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“What the fuck?” Henri asked. He was frozen at the entrance, still holding the door open, as he tried to make sense of the spectacle in front of him.

“Move it, Baps.”

Henri jumped in surprise. Novak was behind him, wearing a backwards cap over his shoulder-length blond hair and sunglasses that reflected the Turkey logo above the door. Henri held the door open wider for his teammate, then pointed at the reporters. “What the fuck?” he repeated now that he actually had someone who might be able to answer him.

Novak stopped short, just like Henri had, before his shoulders slumped. “Not again,” he groaned. He nudged Henri away from the entrance and towards the locker room. “They do this every time we play the Storm. Because of Sokolov,” he added belatedly when he saw it wasn’t registering for Henri.

Henri’s mouth rounded in an oh. Then he looked again at the crowd trapping Everett. “All this because of that?” he asked incredulously.

Henri had never seen this kind of fanfare before a game in Albuquerque. Well, that wasn't completely true—the last game of last season and the home opener this year had been frenzied, but more...even. Fans showering their love on the team as a whole, reporters talking to everyone equally. This was all very Dylan Everett-focused in a way that erased the rest of them.

While Everett was no stranger to bearing the brunt of the franchise's expectations, this seemed excessive. And based on the slightly sour note in his voice and the bags under his eyes, it didn’t look like he appreciated it right now.

“Because of Chicago?" Novak snorted. “I forgot you missed those games last season. Short answer, yes. Long answer, no with a but. Since Soks left, the media can't get enough of talking about it. It’ll die down a bit by the end of the season, but I’m sure in another ten years, they’ll love giving Evers shit about it.”

“Why?” Henri didn't know if he felt more protective or jealous, just that he hated it either way. “They are former teammates who are playing against each other. It’s probably happening in every game this weekend. No one cares.”

“Amen,” Novak mumbled. “If it were only that, it’d die down quicker.”

Henri opened up his memories from other teams, tucked away deep in the part of his brain he liked to ignore. Mostly cluttered with his worst moments on the ice and the brutal criticism that came after, between the ten-game stretch when he was benched in Carolina and the snickers from his teammates when they caught him looking longingly at the Jumbotron when they announced All-Star players, there were all the things he’d heard about exactly what kind of relationship Dylan Everett and Alexei Sokolov had.

“Teammates my ass. They’re too old to be roommates still.”

“Those mofos are jerking each other off in the other locker room right now while we look like chumps for losing to them.”

“Bet Everett blows Sokolov every time he passes to him. Why else would he pass to that overrated dick so often?”

Cheeks burning, Henri pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head to dispel the words, crisp and sharp like razor blades, and carefully locked them back where they belonged. As brittle as Henri had felt over the years, he was thankful he’d never directed his frustrations on others like that.

“I’ve… heard rumors,” he admitted carefully.

Novak cast him a sidelong glance that spoke volumes. Then he seemed to find something in Henri's face, because he shrugged and looked back at the reporters hounding Everett.

“They were close,” Novak said, voice more guarded. “Sokolov’s a good guy or whatever, but he hightailed it outta here and never looked back. Didn’t say bye to anyone, Evers included. Whatever else was going on, that alone was a dick move.”

Henri nodded. He didn’t quite understand it—he’s never had a choice to leave or stay, and hasn’t been close to any teammates in years. Things were going well, aside from some underwhelming playoff runs. Henri would kill for a long-term deal anywhere and guaranteed minutes, even if it meant giving up ever winning the Stanley Cup. Some dreams had to be given up to preserve others.

“Will he play well?” Henri asked. They were too far away to hear the questions or Dylan's responses, but he saw Everett roll his eyes. His smile was dimmer than usual, too. That Henri could relate to. There were only so many ways to politely answer the same question, season after season.

“Which one?” Novak asked. “The first time Sokolov came back last season, it was intense. This big tribute video. The arena was so loud, you couldn’t even tell if they were booing or cheering. Soks played like shit after that, but Evers did too.”

The infamous First Game Back. In that regard, Henri could emphasize both of them: returns were hard, regardless of the circumstances that drove you out.

“Why do people still care?” he asked, gesturing to the reporters. “There must be more interesting things to talk about.”

“Honestly? No clue. I think they just like the storyline. A decade together, now they’re enemies or whatever. Who the fuck knows with reporters.” Novak smacked him on the back. “C’mon. Let’s get to the locker room before they spot us. I’m sure they’ll make up a reason to ask us about Sokolov too, and I’m not in the mood to be nice about it.”

Henri was inclined to agree. When he glanced back over his shoulder at Everett—arms crossed protectively over his chest and his gaze distant—he couldn’t blame the Turkeys for being upset at Sokolov. Anyone who could make Everett look that upset deserved a little hate.

They had split their Texas trip earlier in the week, winning against the Austin Rangers and losing to the Houston Pirates. Because they were on a line together, Henri spent a lot of time with Everett, and to his eye, Everett wasn’t over whatever mental hump had caused his goal drought. He’d gotten a goal and two assists, so everyone was happy, but he was sloppy. And that had been in normal games. This was apparently a super-hyped matchup. Some players—and Everett was no doubt among them—thrived under that kind of pressure.

But was Sokolov going to be his Achilles’ heel?

Henri sat in his stall, half-changed for practice, and dug out his phone to look up Everett’s stats last season versus Chicago. He’d have to compare it to how he’d fared in prior years before Sokolov left⁠—

“The prodigal captain returns!” Novak shouted.

Henri jumped and nearly dropped his phone as he rushed to close the search browser. He looked up as Novak slapped Everett on the back with a loud whack that made Henri’s shoulder blades ache in sympathy.