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Average

Better than a roady I guess

You hung out with anyone yet?

How could I? You’re not here yet

I know you know what I’m really asking

Then I’m not sure why you didn’t just ask it

No I didn’t see Sokolov

No I don’t plan on hanging out with him outside of team stuff

Dinner with him was that bad huh

No the game was that bad

He was being a dick

I didn’t even stay for dinner, just drinks and then left

Wow

That’s what we call growth

Next time maybe you’ll know to say fuck off from the getgo

Working on it

Henri had once dreamed of the All-Star Weekend. Young and naive, he’d hoped to be invited one day. He had assumed not his first season or even his second—Carolina had many talented, more experienced players—but the dream of one day burned brightly in his heart.

It had been hard to let go of that dream, to realize it would be impossible for him, as his praises that had once been sung loudly took on a hollow, broken note, but he’d long since let it go. He’d learned to see the weekend as a chance to visit his father and rest up. To brace for a disappointing end to the season or another possible trade.

The tradition was for the Baptiste men to do nothing hockey-related. To ignore the skills competitions and the games. To pretend there was no All-Star Weekend at all, and enjoy a quiet few days together.

So he could only imagine what his father thought when Henri reached for the remote and, instead of finding a movie, turned on ESPN. He didn’t look at his father at all as he adjusted the volume and scanned the crowded ice for two brown jerseys, though one in particular made his heart stutter when he caught sight of it. Last night Dylan had asked him to watch the skills competition, saying he wanted to show off for him.

“I’ll do better if you’re watching. You’re good luck.”

How was Henri supposed to say no to that?

“Ah,” his father said when the camera focused on Dylan’s face. He was clearly giving Novak shit about something. Henri knew those looks, especially Novak restraining himself from throwing a glove at Dylan to give him the finger (a thing he had done on numerous occasions at practice). And as terrible as Henri was at reading lips when people spoke English, he could make out Dylan’s teasing, babe. “You want to watch your teammates.”

“Yes,” Henri agreed. A safe answer, both true and completely inadequate. “I like Everett and Novak.” Also true. Also so below his actual level of affection for both men.

“They are good players,” his father agreed. “And I have heard nothing but good things about them. There are some players.” He made a disapproving noise, and then redirected; he didn’t like to speak ill of specific people when it was nothing but idle gossip. “But Everett and Novak, they are good ones. They do charity. They help their community. They speak kindly of their teammates, coaches, fans, even their competition. Everett is one of the greatest players to ever play the game, yet he is always very generous when he speaks about others.”

Henri made a noise in the back of his throat. He hoped it sounded like agreement and not a wounded animal.

“He speaks well of you, especially. When you first moved to the team, they asked him about you. And when he was kind, they tried to get him to respond to what other teams had said. Still, he was firm in his praise and saying those things didn’t matter to him. That’s how I knew he was a good captain.”

Finally, Henri dared look at his father. He needed to see his expression and gauge why he was saying all this. Did he know? Had he guessed how Henri felt and how hopelessly he’d fallen? Was this him showing his approval?

But his father was watching the TV, with no apparent intent or ulterior motive in his words.

Henri tried not to feel disappointed.