Page 199 of No Line Change

Russell won the face-off.

turkeytalk (June 17, 2024): 0-0 after the first period and I feel like it’s been 20 years not 20 minutes. I regret every decision that’s ever led to me being a hockey fan. It would be less stressful to wade into a pool of alligators.

↪ gobblegoals: how are we feeling about the shots? the otters have been making briggs stand on his head… the only stat we’re leading in is blocked shots, but that just means we’re more banged up…

↪ turkeytalk: Unfortunately something’s going to have to give sooner than later. Hopefully Everett or Krzysztofek is giving the speech of their lives in the locker room rn

↪ gobblegoals: sidebar - do you actually know how to spell krzysztofek or do you have to google it every time like i do?

↪ turkeytalk: I’ve typed it enough that my phone auto suggests it whenever I type krz (otherwise no I cannot spell it, I’m just trusting that my phone learned it correctly)

Henri won the face-off to start the second period. He was probably imagining it, but there was a spark of surprise on Russell’s face. Like he’d genuinely expected to win it. To win the whole thing.

Good, Henri thought as he tried to help his team keep possession. They need to doubt that they’ll just be fucking handed this game.

But the burst of confidence was short-lived. Try as they might, the Turkeys couldn’t break through the Otters’ defense. Everyone on the bench was frustrated, Henri included, and they had to fight tooth and nail for any meager zone time they got.

Henri was fast. He always had been—it was how he’d managed to carve a small career for himself despite his shitty lines and minutes. Even all on his own, he could use his speed to get a breakaway and a few goals. But now, in the waning minutes of the second period, he wasn’t fast.

He was trying. God knew he was trying. He would see the other team sprinting down the ice and take off after them, relying on that burst of speed that was always there and always allowed him to catch up. Maybe not enough to beat the other person, but enough to help. Not tonight. No matter how impossibly large the gap seemed, Henri did his best to bridge it.

He just couldn’t.

He was falling behind by inches, then feet. No amount of smelling salts or energy drinks on the bench did him any good, no matter how desperately he inhaled them. His head was buzzing with adrenaline and chemicals and desperation, and it did nothing. There was simply nothing left in him to give, no reserves lying in wait to help save the day.

As he looked down the bench, Henri saw his own fear reflected in his teammates’ faces. They too had swum out deeper than they should’ve and were treading water, hoping for rescue.

Well, not all of them. Some of the rookies were young enough that they seemed as spry as ever. And Dylan.

Dylan was magnificent. He seemed to have unending pools of energy to draw from. After Novak and Henri had both gone for a line change, Dylan was still out giving it his all. On the bench, he was rosy-cheeked and didn’t sound out of breath when he offered encouragement to all of them.

“Hey, great job blocking that shot, Lynsie.”

“Beautiful pass on that play, Sandy. For real, pristine. And way to get the puck deep there, Branner. Loved that whole shift from you guys.”

“Great fucking save, Big Rigg!”

He never seemed to stop long enough to drink from his water bottle before they were back over the boards, going at it again.

The problem was, of course, his shoulder. In the handful of games he’d played with the injury, Dylan had adapted surprisingly well. He didn’t take the massive slapshots he was known for, but could manage the occasional wrist shot. It bothered him every time, agitated the raw nerves buried under his jersey and pads and athletic tape, but the only evidence was in the way he’d roll his shoulder between whistles. Not a flicker of pain in his eyes, no hesitation to make the best play regardless of how much it would hurt.

More than anything, Henri wished he could do this for Dylan.

turkeytalk (June 17, 2024): 0-0 after two periods. The Turkeys look slow. I don’t want to say they’re playing badly — I’m not seeing any moments that are aha! that was bad! — but the Otters clearly have a step or two on them. Krzysztofek keeps changing the lines to keep everyone fresh. It’s not helping.

↪ gobblegoals: this is not the dominant performance that we were hoping for, but all things said, it’s still a tie game. the turkeys are in it.

↪ turkeytalk: Everett looks like he would physically carry the team to victory if possible. He has looked stellar tonight. Forget everything I ever said about him being old or past his prime

↪ gobblegoals: he should take more shots tho. that’d be nice.

↪ turkeytalk: Amen.

It was such a fucking stupid play. A complete fluke. Moody tripped while defending a 2-on-2, which abruptly became a 2-on-1. Henri leaned forward on the bench with the rest of the team. They held their breaths, praying, praying, praying that Walsh could break it up or that Briggs would make the save⁠—

The goal horn blared like a knife to the heart. Henri could feel every last molecule of air get strangled out of his lungs.

“Not your fault.” Dylan pounded Moody on the back when he returned to the bench. He looked like he wanted to cry or die or scream, or all of them in some indeterminate order. “We’ll get it back. It was never going to be a one-goal game.” He looked up and down the bench. “Who’s going to get it back, huh?”