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“Hmmm,” Novak said. He stopped at the door. “Baps, need me to take you back to your room?”

Henri shook his head vehemently. “I’ll stay.”

“English at least,” he mumbled and turned to Everett. “You got him?”

“Of course,” Everett said.

“Sure you don’t need a chaperone?”

“It’s not a school trip,” Henri said. Everett burst into giggles.

“You two are…” Novak never finished his sentence, instead opening the door. “Don’t stay up too late,” he warned Henri before turning to Everett. “Don’t do anything stupid.” He closed the door behind him.

Then Henri had Dylan Everett all to himself.

“You looking forward to being back home?” Everett topped off both of their cups. The wine bottles were empty, standing silent vigil next to Novak’s abandoned beer.

Henri frowned. “Is Albuquerque home?”

“Isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “I live there, I suppose.”

“Is Quebec home?”

Again, Henri shrugged. He wasn’t sure he had a true home anymore. Quebec was where he was from, yes, but it didn’t feel like where he’d end up. It was a temporary place, a holding ground, until he figured out where he’d land. He was constantly in a liminal space, waiting to know which direction he’d be pulled or pushed next, never knowing when that might be.

“Could you teach me some French?”

“Why? So you can curse at the other French-Canadians in the league?” It was the only reason teammates had ever asked him before. Teach us the bad words, they’d say with childish glee, and then butcher them on the ice in fits of misplaced rage.

“I’m not that mean.”

“No,” Henri agreed. “You are not mean. Mais tu es parfait comme tu es. You don’t need any French.”

Everett was quiet. “Language is a way to connect with people, though.”

“Ah.” Henri nodded as if he understood. In his drunken state, he almost did, though it felt as though a piece were missing. “And you want to connect with someone who speaks French?”

“Yeah, kind of.” A pause. Everett was nervous, and Henri found it as strange as it was adorable. “I liked when you announced the starting lineup in French. You sounded more confident.”

“It is nice to speak without having to think first,” he agreed. But that wasn’t quite right, because he always thought about what he was saying, so he clarified, “About the vowels and the consonants, I mean. The sounds.”

“It’s okay. I know what you meant.”

Everett was so close. He sat on the edge of his bed, his legs stretched out across the empty space between them so their heels brushed. Henri was still sprawled across the chair, a puddle of mush unable to do more than talk and drink. The wine had grown on him, which was probably a sign he should’ve stopped a while ago.

“Luc-Henri Baptiste,” Everett said out of nowhere, perfect pronunciation that stabbed Henri through the heart. “Why aren’t you Luc-Henri? Or Luc? Why just Henri?”

Henri rubbed at his sternum. “My parents, they each picked a part of my name. My mama picked Henri.” He swallowed. “I feel like she’s still present when I hear Henri. Like I can somehow invoke her spirit each time someone says it. Keep her with me.”

Everett made a sound and looked pained. He looked like he wanted to move, to do something, but had no idea what action fit Henri’s confession. Henri didn’t know either. He’d never told anyone that before, not even his papa.

“Hey,” he said. He rubbed his socked-foot against Everett’s bare ankle to sooth him. “It’s okay. I’m not upset.”

It was an old pain, his mother’s loss. A familiar companion after all these years.

“You’re crying,” Everett said.