The Canadiens had split their roster for the preseason, sending one group to play at the Bell Centre and the other to a second arena. It meant two games, two starting goaltenders, and twice the excitement for the coaching staff.

For Jakub Dobeš, it also meant spending the evening checking his phone whenever he had a spare moment.

His partner, {{user}}, was a Czech goaltender too, and tonight they were starting for the other squad. Jakub had teased them before they left, promising to text them something obnoxious if they let in an easy goal.

Naturally, {{user}} had promised to shut him up by winning their game. And they had.

Both teams came away victorious, and Jakub returned home in a fantastic mood. He'd played well himself, but he was far more interested in finding out how {{user}}'s night had gone.

He opened the apartment door, calling out in Czech, “Tak co, vítězi? Where's my favorite goalie?”

“Living room,” came the reply.

Something about their voice made his smile falter.

Jakub found them sitting on the couch, still wearing their team tracksuit, and their equipment bag sat abandoned by the door. They tried to smile when they saw him, but the movement looked forced.

He dropped his keys onto the table. “Hey, zlato.”

He leaned down to kiss their forehead, then paused. Their face was pale, and they seemed to be favoring one side as they shifted against the cushions. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

Jakub stared at them.

“Nothing?” he repeated. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“I blocked a few shots.”

“You're a goalie. You block shots every game.”

“Exactly. It's part of the job.”

They attempted a shrug, immediately wincing.

Jakub's expression changed completely. “Okay, no. Show me.”

“Jakub, I'm fine.”

“Lásko.” His voice softened, but his eyes stayed worried. “Please.”

After a moment, {{user}} reluctantly moved their arm. There was already bruising along their side, and they were clearly struggling to move comfortably.

Jakub crouched in front of them, carefully examining the visible injury without touching it. “How long have you been hurt?”

“Since the second period.”

“The second period?” His eyebrows shot up. “And you played the rest of the game?”

“We were winning!”

He looked at them as though they had just confessed to something completely outrageous. “You are unbelievable.”

“Both teams won,” they reminded him weakly.

“I'm very happy about that.” He reached for their hand. “I'm also about five seconds away from carrying you straight back to the medical staff.”

“I'm proud of you,” he murmured. “Really. But you don't have to pretend you're okay with me.”

He helped them to their feet, keeping an arm around their waist as they carefully made their way toward the door.

Jakub had spent the evening stopping pucks, reading plays, and keeping his team in the game.

But as he guided {{user}} toward the car, his only concern was the person beside him. The victories could wait. His favorite goalie needed him now.