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“Am I late?” he asked and enjoyed Everett’s smile when he saw Henri.

“Nah, right on time. I figured I’d wait out here for you since you don’t know Alexei.”

Henri very much appreciated that. If he found himself alone with the Russian, he wasn’t convinced he could be particularly civil. He wasn’t convinced he wanted to try either.

They went inside together, bypassing the host stand and heading straight for the bar in the back. It was a Sunday evening, with the bar area mercifully quiet as the patrons instead filled the tables on the restaurant-side, just a few couples laughing over drinks and ignoring them as they walked past. They found Sokolov at the farthest end of the bar.

Sokolov, like any hockey player out among the general public, was easy to spot. He was big in a way that was more than his height, more even than his weight. He exuded a presence, whether confidence or menace, that drew one’s attention.

But what hit Henri was that Sokolov was not dressed to bro it up like Everett and Henri were. He had on a black silk button-down shirt under a cream blazer. His short dark hair wasn’t shower-wet; it was styled and perfect. And maybe this was just Sokolov’s look. Some players liked to dress nice even outside of the spotlight at the arena. But the way his fingers drummed against the bar top, the way he pulled at his collar with the other hand, suggested otherwise.

Huh. Strange that Sokolov was the one who left but was dressing up as if there was something more to this meeting than drinks with an old friend.

He is not going to like me being here, Henri realized. He kind of liked that.

Sokolov stood and smiled when he saw Everett, even taking a step forward to greet him…

…until he spotted Henri. Sokolov froze in place, then a scowl crossed his face, and yeah, Henri was going to need a drink.

“Good to see you, man,” Everett said amiably and pulled Sokolov into a hug. It was short and perfunctory, so much so that Sokolov didn’t have time to return the gesture before it was over. Instead, he stood there, stiff and stunned, never looking away from Henri. “This is Luc-Henri, but you probably knew that.”

Henri reeled a little at the use of his actual name (pronounced with its real French pronunciation of an-ri instead of the more English hen-ree). It must have affected Sokolov too, because his head snapped back to Everett.

“Just Henri,” Henri clarified. After a moment’s consideration, he added, “or Baptiste.” Mostly because he didn’t want to be forced to call Sokolov ‘Alexei’ like they were friends, not when this conversation already had a decidedly unfriendly air.

“Henri,” Sokolov repeated, his Russian accent so damn thick Henri thought he must be doing it on purpose. He didn’t sound like that in interviews, did he?

And because Henri didn’t like Sokolov, he held out his hand and forced him to shake it. “Nice to meet you off the ice,” he said, hoping his tone and eyes conveyed that it was actually not at all nice.

“Yes,” Sokolov agreed. His handshake was bruisingly firm and lasted an uncomfortably long time as he tried to glare directly into Henri’s soul. He straightened himself up, but his rigid posture did little; Henri was the same height as him, maybe even a little taller. Fucking pissing match if Henri ever saw one, but he couldn’t care less about Sokolov’s opinion.

He did, unfortunately, care about Everett’s opinion, and for whatever reason, Everett and Sokolov were friends. Ish. However much of a dick Sokolov might seem, Henri wasn’t about to annoy his captain by being petty (even if he was pretty sure Sokolov deserved it).

They ordered drinks as the bartender discreetly checked out the three of them. Either she was a fan or she found them attractive, but she didn’t comment as Sokolov ordered a shot of vodka and Everett ordered a local beer for both himself and Henri.

“Beer,” Sokolov scoffed. He’d snagged a spot with only two bar stools, no doubt not expecting a third to ruin his evening. Everett had offered the second one to Henri without a second thought. He stood behind them, and Sokolov turned so he was facing Everett, only his profile visible to Henri. Dick.

“Beer’s good,” Everett said. He was smiling, like this was a conversation they’d had many times. “Right, Henri?”

Definitely better than vodka, he only barely stopped himself from saying.

“Yes, Dylan,” he agreed, assuming this was some sort of game Everett was playing with Sokolov. Normally he wouldn’t appreciate being a game piece, but he’d allow it this time.

Sokolov rounded on him, as if he’d forgotten he was there. He assessed Henri, narrowing his eyes and looking him up and down like a particularly strange bird that had landed next to him. Maybe he was deciding if Henri was even worth talking to.

“Aren’t you French?” Sokolov eventually asked, waiting just long enough that it was undeniably rude.

“French-Canadian,” Henri corrected at the same time Everett said, “Québécois.”

Both Henri and Sokolov turned to give Everett a surprised look.

“French-Canadian,” Sokolov repeated, still eyeing Everett even as he addressed Henri. “You don’t sound like you have an accent.”

Before Henri could respond that he most certainly did, Everett clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Right? He does such a good job with his English, I forgot he speaks French until after summer break when he actually sounded like it.”

Sokolov’s gaze moved to where Everett’s hand was on Henri’s shoulder, his fingers curling slightly into Henri’s hoodie. Sokolov’s brow was cast in a stern frown, but he soon softened it into a self-deprecating smile and met Henri’s eye. “My English is good, but I think I will always sound Russian. Dylan helped me, though. We were roommates for several years, and he taught me almost everything I know about American-English. I owe Dylan a lot.”

“That must’ve been nice,” Henri said dryly. Their drinks had arrived, and he snatched his off the bar top like a lifeline. Would it be impolite to down the whole thing right now? “I had to do it on my own.” He didn’t know why he meant it as a jab, but he did, and he experienced a flash of triumph when Sokolov’s expression soured once more. It was short-lived because Alexei immediately retaliated.