger—but after a few seconds, Dylan was knocked over from behind. He took Nilsson with him, their sticks wrapped together, which was a blessing for Knox, who now had a clear shot at the net.

Less so for Dylan. Nilsson landed right on top of him. It was all Henri could think about, so much so that he missed the goal. It didn’t register that Knox had scored until after he’d pushed Nilsson—already pissy and heading towards his bench—to get him away from Dylan. Nilsson eyed him like he was a gnat, harmless if not annoying.

He looked down at Dylan, still sprawled on his back on the ice and looking faintly dazed.

“Dylan?”