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“This is your third game in a row with pink laces,” a reporter said, sticking a phone in Henri’s face. Bad enough they came into the locker room, but must they invade his personal space too? “Care to comment?”

“My laces are pink?” he deadpanned. He slid his right foot out of his skate and got to work on the left. “I hadn’t noticed. Sorry, no story there.”

When Henri looked up, he spotted Dylan Everett sitting across from him. His face lit up in delight—leading Henri to very much suspect it had been his new captain who’d pulled off the prank—and Henri felt lighter, somehow.

Hockey still wasn’t fun, but it sucked a little less.

If Henri had come to a winning team, maybe it’d be easier. That was never his luck, though. Teams took him for cheap (cheaper and cheaper with every trade, he thought grimly) because they were willing to gamble. Risk was necessary when your team wasn’t doing well, and nothing said risk like acquiring Luc-Henri Baptiste.

The Turkeys had been truly exceptional when Dylan Everett first joined the NHL, but in recent years they’ve failed to do much in the playoffs. They’d be competitive for long stretches but then fizzled out unexpectedly and never recovered. Last year they’d missed the playoffs altogether, and this year wasn’t looking much better. Low morale from losing their previous star center, people said.

Desperation had made them try Henri, and things were truly bleak.

They were several points behind the second Wildcard spot. Every game mattered, and Henri knew that if only he could get his shit together, to break through his goal drought, he could be the difference-maker this team needed. With only two weeks left in the regular season, their upcoming game against the Houston Pirates was critical: if they didn’t win this game (and every game thereafter), they were mathematically eliminated from all playoff hopes.

Worse, the Pirates were a divisional rival and in contention for the same playoff spot. Losing not only hurt them but helped their competition. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say the rest of their season hinged on this one fucking game.

When the Pirates scored the first goal early in the game, it felt like a blow to the gut.

“You need more than one goal to win a game,” Everett said calmly on the bench and patted Henri on the back. “How many fucking one-nothing games are there in the NHL these days? Fucking zero, that’s how many. We’ve got this, babe.”

Henri blushed, as he always did when Everett called him ‘babe.’ He’d been left speechless the first time it’d happened, but he’d quickly learned Everett called everyone that. No teammate was safe from Everett’s affection, both physical and verbal, but Henri didn’t think he’d ever get used to it like his teammates clearly had.

When the Pirates scored again in the dying minutes of the first period, it was harder for Everett to stay positive. Anyone could score a goal at any moment—Everett especially—but two? Along with playing a solid defensive game to keep the other team off the board so they could catch up? For two whole periods? It was a tall order. They weren’t completely screwed, but that was the general mood of the team during the intermission.

We’re in a hole, we can’t climb out, we’re fucked we’re fucked we’re fucked.

The second period passed without anything of note happening. The Turkeys didn’t score, but at least the Pirates didn’t add to their lead.

“We’ve got this, babes,” Everett said before the third period. He stood at the end of the tunnel, fistbumping everyone as they took the ice one last time. Twenty more minutes to prove they could do it. Twenty more minutes until another failure was added to the list. Glass half-full, glass half-empty.

“And if we don’t?” Henri asked when it was his turn, because he honestly couldn’t help it. Like he couldn’t help the perpetual scowl he’d been wearing for going on five years now. Optimism was easy when your life wasn't a shit show, so the Dylan Everetts of the world could afford the endless well of positivity.

Lucky bastard, Henri thought, rather uncharitably. Easy when you’re a winger. Only job is to score and cover the point. And if the point scores, it’s the goalie’s fault.

Everett seemed oblivious to Henri’s tanking mood. He smiled as he put a hand on Henri’s shoulder and said, “Then we save it for next year, yeah?” Then he pushed Henri onto the ice.

Next year? Easy for him to say. He had a legacy already: back-to-back Cups, goal records, the privilege of either retiring with the team that drafted him or going elsewhere if he wanted to. The NHL was his oyster, and the only bumps in the road he’d ever faced were his buddy changing teams and occasionally not making the playoffs. Boo-fucking-hoo. Honestly, Dylan Everett could take his positivity and shove it up his⁠—

A ref blew the whistle. “Let’s go,” he called. “I’ve got a date with the wifey, and she’ll kick my ass if this goes to OT. Let’s get it done.”

“That’s a conflict of interest, right there,” Everett chirped, but he dutifully went to the right hashmark, Novak already in position at the left.

“Only if you score,” the ref snapped back. “Line up and put your money where your mouth is, Everett.”

Everett winked at Henri while mouthing, You got this.

Henri won the face-off.

He, Everett, and Novak controlled play for a full two minutes before Houston got just enough control to gain a line change and get fresh legs on the ice. They hadn’t scored, but it had been a pretty dominant performance, the kind he hadn’t been part of in a long time. The first time Henri felt like he’d really clicked with his linemates. He was cautiously optimistic as he took a seat next to Everett on the bench, who was assuring the coaches there was no fucking way they were walking out of here with a shutout.

“You say the S word again, I will personally kick you in the nuts,” their backup goalie Gibbs called from the far end of the bench and then spat onto the ice.

Everett just laughed, as unbothered as ever. Henri wished he had that much self-confidence. A third, even. For an hour.

You used to, he told himself, though he could hardly remember it. He’d been confident after he’d been drafted. Happy.

Naive.