Page 59 of No Line Change

I actually don’t want to because anything I say could make things worse

Nover wtf

Ugh

I just know that you aren’t strictly straight and I’ve seen things that make me worried you’re setting yourself up for a Sokolov 2.0 situation

So I’m expressing my concerns in the hopes that you’ll avoid the whole mess

Even though I know you’re a big boy and can handle yourself and I trust your judgement

I guess this is more “if you’re unsure and need a sign” I’m trying to be that sign

I’m not unsure and I don’t need a sign

There’s nothing going on

We’re just friends and linemates

You and I are friends and linemates

It’s the same

If you say so bro

CHAPTER 29

Henri ran a hand through his hair as he waited for the conveyor belt to carry him down the length of the airport to the private gate the team used for road trips. He was exhausted, having slept poorly after Lynwood’s party. By no means did he regret going, but there was a pain akin to regret blooming behind his eyes. At least today was set aside for travel. Between the flight and bus ride to the hotel, he should be able to get himself together before the team dinner.

Thank fuck they didn’t have practice. He might throw up on the ice. In no world was Henri equipped to ingest that much food and wine in one evening and be a functioning hockey player the next day.

Don’t forget the 5k, his legs reminded him as he stepped off the conveyor belt and once again had to move under his own power. Remember how you thought it was a good idea to actually try?

“Yes,” he hissed in French. “I am a fucking idiot.”

But it had felt good to win something, no matter how silly the something was.

He heard the team before he saw anyone, that general buzz of noise on the airplane as people settled in. Henri wouldn’t say he was late, but half the team was already seated and ready with their preferred in-flight entertainment, whether it was music, movies, reading, or sleeping. Their backup goalie Gibbs was wedged into his seat right up against the window, already snoring.

Henri moved deeper into the plane. Every team had its own dynamic about seating, he’d learned. With Carolina, the seats had been assigned based on line, which meant Henri was given a very visual representation of how poorly he fared as he moved farther and farther to the rear of the plane. Other teams were cliquey, with defensemen together and centers together, and so on. Generally, there was little flexibility once he figured out how things went. Any given person was only willing to sit with 5 other people tops, at least for the duration of a flight. Buses were more flexible.

The Turkeys were somewhat of a free for all. Henri had struggled to decipher the reasons behind their choices before he came to understand there was no reason. The team sat where they wanted to, based on their whims or the weather or God knew what else.

It meant that no one had bothered Henri when he opted to sit alone, which he usually did. He’d never been so bold as to sit next to someone else, but slowly the other members of the Turkeys had deemed him worthy as a neighbor and chosen to sit next to him.

Today he was feeling…brave. Or reckless. Either way, he didn’t allow himself to think about it. Henri spotted Everett fiddling on his phone with an empty seat next to him, and instead of making A Thing out of it, he sat down.

Everett looked up and beamed at him. “Heya, cornhole buddy.”

Henri’s treacherous heart thundered so loud he could barely hear himself answer. “Please never call me that again.”

“Prude.” Everett rolled his eyes dramatically, then said, “Cookie?”

“What?” Henri blinked at Everett’s outstretched hand, a container of Oreos being offered as if it were a completely normal thing to bring on a flight. Then his stomach roiled at the prospect of food, and he made a face that he hoped only reflected a mild distaste for the offer versus the utter disgust he felt. “How can you eat anything? I saw you eat ten potatoes’ worth of mashed potatoes less than twelve hours ago.”

Everett’s blue eyes glinted with amusement. “And? It’s a three-hour flight. I gotta eat something.”

“It’s a three-hour flight,” Henri repeated. “You really don’t.”