Page 156 of No Line Change

CHAPTER 60

Henri’s hands fidgeted on the steering wheel as he navigated out of the private lot at the airport. It was early on Monday morning, too early for him to accept Dylan’s offer to pick him up, and instead of feeling refreshed from his trip home to Quebec, Henri’s nerves were frayed.

When Dylan had finally landed in Albuquerque, he’d called Henri. It’d been such a relief to hear his voice, his normal voice once more. He sounded tired still, but without the haggard exhaustion that had been in his voice message (the message Henri had saved to his phone and had listened to a thousand times at least). He’d kept the conversation light for Dylan’s sake.

How was the flight? You looked good in the hardest shot. How was babysitting Novak’s kids? Yes, my father and I had a good time. He took me to one of his euchre nights, even though I never learned to play properly. We walked to the local cafe every day. Yes, it’s good to hear more French than English. Yes, your poster is still on my wall...

Not once did they mention Sokolov or anything remotely connected to that night. There was surely more to say, but it should be said in person, face-to-face. Not because Henri thought either was hiding anything; he felt Dylan needed the support. He was such a tactile person. All the pats on the arm, the fistbumps, the hugs after a goal, knocking people’s helmets, all the ways Dylan expressed his affection through touch; none of them were accessible when Henri was thousands of miles away. It felt cruel to not be there to hold him while he explained.

It was early enough that Henri went to his apartment first. He needed different clothes, wanted to shower, and had to mentally unpack his last day with his father. Claude had noted his son’s mood was off and had hinted at it worriedly. After Henri had disappeared to take Dylan’s call, gone over an hour, he’d returned and seen his father with a face like he was braced for impact.

“Your agent?” he’d asked. The possibility of a trade announcement had gutted Henri at the reminder, because this year was the one time in his whole career he’d forgotten. It took everything he had to press his lips into a thin line and shake his head. It was an easy out, but he wouldn’t make his father worry over nothing.

“Ah?” His father’s relief had instantly melted, then shifted to something else. Amusement? “Dare I ask his name?”

Denials flew to his lips; he swallowed them all. “Not yet, Papa. It’s…too new.”

“A precious thing, then. I’m glad someone’s looking out for you.” And then he’d let it go, content with what his son had been willing to share.

The words were still rattling around in his head when he stepped into his apartment. His mind was so occupied with it that he nearly tripped over a pair of shoes by the door. He cursed in French and was about to kick the stupid shoes...except they weren’t his shoes. Henri abandoned his jacket, shoes, keys, everything in record speed and sprinted to his bedroom. Because there, folded in with the blankets and pillows, was a sleeping Dylan Everett.

“Époustouflant,” he whispered reverently. Breathtaking. All his earlier frenzy was gone as Henri carefully stripped down to his boxers and slowly climbed onto the bed. Dylan’s breathing hitched, but he didn’t wake, not even as Henri slipped beneath the covers and settled behind him. When Henri wrapped an arm around him and kissed the back of his head, Dylan sighed and leaned back into him, but slept on.

“Tu m’as manqué, mon coeur.” Henri brushed his thumb over Dylan’s beard, not as well-kept as usual. Too long and bristly. Henri yawned and secretly hoped he’d get to feel it rubbing against his thighs later.

When Henri blinked awake hours later, he was met with stunning blue eyes.

“Morning,” Henri said.

“Afternoon,” Dylan corrected. He rubbed his nose against Henri’s—the beard really did tickle where it brushed against Henri’s face—then kissed him, chaste and close-lipped. “I missed you.”

“Is that why you’re in my bed wearing my clothes?” He’d noticed the worn Team Canada shirt from his days on the Junior team, his favorite shirt because it was soft and worn. He pushed his hands beneath it now to feel the planes of Dylan’s torso. “Weren’t you captain of Team USA? Are you going to lose your citizenship for this?”

“Alternate captain,” Dylan said. “It was only my second season.”

“Ah, my mistake. Still crazy they would let a small child be any kind of captain.”

“Small child?” Dylan grinned a wide, gummy grin. He always looked radiant, but never more so than when he smiled. A good thing he smiled often. “I was, like, twenty.”

“A baby,” Henri said solemnly. He rolled his thumb over Dylan’s nipple and watched as his eyelids fluttered and pupils widened. “I like this Dylan much better…”

The first round of sex was frenzied and quick. Henri rushed through opening himself for Dylan and rode him so hard he would feel it the next few days. Not that he would regret it, but it would be uncomfortable on the ice. It was well worth it for the fuck-drunk look in Dylan’s hooded eyes as he watched Henri move over him, couldn’t look away, held his hips so tightly there were marks after. Marks that Dylan kissed and licked after, apologizing in that half-hearted way that meant he hadn’t wanted to hurt Henri but had wanted to leave a claim branded on his skin. Henri understood that all too well.

There wasn’t much to eat, so they made do with protein bars and trail mix before Dylan dropped to his knees right there in the kitchen and mouthed at Henri’s boxers until they were soaked and Henri was so hard he felt he’d die.

“Fuck me again?” Henri whispered.

This time it was slower, more deliberate. Dylan kissed him through it, their lips never more than an inch apart as he thrust in again and again, finding Henri’s prostate and never letting up once he did.

They lay sprawled on the bed as dusk swept over them through the windows, the whole day lavished on each other. Henri knew they’d need a real meal, a shower, an alarm for their morning practice, but he couldn’t will himself to move. Not when Dylan was using his chest as a pillow. Henri was boneless and content and never wanted things to change.

“Alexei’s been trying to have sex with me all season,” Dylan said into the silence.

Henri tried not to tense, he really did, but there was only one way for his body to take that news. “Oh?”

“Before you and I were together,” Dylan added, as if that mattered. Hadn’t Sokolov been engaged the whole time? “He didn’t talk to me much last season. Just hockey stuff, like he was trying to rub it in that his team was doing well and the Turkeys weren’t. I don’t know what’s up with him. I don’t know if he regrets leaving. I don’t know if he misses me. I have no fucking clue what’s going through his head, because he won’t say anything real to me. Which has basically been true the whole time I’ve known him.”

Henri had opinions of his own, but held them back. He barely knew Sokolov, so his speculation was meaningless. All Henri could read in his actions was jealousy. Dylan had struggled last season with his departure, and that had satisfied Sokolov. Now Dylan was moving on, and Sokolov didn’t like that. If he knew or suspected that Dylan had found another partner, it would be worse. His belated attempts to stake a claim he willingly gave up...in retrospect, it was only a matter of time before things erupted.