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He grabbed for the remote. “Can we watch something else? Or at least fast-forward to the game? I hate listening to myself.”

His father pulled the remote out of reach, but mercifully skipped through the rest of the interview. “You sound good, ti-loup. A proper NHL player.”

“Plenty of us speak something besides English.” On the Turkeys that wasn’t particularly true. Most of his teammates were North-American, to the extent that the only language he heard in the locker room was English. Even the other Canadians weren’t francophone. He’d hear Spanish well before he heard French or Russian or anything else.

“I wish you could’ve played at home,” his father sighed. “If only so I could see you more.”

Henri understood the sentiment, but he would’ve been eaten alive by Montreal fans. He hadn’t had thick enough skin when he’d started. Still didn’t.

“That would be nice,” he said instead, and added another log to the fire.

While his father made Christmas-day lunch, Henri stole some time for himself. He dipped into his father’s study at the back of the house, pretending it was for the solitude. He walked past the desk stacked with papers, past the shelves lined with an eclectic mix of reference books and Henri’s childhood favorites, and to the corner that was just for him. Medals and trophies and photos. Wristbands and pucks and ticket stubs. A monument to the boy he’d been, the man he’d grown into, and the empty space that showed there was still hope he’d become something more.

He traced the edges of a few pieces of memorabilia, reliving those happy and sometimes bittersweet moments from the safety of years between. He hadn’t consciously acknowledged the real reason that had brought him here until he’d picked out a few items. Ones that were small enough to fit in his bag and wouldn’t be a total embarrassment to display at his apartment. That wouldn’t haunt him with the weight of unfulfilled expectations.

Dylan had brought him to this room, looking for pieces of himself that he could use to make his apartment seem more like a home instead of a holding place. Despite the dangers of their relationship, Dylan had given him a reason to want to put down roots in shallow soil.

“You don’t normally come back here.”

Henri jumped. His heart raced like he’d been caught doing something bad when all he was doing was inspecting the puck from his first career hat trick. Still, it took all his effort to gently put it back instead of hiding it behind his back like evidence of some crime.

“I, uh.” He fished for a plausible excuse and found none. “A teammate asked where I keep my trophies. It reminded me that maybe I should look at them every now and then.”

His father came to stand next to him and looked with him at the collection. “Your mother would be proud of you.” He sounded so tired, like he knew he was breaking both their hearts to say it but also perhaps mending them both a little too. “I’m very proud of you. I know you’ve struggled, ti-loup, but you have achieved much. And you work hard.”

“Thanks, Papa.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I wish…”

“Shhh,” his father shushed him. A hand on his back, soothing. Taking the weight off of him for a moment. “You aren’t lacking. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You are good at what you do. They can’t take that away from you unless you let them. See how much they’ve tried to, but still you play and still teams want you. Don’t forget that.”

A pat on his back, then a gentle pull of his shirt towards the door.

“Come,” his father said. “I heated up the tourtière and made stew. Your aunt brought over a tarte au sucre, I know that’s your favorite.”

Henri smiled. If he rubbed a tear from his eye, neither man commented. “It is. I’ve been looking forward to it all year.”

CHAPTER 41

Dylan (December 2023)

You busy?

Henri

Not really

My father went to play euchre with the neighbors

Euchre?

It’s a card game

Oh

You didn’t want to go?

Didn’t want to socialize

Oh