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This was the first time Everett had ever seemed uncomfortable. His shoulders were so rigid, Henri wasn’t sure how he could even move enough to take another drink of his beer. Henri watched out of the corner of his eye as Everett downed a third of it and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm.

“Don’t worry about Sokolov.”

The name sounded mechanical, as if he wasn’t used to saying it. He probably wasn’t. To him, Sokolov was Soky or Lovs or Sokser or some shit like that. And hadn’t the two of them been close? Henri remembered former teammates sneering at the pair, the rude comments under their breaths. Rumors in the locker room that were only meant to comfort themselves if they lost to the Turkeys but were so inappropriate and wrong that Henri had often looked away so he could pretend he hadn’t heard it at all.

(What did Dylan usually call him? Alexei? Alex? Lexi? Why did Henri care?)

Not that anything they ever said about the pair mattered. Henri had seen firsthand that Everett was physically and unapologetically affectionate with his whole team. If he’d been more so with Sokolov than the rest, it hardly meant anything.

“They’re pretty big skates to fill,” Henri said. “He was there both times the Turkeys won⁠—”

Everett abruptly turned so he was facing Henri completely; Henri looked up to meet his gaze. “He was also there the times we lost. Sokolov”—still that strange inflection—“is a great center. You are a great center too.”

But if you could have him back, Henri almost pressed, but he didn’t think he could handle seeing Everett lie. So instead, he nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Everett smacked Henri’s leg before swiveling back to the bar. They sat there for a moment, a silence that was surprisingly comfortable. Enough that when Henri’s phone buzzed again, he dared a look at it.

2 new messages from Papa.

The knot in Henri’s chest softened.

“We’ll be in Quebec in a few days,” Everett said, glancing at Henri’s phone and then shrugging apologetically for snooping. “Your family all coming out?”

“I don’t have much family,” he said, carefully turning his phone back over. He’d message his father back before he went to bed. “It’s just my papa and a few cousins, but they’re spread out over Canada. And mostly a lot older than me. They’re more like aunts and uncles.”

“Your papa.” Again, his face crinkled as he smiled. It was a good smile, one that Henri didn’t get tired of no matter how often he saw it. He would’ve thought that smiles so freely given might feel…cheap. Unearned, maybe. It wasn’t that way with Everett, because just having his attention made Henri feel lighter. “Not your mom?”

Henri’s eyebrows pinched together. He hated talking about this, but he also appreciated that someone actually asked. While he was sure his mom’s death was recorded on some bio online about him, it rarely came up. Not in the press, not with teammates, not even with his father.

“No. She, uh, she passed away. Years ago.” He gulped. “Cancer,” he added and hoped that would be enough.

“Baps, I’m so sorry,” Everett said, and he genuinely sounded it. “Even if it was years ago, it can’t be easy.”

Henri shrugged and looked away toward the lobby. He waited until he could control his expression. “It isn’t easy,” he admitted. “But c’est la vie.”

“I’m sure she’d be proud of you,” Everett said, somehow knowing both the right and wrong thing to say. “We’ll make her double proud when we beat the Fleur-de-lis in a couple nights.”

“I hope so.” Henri sniffled. He used his beer to mask how close he was to losing it in front of his captain. Then remembered this beer was awful and wished he had his bland Molson back.

“So what do you think about football?” Everett gestured to the TVs over the bar. “You watch?”

“American football?” he scoffed. “Of course not.”

“Do you watch Canadian football…?”

“Also no.”

“Just hockey?”

“Just hockey,” Henri confirmed.

“It’s all right. I’ll explain it. Instead of a puck and sticks, they’ve got a weird shaped ball and their hands.”

“Wow. I’m learning so much. Must be so hard for them to move the weird ball around with their skates if they have no sticks.”

Everett, who’d been about to take another sip of beer, snorted and had to put down his drink to stop himself from choking.

“I fear you know as much about football as you do French,” Henri continued, beyond pleased. “Quarterback. End zone. Field goal.”