Page 182 of No Line Change

“What the fuck was that?” Novak whisper-shouted. He poked his head around the corner to make sure no one was listening.

“I don’t know,” Henri said. “I’ll find out.”

“If it’s something I can help with, let me know. Send him to me for some beers if he needs to unwind. I don’t mind, even if it’s late.”

“Thanks,” Henri said. “I will.”

Henri hadn’t showered either. By the time he entered the showers, Dylan was already toweling off.

“Dylan—”

“I gotta talk to Krzysztofek,” he said. His smile was weak and not as reassuring as it was meant to be. “Save me a seat on the bus.”

Henri did. He was on edge waiting, alarm bells going off in his head. But what was wrong? They’d won.

Dylan looked more like himself as he climbed onto the bus. He fistbumped a few of the guys on his way, patted Briggs on the head, and flipped off Novak before finally settling next to Henri. It was so normal that Henri almost let himself believe things were fine. But Dylan’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Henri kept his mouth shut until they made it back to the hotel. In a Herculean show of strength, he didn’t say anything until they were back in Dylan’s room. He stood by the door, watching as Dylan took off his suit jacket.

“What’s wrong?” Henri asked.

Dylan's hands fumbled a button on his shirt. “Nothing,” he said. “Why would anything be wrong? We won.”

It turned out Dylan Everett wasn’t a good liar.

“Where’d you disappear to after the game? Before the interview.”

Dylan wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Went to the medical room. Wanted some aspirin. Got a bad bruise when that guy butt-ended me with his stick.” He opened up the left side of his shirt to reveal what did appear to be a nasty bruise near his ribs. But they got bruised up all season, and Dylan rarely took painkillers. Granted, he rarely got hurt. The man was built like an ox.

Henri crossed his arms over his chest. He was well aware that he was still in his own slightly too-loose suit as Dylan started taking off his pants. “Why’d you want to go talk to Coach?”

“To ask about some stuff for when we’re back in Albuquerque.”

“What stuff?”

“Hockey stuff.”

They stared at each other, Dylan biting his bottom lip. Henri couldn’t spot the lie, couldn’t figure out what Dylan was hiding. Until he noticed Dylan had left his shirt on. Henri’s eyes narrowed.

“Take off your shirt,” he said.

“Aren’t you going to get undressed?”

“I will.” Henri didn’t move.

Dylan very slowly started to roll his dress shirt off his left shoulder. It got stuck halfway down his arm, and when he reached over with his right hand, he flinched. As he tugged the shirt past his elbow, he made an awful, choked sound like a wounded animal. He made another weak attempt before he whined and abandoned the effort.

Henri was at his side in a second. “What was that?” he asked. He carefully took over, helping Dylan out of his shirt, watching like a hawk for any sign of pain, any hesitancy, any injury. It wasn’t until Dylan’s right shoulder appeared that he found the problem: black tape around his shoulder.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Uh. My rotator cuff.”

“Dylan!” he shouted, briefly forgetting they were in a hotel surrounded by teammates. He lowered his voice. “What the fuck? When did this happen?”

“During the third. When I passed to Nover.”

Henri remembered that play. He remembered Dylan diving and getting just enough of the puck to tip it to Novak for the goal. His attention had been focused on the puck; he couldn’t remember what had happened to Dylan after. He was sprawled on the ice when Henri went to hug Novak. He pulled out his phone to look up the game. He wanted to see it. Wanted to watch and spot the second Dylan got hurt.