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“It’s a regular bar,” Henri said. “You’ve been drinking in too many hotels.”

“Apparently.” He smiled, that large smile that had been missing from games and practice lately, and Henri’s heart skipped a beat. Then he realized Everett wasn’t smiling at him, but at the bartender as she came by to take his order. “Could I please have whatever beer has the most hops? Bottle’s fine.”

“Sure thing, sugar,” she said, practically purring.

“You can add it to my tab,” Henri added, as if he needed to remind himself he was there.

She waved her hand “Your money’s no good here. I wouldn’t dream of charging American hero Dylan Everett for drinks.”

Everett laughed, again so open and carefree that Henri was torn. Because on the one hand, this was what he was trying to do. And on the other hand, why the fuck was he smiling at some random bartender and not⁠—

Oh. The realization that Everett probably needed to get laid hit him right before the more paralyzing realization that Henri was jealous hit him. It was like a sucker punch to the gut. He shifted uncomfortably until Everett had his drink and they were alone once more.

“American hero?” Henri joked and rubbed his suddenly sweaty palms against his thighs. The wine had been a bad idea. He should’ve gotten himself a gross IPA so that he wouldn’t drink anything and keep his head clear.

Yes, blame it on the wine.

Everett shrugged and brought the bottle to his lips, locking eyes with Henri as he drank. His fucking Adam’s apple was sinful. It took all of Henri’s willpower not to stare, and more still not to look away in embarrassment.

“Winning the US gold for the first time in nearly thirty years’ll get you that kind of reputation.” He said it so nonchalantly that it almost covered up the note of pride in his voice. Almost.

“Oh, so you won it single-handedly?”

Everett grinned. Ah yes, that wonderful smile turned on Henri, back to full power. “The OT winner against Canada does seem to imply it, yeah.”

Henri sensed his chance. He licked his lips and said, “It was a very good goal. You’ve scored a lot of very good goals.”

“Don’t I know it.” Everett took another, more modest sip of his beer. His brow furrowed and his expression darkened. “Look, I know I haven’t been 100% on the ice lately.”

“It’s fine,” Henri lied. Not a complete lie, since it didn’t matter and wasn’t something he could ever blame someone for when they were obviously trying, but enough of a lie that he felt guilty. “How long can a Dylan Everett goal drought last, anyway?”

“Ten games is my record. Only one I’d rather not break.”

Henri licked his lips. “Is there…anything that helps?” He was out of practice, but he could be a decent wingman if necessary. Even if the idea made him queasy. Fuck, this was inconvenient timing. Henri started doing well on a team and got a crush on the first captain to be nice to him.

He’s also the most attractive captain, the slightly tipsy, shameless side of his brain happily supplied. By leaps and bounds.

…not helpful.

He shook his head to dispel the thoughts and tried to pay attention to Everett’s answer instead of the way his lips moved when he spoke.

“Not really?” Everett said. “I score or I don’t score. I don’t have any, like, superstitions. I don’t have any magic routines that make me score. I just…put on my gear and play, and a lot of the time that results in goals.”

“So what you’re saying,” Henri said, “is that we’re fucked.”

This startled a laugh from Everett and a crinkly smile. He leaned in and grabbed Henri’s shoulders to shake him. “We are not fucked. You and Nover are killing it. You’ll carry my dead weight all the way to the Cup Finals.”

“You definitely don’t have any superstitions.” Henri waited patiently until Everett let him go, then downed the rest of his wine. “What kind of hockey player talks about the Cup this early in the season?”

“Superstitions are bogus. Makes it so you don’t have to take responsibility. Trust me, I know I look like ass right now. I don’t need to blame it on forgetting to tie my laces up a certain way or stepping onto the ice with my right foot instead of my left. I’m the problem, and I need to power through it instead of relying on…” He waved his hand. “I dunno. Lucky socks.”

“It’s not lucky,” Henri agreed. “But there’s something about the routine of it. Grounding to do things a certain way every time, so that you can get your head in the right space.”

Everett’s eyebrows shot up. “You telling me you’re one of those, Baps? Gotta do a 20-part routine before a game?”

“Did you see my numbers on the Devils? If I did, I’d be the last to admit it since it clearly doesn’t work.”

“Your numbers were fine, babe.” He motioned for the bartender to bring two more beers, ignoring Henri’s eye roll. “You can do better, for sure, but we’re more than just stats.”