Page 38 of No Line Change

So he wanted to be the one working through drill after drill after drill until he was as close to perfect as he could be.

Novak snorted. “Me neither. Why’s the D having all the fun today?”

Henri only grunted. The Turkeys had dropped some very winnable games lately, and it was easier to blame the defense than look more closely at what the real problem was.

Dylan Everett wasn’t scoring.

Which wasn’t a problem, really. The whole team was capable of putting pucks in the back of the net, and it was unfair to place the whole burden onto Everett’s shoulders. Except that Everett enjoyed having that pressure. He enjoyed knowing he could win the game for his team at any moment. And several times on the bench or in the locker room, he’d acknowledged that he was the problem right now. Usually with very colorful language, and once punctuated by a broken stick.

Henri and Novak were setting Everett up, and he wasn’t converting. When instead they passed to each other…well, they weren’t in a five-game goal drought. Worse, Everett didn’t even have an assist.

He was imploding, a sight Henri recognized all too well from having experienced it himself at least once pretty much every season of his career. The question was what made a player of Dylan Everett’s caliber tank?

“I think,” Novak said, enunciating each word with a long pause, “that the coach might be considering tweaking the lines.”

“Oh?” Henri was impressed that he didn’t sound like the air was being squeezed out of his lungs. “Who are they moving?”

“I don’t think it’s us.” Novak turned to look down the ice where Everett was leaning against the boards with a vacant stare. “If you catch my drift.”

His blood ran cold. Would they really bump Everett to a different line? What would that mean—that Novak and Henri failed, or something else?

“Don’t think too much about it,” Novak said with another stick tap. “Evers is great 99% of the time, but no one’s perfect. Something threw him off, and we’ll just have to wait it out until he’s back.”

How nice for everyone to assume it was a matter of when, not if.

“And splitting us up will do that?” By no means was Henri convinced. If he and Novak had been clicking with Everett early in the season, wouldn’t it be a risk to separate them now?

Novak shrugged. “Probably not. Evers works best with people he’s familiar with. He’d be happy as a clam if he could just have the same line forever. But if he doesn’t score in the next few games…”

Henri turned to look at Everett again, studying him. Hardly an expert, he had thought Everett seemed…off lately. Less animated. His smile dimmer. There’d been nothing in their games to account for it—they’d won in Montreal and celebrated before the flight back, then a couple days later at practice, Everett had been in a surly mood.

Surly as in there was only one ‘babes’ all practice, two high-fives, and no cheers when his team won in the mini-scrimmage. For Dylan Everett, that was unheard of.

“Hey,” Novak said, and Henri snapped his attention back to him. “Don’t worry. No one’s blaming us. It’s obvious who’s slacking, but it’s hard to give feedback to Dylan Fucking Everett, amirite? Fans especially are brutal. I saw this one fan blog say I’m the reason Evers missed that back door pass last game. I put it on his fucking tape. You saw.”

“I did,” Henri admitted. It was a very good pass. “Everyone misses those sometimes.”

Novak gave him a look.

Right. Everyone except Dylan Fucking Everett, the best goal-scorer probably ever, but certainly in the last few decades.

“Anyways, don’t beat yourself up about it. I was just warning you that if something changes, it’s not about us. It’s about him.”

“Right.”

Novak pushed to his feet and drifted backwards. “Just remember. Whatever line Evers is on, that’s the top line, regardless of what the coaches say. Don’t let it get to you.”

Very unfortunate that Henri was an expert at letting stuff get to him.

But Novak didn’t seem to want to change lines, and he’d said Everett didn’t either. Henri obviously was happy where he was and the chance it afforded him to make up for all those wasted years of being ‘the problem.’ The only way to fix things was to make sure Everett started scoring again.

It wasn’t a Henri or Novak issue. Based on his own analysis of recent games (hours spent in the comfort of his own bed, watching and re-watching every shift), their mistakes were minimal.

So that left Everett, who really was a mess. Reacting slower. No hustle. Giving up on plays. Unless he was injured—doubtful—it was a mental roadblock.

To get things back on track, Henri just needed to help Everett get over that roadblock.

“Easier said than done,” he mumbled to himself in French. “What the fuck do I know about getting past mental barriers? If I could do that, I’d be the fucking NHL points leader.”