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CHAPTER 23

Henri was far enough away from the door to the rink to see it coming. Some days before practice, the social media interns would stick microphones in their faces before they got onto the ice for practice and ask them questions. Some of them were rather silly, like whether they’d rather be turned into a worm or a stinkbug (worm, obviously), or what temperature they kept their house at (22° Celsius), or whether he preferred to shower in the morning or evening (mornings). Henri enjoyed those, if only because he found his teammate’s answers enlightening.

Occasionally, they asked more serious ones. Based on the tones of Duffy and Knox, currently answering the petite teenager, it was one of those days. These questions usually weren’t as fun, because whenever Henri was asked a serious hockey question, he was often put in a position where he would have to lie. Over the years, his agent had scolded him for being too forthright with his frustrations, so he’d had to reel back. Censoring himself wasn’t too difficult because of the language barrier, but it wasn’t pleasant.

He sighed as he stepped up for his turn. Obediently, he stopped just shy of getting onto the ice.

“How’d you decide on the number 17?” the teenager asked before handing off the mic.

“Oh.” Great. An embarrassing one. Henri hadn’t had the luxury of picking his number even once in the NHL. He arrived in Albuquerque, they handed him a jersey, and it was only later that he bothered to look at the back. Not that he cared. That kind of vanity wasn’t one allowed him. “I didn’t⁠—”

A heavy arm went around his shoulder.

“He’s a 2017er,” Everett said. “Just like I’m 12 because I was drafted in 2012. The Turkeys like to highlight their players who went in the first round, like Watkins is 15 because he was tenth in the 2015 draft.”

Henri’s jaw dropped. Was that…true? It would be an amazing coincidence if not.

The teenager just nodded, accepting Everett’s version of the truth. “But Briggs was first overall in 2021,” he pointed out.

“And goalies are fucking weirdos. You can’t talk sense into a goalie.” Everett dramatically put a gloved hand in front of his mouth. “Shit, sorry about the f-bomb.”

“It’s okay. We can cut it if we need to.”

“Perfect.” Then he was nudging Henri onto the ice with him.

In a daze, he followed close to Everett as they skated a slow lap around the rink.

“Is that really why I’m number seventeen?” Henri asked. Everett was probably just being nice, but Henri felt it was important to know the difference between something the Turkeys actively did for Henri versus Everett’s quick thinking and kindness; he wanted to bestow his appreciation in the right place.

“ ‘Course,” Everett said easily.

“Are you sure it’s not⁠—?”

“Babe, I’m the one who told them to do it. Yes, I’m sure.” He smacked the front of Henri’s shinguards with a loud whack of his stick. “Hope you don’t mind. Suits you, though. Race you to the bench!”

Henri was so shocked Everett was nearly there by the time Henri remembered he even had feet, much less how to skate.

He didn’t mind losing the race.

Dylan Everett picked my number for me… He felt warm before he cursed violently under his breath. So much for getting over his stupid crush.

Though no one said anything, the relief was palpable among the team now that Everett had scored again. Their reactions made Henri feel all the sillier for having allowed himself to get just as worked up—it was only five games, after all, and only one player—but it was nice to have a more relaxed atmosphere during practice. Even the coaches went easy on them, despite their back-to-back losses.

“No need to get anyone hurt too early in the season,” Coach Krzysktofek said as he spit on the ice. Henri still couldn’t pronounce his name. “Take a shower and be ready for video review in an hour. We’re hitting the road in two days for our Texas road trip. I want everyone rested and ready to kick ass. Got it?”

“Yes, coach,” they said in unison and scattered before he could change his mind.

“We owe you,” Duffy joked once they were safely in the locker room. He knocked Everett on the helmet as he walked by to his own stall in the corner. “You didn’t score, we’d be out there feeding you one-timers until you broke the net.”

“Guess all I gotta do is stay off the scoresheet a few more games,” Everett said as he tossed off his gloves. There was a spark in his eyes, pure amusement instead of the shame Henri would’ve felt in his position. “Then maybe I could get us a whole week off.”

The room erupted in a mix of laughter and boos.

“Not worth it!” Friedman boomed over the ruckus. “I’d rather make the playoffs.”

“We’re making the playoffs, babes,” Everett huffed. “Have a little faith. Trust the process.”

“Not scoring is part of the process?”