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“Penalty Kill King over here!” Novak said. He was naked from the waist up and pulled Henri in to hug him to his disgustingly sweaty chest. He gave Henri a noogie and then kissed his cheek dramatically. “Baps won the last four minutes for us.”

“You got the game-winner,” Henri said automatically. “I would’ve had to work a lot harder if you hadn’t.”

“Ain’t that right.” Novak gave him a fake punch to the jaw. “Don’t you forget it.”

“I’m sure you won’t let him,” Knox joked.

“Dick.” And then Novak was off to bother Knox.

Henri got up to talk to Dylan, but found he was gone. He must’ve ducked out of the locker room. Henri sat back down, confused. He raked his mind over the game to figure out what was bothering Dylan. Did someone say something? Was it the almost-fight at the end of the game? Was he still upset about the non-call when Hernandez was tripped in the second period?

Now that Henri thought about it, there’d been something off in the way Dylan had smiled after the win. He’d been silent, when normally he’d be cheering the loudest.

Something was wrong.

There was nothing he could do about it, though, not until he could talk to Dylan privately. If it was a big problem, it was no one else’s business. There was no need to stir up drama when the team was doing so well. Back at the hotel would be his best bet. He could be patient.

He forgot everything he’d told himself about keeping things private the second Dylan returned with a pinched expression that was more grimace than grin. He’d been gone a long time, hadn’t he? Almost everyone was out of their gear and in the showers or doing a quick cool-down. All Henri wanted to do was rush over and beg Dylan to say Henri was imagining things.

“Everett,” he called. Dylan looked at him, expression unreadable. “Are you⁠—?”

Henri couldn't even get the question out before he, Dylan, and Novak were being sent out for media coverage. They sat in a line at a press table, cameras flashing and dozens of phones and mics thrust out.

Despite the excitement of a playoff win in the third fucking round, the questions were as bland as ever. But when the questions weren’t interesting, Henri didn’t feel bad about giving generic answers.

“It’s great to see your line doing so well. All season, you three have been driving the Turkeys’ offense. What have you done to keep that going through playoffs?”

Novak and Henri shared a look. When Henri inclined his head, Novak turned back to the reporters.

“We’ve been clicking on the ice, and that comes from being friends off the ice. It’s trust, it’s respect, and it’s understanding each other that leads to chemistry. It takes time, and we’re fortunate to have been together all season to build that.”

Another reporter stepped forward. “You’ve had a wild playoff run so far. Down in a series, then up, back down…how have you been handling those setbacks?”

Henri waited a beat for either Dylan or Novak to answer, and when they were quiet, he took over. “It’s the playoffs. The stakes are high, and the teams are all amazing competitors. We don’t take any of it for granted. Whether we win or lose, we’re looking at our play and trying to smooth out any issues. We had a big win tonight, but I’ll still review the game footage to see what was working and what still needs to be tweaked.”

“Mr. Coach,” Novak teased. Dylan didn’t join in his laughter.

“How do you feel going back to Albuquerque with a chance to close out the series?”

It was Dylan’s turn. All eyes shifted to him expectantly. When he didn’t look like he was going to say anything, Henri nudged him with his foot. He sat up straighter, scanned the crowd with a frown, and coughed to clear his throat.

“We’ve worked hard to make it this far,” he said. “We’re going to go as far as we can. Very happy to get the two points tonight, and we’ll try to build on this momentum next game.”

Henri wouldn’t say his jaw dropped, but the words hit him like a puck to the gut.

“It’s playoffs,” he whispered, even though he knew at least one of the mics would pick it up. “There’s no two points.”

Dylan startled a little at that. He gave a shaky laugh and shrugged. “Sorry,” he said. “Meant we’re happy to get the win and go up in the series. Can’t wait to be home.”

Again, Henri turned to Novak, who looked as bewildered as he felt. Henri wished Novak looked amused; then Henri could’ve shaken it off and chalked it up to a simple mistake. Novak had known Dylan longer. Had gone through playoffs with him before and would know if this was a normal Dylan thing.

Apparently not.

He was acting strangely already…

They both scrambled to answer the rest of the questions so that Dylan didn’t get a chance to open his mouth and expose…whatever it was that was wrong. In the rare circumstance that the question seemed specific enough to require Dylan to answer, Novak would answer and then tag on a “right, Evers?” at the end. He only did that twice, and Henri needed to kick Dylan the second time to get him to respond.

At the end of the press conference, Dylan was the first out of his seat. He disappeared into the showers before Henri or Novak could stop him. They lingered in the hallway.