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And so therefore we must be sleeping together

Because that is the secret to all great hockey duos

Okay touche

I get it I’m making a lot of assumptions

Novak and I have been linemates for YEARS and you’ve never thought we were fucking

I mean he IS married

But yes point taken

I’m sorry

I accept your apology.

…… That’s literally the most suspicious way you could’ve responded

DYLAN

DYLAN MICHAEL EVERETT

What

YOU JACKASS MAKING ME FEEL BAD WHEN I WAS 100% RIGHT

I literally have no idea what you’re talking about

I have to go pack

Make sure you tell mom and dad you’re only visiting them because your FUCK BUDDY is out of town

DYLAN

The weather was frigid when Henri arrived in Montreal, though the skies were clear. It stole his breath when he stepped outside, a chill that was familiar but distant in his memory. He traveled across North America all year long, but his team’s city was the one that dictated his perception of ‘cold.’ To be fair, Albuquerque could get cold at night thanks to the desert landscape, but it wasn’t the same as a northern winter, where even in full sun, the chill would settle into your bones.

It wasn’t full sun. He’d taken a red-eye and arrived early in the day. There was barely a hint of morning outside, and he was glad his father had let him convince him to stay home. As Henri side-stepped the other travelers, he found his way to his preferred car rental agency and prepared for the hour drive home.

The flight and subsequent drive gave him a lot of time to decompress and think. Henri often thought too much, but lately he’d been actively avoiding any sort of introspection. It was so much nicer to stay in the moment when those moments were filled with Dylan’s company. Even when they weren’t side-by-side, hockey was enjoyable again. Not necessarily fun—anything his career and future hinged upon could never truly be fun anymore—but fun-adjacent.

But there was no Dylan in Quebec. They were facing a separation of days, which was more space than they’d had apart since the off-season. It was empty space to consider what his life looked like with and without his captain, and if he was making a big mistake.

It was, objectively, not a smart move to be sexually or romantically involved with a teammate. He trusted Dylan enough that even if Henri somehow broke Dylan’s heart, he wouldn’t use his fame or position to retaliate. He also trusted that Dylan did actually like Henri, that it was more than some attraction born out of proximity and loneliness. Henri might be convenient, but there were a dozen other equally attractive, kind, and convenient men on the team; there was something more that felt substantial between them, or had the weight to become substantial. These were the only assurances he had that tempered his fear, and they weren’t insignificant.

But that meant nothing. Dylan and Henri liking each other, being compatible, their relationship not one between lovers and teammates but some mix of the two, an expansion of what they’d been before…that was great for now. But how long it might last, that wasn’t necessarily their decision.

Henri was no Sokolov with the power to choose where he played. He went where he was told to go. Sold off or traded like a commodity. And while the Turkeys had been more welcoming than some, they were still a team. A business, not a friend. If Henri did poorly, they’d get rid of him; if he did well, they might keep him, or they might trade him away for a profit. What kind of fool got into a relationship when outside factors controlled its expiration date?

Me, apparently, he thought as he turned into his father’s driveway. His driveway. The home he grew up in, a small two-story house in Saint-Jérôme with peeling white-paint and green-trim around the windows, was as inviting as ever. Henri had never bought himself a home in any of the cities he’d played, but he was certain if he’d seen a house like this one, he’d have bought it immediately without any second thoughts. Peeling paint and all.

There’d been snow last week, but the driveway was pristine, a spot next to his father’s old Buick waiting for him. Henri had tried again and again to buy his father a new car, but his father was stubborn. He patted the hood as he walked by, only a duffel slung over his shoulder. All the clothes he’d need for his road trip with the Turkeys after Christmas; everything he’d wear in the meantime was already here, waiting.

“Yes, I think we’re doing well,” TV-Henri said. It was one of those silly intermission interviews where they asked nothing important, and Henri in turn said nothing substantial. “The penalty kill is doing well, but I would prefer if we stayed out of the box. The easiest penalty to kill is the one you don’t take, yes?”

“You sound so American,” his father teased. Henri had built a fire in the fireplace and made hot chocolate. A Christmas Eve tradition from so far back, Henri couldn’t remember it ever being different. The only difference was the empty chair between them.

“Can you even hear the difference between a Canadian-English and American accent?” Henri teased. While his father technically could speak English, he only used it to read hockey blogs and track his son’s career. In his daily life, he probably went months without having to speak a word of English.