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“Fuck, there you are.” Dylan sounded so relieved. Henri didn’t understand why. Where could he have possibly gone? “Are you okay?”

Henri shrugged. He was prepared to allow himself to be dragged back to the locker room, but instead Dylan sank to his knees in front of him. There was room on the bench on either side, but here was Dylan, choosing the most intimate way he could take up Henri’s space. Crowd him against the wall. Shield him. Destroy him.

“I was worried.” Dylan did indeed look worried, with his creased brow and pouty lips.

Again, Henri couldn’t muster more than a shrug.

“Hen.” His hands came up to cradle his face, and again Henri was struck by the intimacy of this moment in such a public place. This wasn’t at home or hidden away in a hotel room. Dylan should know better than to comfort him here, and Henri should be strong enough not to need it. “Talk to me. Please.”

There were so many things he could say. Honest things and dismissals, and he knew Dylan would accept any of them. There were no wrong answers here, which was maybe why the truest one was what slipped free.

“I’m sorry,” Henri said, letting all of his misery leak into the words. “I thought I could do this for you.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Dylan rubbed away the fresh tears with his thumbs. “I’m just so happy we’re here together. I’d rather lose it with you than win it without.”

Henri let out a sob. He could barely see anymore. “Dylan.”

“I really wanted to win it for you,” Dylan said. He leaned in and rested his forehead against Henri’s, and Henri felt like he was shattering apart. “You deserve it. Henri, you deserve it all. I’m sorry I missed that shot.”

But Henri shook his head. “I wasn’t fast enough. I should’ve⁠—”

“No, no. Shh, Hen. Look at me.” Henri hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes, but he opened them. Dylan was so close. One of his hands slipped down to the back of Henri’s neck and squeezed; the other brushed his hair back, still sweat-slick. “You did nothing wrong. No one could’ve done better than—hey.”

He nudged Henri so he couldn’t turn away, because the words felt wrong. A lie to cover up all the people better who weren’t there.

“I’m serious. You are so, so talented. You being here is the only reason we got this close. We wouldn’t have made the playoffs without you. And I’d be absolutely fucking miserable without you. So please, please understand that I owe this whole fucking season to you, and I don’t care about the stupid fucking Cup because I still get to go home with you. Henri, you’re all I wanted this season.”

“I…” His mouth was dry. Was he going to faint? Was he dehydrated again? Why was he so lightheaded? “Dylan, you don’t⁠—”

“I am so in love with you, Henri,” Dylan continued, storming right ahead like he was on a breakaway. Past the defense, just him and the goalie. A sure thing. “Je t’aime. Je t’adore. Je suis à toi.”

Henri was fairly certain he was having a stroke. Because Dylan Everett loved him and could speak French. Heavily accented French, but it was still recognizably French.

“Henri, say something. You’re freaking me out a little.”

His brain did a hard reboot. As it came back online, he found the world had shifted a little. Not far off from its original axis. Because in truth, he had felt those words long before this moment. In his own heart, and in the way Dylan looked at him and held him.

“I love you too,” he whispered. “Dylan, tu es mon coeur.”

“Mon coeur,” Dylan repeated. “I don’t actually know French. What’s that mean?”

“My heart,” Henri said. “You are my heart.”

Dylan’s head quirked. “You’ve been saying that to me for months.”

“For the obvious reason—” He was cut off as Dylan surged forward and kissed him. It was nothing chaste or quick, the kind of kiss that could be excused between teammates if they were caught. The way Dylan’s lips moved against his was filthy, as if he were trying to devour Henri whole. Henri would’ve let him if he could.

“I’ve been holding it back because I thought it was too much,” Dylan said, breathless. More breathless than he’d been the whole game. His eyes were dangerously close to tears as well. “Fuck, Hen. I love you so much.”

Henri pulled him in and wrapped him in a hug, burying his nose in Dylan’s hair. They were a messy pair, the two of them, half in gear and drained from losing everything. With Dylan trembling in his arms, Henri admittedly didn’t feel nearly so bad about the Cup anymore. It felt like he’d won something much more valuable.

“Je t’aime, mon coeur.” It was such a relief to say it in his own language and no longer have to hide it. “Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime…”

“I love you,” Dylan echoed back, the words disappearing somewhere into Henri’s chest. “I love you too.”

EPILOGUE

abqtukeysnhl (June 17, 2024): Unfortunately the Turkeys fall to the Otters 1-2 in game seven despite a phenomenal effort from the team. Great effort and a lot of heart