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He spat on the ice.

He helped me in Quebec. Maybe the answer isn’t to think how Luc-Henri Baptiste fixes this, he considered. Maybe I need to think like Dylan Everett.

A plan, ill-conceived and completely stupid, started to take shape in his head. But a plan was better than no plan. They had a day off tomorrow before they finished up their homestand. Winning at home was always easier than on the road, so that gave him three games to make this work.

Mind made up, Henri decided that sooner was better. Tonight he would try Operation: Fix Dylan Everett and pray it got him back on the score sheet. For both their sakes.

CHAPTER 22

Baptiste (November 2023)

Are you busy tonight?

Dylan

No….?

Does the offer for drinks still stand?

Even though we are at home?

Of course

What about the Copper Cactus?

Isn't that a wine bar?

And isn't wine a drink?

Don't worry they have some of your disgusting American beer I checked

You drank that one in Toronto

Yes and I would've drunken anything

7 o’clock?

Sure meet you there

Henri arrived at the bar early because he was nervous. A silly thing, to be nervous to hang out with his captain. Teammates hung out all the time. Even the ones who hated him still invited him out sometimes. And this was completely hockey-related, because Henri was doing this to help distract Everett from…whatever it was that could keep Dylan Everett from scoring (secret alien invasion, perhaps? Or maybe he’d become a vigilante?).

It was only hockey.

Yet here was Henri, in a faded red henley and black jeans, an outfit that seemed very much the opposite of hockey. Hockey players hanging out usually entailed some form of athletic gear and team-branded shirts, as though they might forget what team they played for. (Despite his multiple trades, Henri had no fear of that: he tossed all his old team apparel the moment his contract traded hands.) But when Henri had gotten ready to leave his apartment, he didn’t want to feel like a fucking hockey player. He wanted to feel like Henri, so he’d put on his ‘real clothes.’ Whatever the fuck that meant.

When the bartender brought him his glass of red wine—a very generous pour, might he add, topped off with a wink before she went to greet another patron at the far end of the bar—Henri drank more than he should’ve to settle his nerves. Because why did he have nerves!? He was at a bar to relax with a friend.

A friend who was also his captain. And one of the best players in the history of hockey. And⁠—

“Baps! What’s up, babe?”

And fuck.

Henri’s head snapped to Everett, walking across the bar with the kind of confidence a model had on the runway. A model who was kind of a bum, because he was wearing the standard hockey-bro attire (form-fitting black joggers and a white polo marked with a Turkeys logo). The way his pecs and biceps bulged against the fabric was hypnotic. Lethal, even, because Henri was in danger of drooling.

Unwisely, he took another sip of his wine before nodding for Everett to take the stool to his left.

“You like fancy places,” Everett said with an appreciative look at the assortment of liquor behind the bar and sat down so heavily Henri worried he would break the bar seat.