Page 183 of No Line Change

“Hen.” Dylan’s hand—his left hand, Henri noted—covered the screen. “I stretched too far and landed on my shoulder. You won’t see anything. You can’t change it by watching.”

Henri huffed and threw his phone on the bed. “Fuck,” he hissed and buried his face in his hands. The Turkeys were fucked. Their line was fucked. Dylan’s shoulder might not be totally fucked yet, but if he played through it…

“I’ll have to get an MRI tomorrow. See if it’s a tear or just a strain. The doctor thinks it’s a strain.” Dylan made it sound like this wasn’t a big deal. “They’ll probably let me play either way.”

Henri dropped his hands and glared at Dylan enough that he wilted.

“It’ll be fine⁠—”

“Dylan,” he interrupted. “You can’t shoot if you’re hurt.” It was his right arm, the one that drove all the power behind his shots. If he took a real swing, he’d hurt himself. If he even could take a real swing. He was no doubt on stronger meds than just aspirin, and he couldn’t even undress himself without it hurting.

“I can pass,” he said. “You and Nover can still score. I’ll feed it to you. And I can still check if I lead with my left side. I could tip if you want me in front of the net.”

Dylan’s passing tonight had already been atrocious. No, that was too harsh. It had felt like he’d been sending terrible passes during the third period, but they were only slightly off. A few inches from where they should be, never quite hard enough. Only bad in comparison to how good they usually were, how good they needed to be if they were going to beat the Mounties.

“Dylan…” he said, but stopped. He had nothing else to say. I don’t want you to play at all because I don’t want you to get hurt worse than this. How could anyone tell a player they didn’t think they should play without it being a slap in the face? If he were in Dylan’s place, he’d be gutted hearing it.

“We can ask Coach to put me on a different line⁠—”

“No!” The only thing worse than Dylan not playing at all was playing with someone else. Someone who didn’t know he was hurt and wouldn’t watch out for him the way Henri would.

Henri sat hard on the bed. He’d been so happy only a few hours ago. Now a knot of dread had formed in the pit of his stomach. This was bad. And not the kind of bad like when they lost a game or took a penalty or someone got their lip busted in a fight. There was no fixing this. It would take months to heal. What if Dylan needed surgery?

“The Turkeys can’t win without you,” Henri said. It was the least of his concerns. He’d gone this many years without a Stanley Cup; he’d surely survive another. But it was the only concern he felt entitled to.

Dylan sat next to him and wrapped his arm (again, his left because already he was being so careful and deliberate) around Henri.

“Good thing I’ll still be there,” Dylan said. “It sucks, but I’ve played through worse. Bruised ribs, broken toes, mumps, the flu, that time I got punched so hard my face swelled up and I couldn’t see out of my left eye for the rest of the game. I’ll adjust.”

“Okay.” There was no point in arguing. It wasn’t his decision. “Okay.”

CHAPTER 72

abqtukeysnhl (May 29, 2024): Third series, third game seven… Turkeys fall to the Mounties in game six. Guess we’re making it a tradition… See you back in Edmonton on Friday night.

turkeytalk (May 29, 2024): What the fuck was that?? It looked like Baptiste absolutely refused to let Everett touch the puck that game.

↪ gobblegoals: no f-ing clue. think they’re having issues off the ice? i know he’s fit in well here but there’s always been talk about how difficult baptiste can be to work with…

↪ turkeytalk: Maybe? I don’t buy it but it’s hard to account for it. Everett looked frustrated on the bench. Novak was still passing to him like normal until about halfway through the game, then he also changed tactics. To be fair, Everett looked a little shaky the few times he had the puck.

↪ gobblegoals: whatever was going on, they lost because of it. That line needs to figure their shit out. they were dreadful 5-on-5 and even worse on the power play.

↪ turkeytalk: That’s what I mean when I say Everett looked rough tonight. His bad pass to Knox was what caused that Mounties’ breakaway goal. Edmonton had the most shorthanded goals this season, you cannot give them those opportunities.

To Dylan’s credit, he didn’t say anything until they got back to his place. Henri had been too superstitious to unpack his bag, but Dylan had. He now angrily repacked for their impending return to Edmonton.

“I cannot believe you did that.” He balled up a handful of shirts and attempted to throw them aggressively into his bag, a feat he was unable to accomplish with only his left hand, and they fluttered to the ground well short of his duffel bag. He glared at the clothes before kicking them. “I told you I can still play.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Henri hesitated. He didn’t want to bring it up, because he knew it was the last thing Dylan wanted to hear, but it was his responsibility. It wasn’t fair to make Novak do it. “I’m worried they’ll figure out you’re injured and take advantage.”

“Injured,” he parroted back in a mocking tone. “I’m barely hurt.” A lie, though one Dylan might believe. “They’ll figure out something is up when they notice you and Nover won’t fucking give me the puck.”

Henri let Dylan’s anger wash over him. He understood it. He empathized, even. He also knew Dylan understood Henri’s frustration that he was playing at all. He could barely lift his right arm, for fuck’s sake. He’d needed help getting his gear on, though he’d played it off as a joke.

It was incredibly unfair that this had happened, but that was the job. That was hockey. It gave and gave and gave, and just like that, it could take away too. Dylan had so rarely been on the losing end like this. He wasn’t used to his own body getting in the way.

“They’ll notice faster if you have it,” Henri said. “You didn’t do well tonight, Dylan.”