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Despite consistent pressure when they were on the ice, the Turkeys couldn’t break through. The Pirates’ goalie was locked in, and though they peppered him with shots, he remained steady. Henri was resigned to the loss, to playing the rest of the season knowing that it was meaningless, but he tried to keep that acceptance off his face. He was sure the rest of the team felt the same, but no one wanted to be the person who admitted it.

When one of the Houston defenders drew a penalty in the last few minutes of regulation, Everett practically vibrated with excitement.

“Emtpy net?” he all but begged the coaches, who looked at their tablets, then their clipboards, and finally the clock before nodding.

Six of them on the ice for the power play, no goalie in net. Basically admitting they’d been beaten as they hoped, prayed, begged for life.

Henri hated going empty net. He couldn’t remember a single time his teams had scored when they’d tried it.

(Though he remembered once, buried under years and years of failure, when he’d been the hero to score and tie a game back when he was playing youth hockey. The pride he’d felt…He shook his head to dispel the memory. That was kid stuff, not the NHL. And he wasn’t that boy anymore.)

“Win it back to me,” Everett whispered in Henri’s ear as they headed onto the ice. He leaned in close to say it, intimate as it was demanding. “I’ll be behind you to the right, top of the circle. You get it to me and head for the net, okay? It’s coming.”

Henri didn’t bother asking what to do if he didn’t win the face-off. Everett was a Plan A kind of guy, and Plan B seemed to be forcing a way to make Plan A work anyway. Instead, Henri scoped out his competition, looked over his shoulder to see where Everett was, and held his breath while he waited for the ref to drop the puck.

He won it.

And because he didn’t see any reason not to, Henri pushed his way to the net. Being right in front of the crease wasn’t really his job—that was more Friedman’s role on the PP, but with six of them out instead of five, it was chaos—but he figured he should do as he’d been told. Everett was his captain and was still being nice to him. They’d already lost, so what was the worst that could happen?

So while Everett danced around the other team’s penalty kill, Henri got pushed and shoved in front of the crease. When Everett shot, Henri swung his stick down without thinking and felt the puck connect with the shaft. He turned his head to try and see where it went, fully expecting it to have deflected over the net. If it were still close, maybe he could get there and try to get it back to the point for another attempt⁠—

It was in the back of the net.

Henri stood there, frozen in disbelief for a full three seconds before he was swarmed by his teammates. They tackled him, and it took all his effort to keep from falling to the ice. They shouted and hooted as if he’d won the game, as if this were a playoff win instead of merely keeping them from getting shutout in a do-or-die game. Henri glanced at the clock—only three minutes left in the game—and knew they were still completely fucked. Goodbye postseason, hello Montreal. But it felt good to be the hero of the moment. He felt like part of the team, not just some guy they went through the motions of patting on the back.

The swarm carried him to the bench. Everyone was genuine in their excitement, and Henri was equal parts embarrassed and pleased to accept their fistbumps and cheers. When he sat on the bench, soaking in the euphoria of his first goal in what felt like a million years, he noticed Everett wasn’t with them. When Henri spotted him, he was on his knees, reaching into the opposing net. Then he jumped up, sprinting towards the bench.

“Great fucking goal, babe,” Everett said as he patted Henri’s helmet. He climbed over the boards and took a seat next to him, motioning to the trainers. They handed him a roll of hockey tape and a marker, and he wrapped the edge of a puck in crisp white tape before writing on it. Henri leaned over Everett’s shoulder and watched as he wrote today’s date and matchup, then drew a big #1 with a crude turkey next to it.

“What—?”

“First of many as a Turkey,” Everett said when he was done, then tossed the puck to Henri who barely caught it. “You better keep that. Collector’s item right there.”

Henri clutched the puck close to his chest, and it felt like it was his heart in his hand instead of a piece of rubber. He looked down at Everett’s messy chicken scratch and the ugliest turkey he had ever seen. Like any player, Henri has a meager collection of game memorabilia, but it ended midway through his second season. He’d hit some milestones with no fanfare or notice at all, and the only way he’d have gotten a puck for it was if he’d grabbed one himself. That had felt extra pathetic, so he’d refrained. But here was Dylan Everett, darling of the NHL and the greatest goal scorer of their generation, giving him a game puck he’d personally fished out of the net because he felt Henri deserved the recognition.

“Thanks,” Henri said, wishing he hadn’t put so much feeling behind it.

Luckily, Everett hadn’t noticed. “No prob, babe. Keep ‘em coming. Told you to go to the net. Helluva deflection. Knew you had good hands.”

They lost the game, unfortunately. Henri’s goal was too little, too late.

It was the second time in the Dylan Everett Era that the Turkeys haven’t made the playoffs (and notably the first and only season without Alexei Sokolov). That playoff door had been slowly creeping shut, and they just hadn’t managed to jam their foot in. Tonight it’d been slammed shut in their faces. They’d have to endure five more games before they could go home to lick their wounds and regroup for next year. Five games they’d have to mentally show up for, like they actually mattered.

…but Henri’s takeaway tonight wasn’t the playoff baggage: it was Dylan Everett giving him a puck and telling him good job.

It was what came to mind when the media asked him about the game, all of them so dour about the Turkeys’ failed playoff chances, but he couldn’t help but be pleased when they mentioned his goal.

“First goal as a Turkey. Big moment, eh?”

Henri was still scowling, but he could feel his lips curling upward. “It is. I’m sorry it didn’t happen sooner or under better circumstances. Hopefully, I can use the rest of the season to fine-tune my play with my linemates and score a lot more next season.”

And then he actually smiled. His face was so unfamiliar with the expression that it almost hurt, but he smiled. He’d meant what he’d said too. It wasn’t just the usual media bullshit they were all forced to say. Next season, he would do better if it killed him.

They asked other questions, the generic stuff he’d been fielding for years (and preferred over the veiled jabs at his play and attitude), and he gave them equally generic answers. But he couldn’t quite shake the smile.

CHAPTER 13

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