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I will

CHAPTER 52

Not even Alexei Sokolov could ruin Henri’s day after that morning. Henri enjoyed the team meals and was the first to grab the soccer ball to kick around in the underbelly of the arena before the game. Hacky sack, sewer ball, basketball, these little competitions before the game that always got too intense but were always fun because there were no stakes. And they had served him as a litmus test for how the team felt about him. If they wouldn’t pass a damn ball to him in a meaningless warm-up, they didn’t like him enough to trust him in a hockey game.

The Turkeys always passed to him.

When they finally took the ice, it was Dylan’s turn to hide deep in the zone. He did a better job than Henri had in LA. He warmed up the goalies and tossed pucks over the glass to fans, all with a smile on his face. All while Novak skated through their side of the neutral zone like a guard dog.

“Want to pass?” Henri called to him and sent him a puck.

Novak caught the puck and passed it back, a beautiful saucer that went right to Henri’s stick. Henri always appreciated casual competence. They continued passing, slowly moving farther and farther away, every pass w a beauty. More importantly, Henri saw Novak relax and his scowl loosen. Some people played better angry; Novak wasn’t one of them.

During the waning seconds of warm-ups, Novak tossed the puck towards the net and skated to Henri. “Thanks, Baps.” He slung an arm around his shoulder and knocked his helmet against Henri’s affectionately. “I needed that.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

Novak shook his head. “Nope, definitely did. Hey.” They stopped just short of the benches, away from the tunnel back to the locker room where most of the team had already gathered to wait out the minutes before the first period. “Soks can be a dick. Just…ignore him. I know it’s hard because he’s very good at pushing buttons, but it ain’t worth it. Let me run interference, okay?”

He considered this. In Albuquerque, Sokolov had mostly ignored him during the game. Treated him like any other player, like every other time they’d met on the ice. Strangers. But then they’d gotten drinks together, sitting on opposite sides of Dylan. Sokolov was past ignoring Henri’s existence, and it would likely manifest on the ice. How was less clear, but Henri agreed that it was unlikely to be good.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “But thanks.”

“Don’t got much to say for this one,” Dylan said in the tunnel while they waited for the game. He fistbumped a few of the guys, smacked Briggs on the ass with his stick. He sounded hoarse. “Let’s fuck ‘em up, babes. We want those points, so let’s get ‘em.”

“Make it hurt,” Novak added. “Tire them out so they lose the next game too. These fuckers play tomorrow night in Detroit. Think of this as a six-point game, boys.”

“Let’s fucking go!” Knox called to complete the trifecta of captain and alternate captain pep. The rest of them repeated the call, yelling, “Let’s go, babes!” not quite in unison.

The air felt electric, but it usually did in Chicago. A large fan base generations deep and a team with the accolades to deserve it. But in many ways, it felt no different from any other game. No spark in the air to ignite the powder keg Novak imagined and Dylan was bracing for.

Even when they lined up for the opening face-off, Henri across from Sokolov, there was no interest from the Russian. It was almost as if he didn’t recognize Henri, a tactic Henri wasn’t inexperienced with. From Sokolov, it was preferable. He counted that as a win and squared up for the puck drop.

He won the face-off.

He won almost all the face-offs cleanly. The whole first period, he had Sokolov’s number. The first few times, Henri thought it was because he was having a good night. He soon realized it had nothing to do with him at all. After the fourth time, he noticed Sokolov was making only a perfunctory attempt at the puck and then immediately moving to the right wing to get into Dylan’s space.

Once he noticed it, it was all Henri could see. Sokolov wasn’t playing the puck; he was playing Dylan.

Sokolov was big and known for not shying away from physical plays, though not necessarily seeking them out. He was on Dylan from the moment he stepped onto the ice until he was back on the bench. And it was brutal, every opportunity for a check taken and hard enough that Henri winced in sympathy. Dylan had to work for every inch and would have no more than a second with the puck before Sokolov was there.

Though it hadn’t been like this before in Albuquerque, Henri thought maybe this was just how the two played each other. There were plenty of friends on different teams who loved to play extra hard against each other because that was how they had fun. They wanted bragging rights over their buddies; they wanted the thrill of competition against someone who knew them well enough to know how they liked to play. It was entirely possible that was what this was…

And then Henri passed to Dylan in the slot, open for the first time all game. Immediately, he was knocked to the ground from behind by Sokolov, and play moved back down the ice. Henri watched as Dylan pushed back to his feet, the look there that said he was not having fun, and he did not appreciate this treatment.

But no matter how many times Sokolov dished it out, Dylan didn’t retaliate. He didn’t rise to the bait, told Novak not to either, and they survived the first period without any penalties.

And got a goal out of it. While Sokolov was distracted shadowing Dylan—arguably not his coverage at all—that left Novak and Henri more room to work. Henri got the puck below the goal line, spotted Dylan open at the left circle…and knew better. He didn’t have time to track where Sokolov was, but he knew it was a waste to send the puck to Dylan right now. So instead he found Novak streaking through the center. A much harder pass, but Henri sent it anyway and then rushed in front of the net. When Novak shot it, Henri moved his stick reflexively and felt something hit it.

Henri didn’t know it was a goal until he heard the goalie curse.

“Baps!” Novak simultaneously hugged him and pulled him away from the Storm players who might’ve been upset at him for the screen and deflection. “Fuck yeah!”

Then it was Dylan hugging them both, yelling some nonsense about babes and beauties. When the celebration ended, Henri caught dark eyes watching them with an assessing look. Sokolov saw that Henri had caught him staring, yet he didn’t turn away. It was only Henri getting swept away to the bench that broke their eye contact.

“Not a bad start,” Coach Krzysztofek said. He didn’t look pleased, but Henri suspected that had more to do with his best player being completely neutralized than the score. “Let’s maybe hit ‘em back when they knock us down.”

Dylan stared at his skates.