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“You do a lot on your own, yes?” Sokolov said. “How many teams now? Do you even get to choose them? How many different lines have you been on? Must be hard, playing hockey on your own. Lone wolf traveling through the league…”

Everett’s grip on his shoulder tightened. It was the only thing grounding Henri, because otherwise he’d tell Sokolov—a jerk who wasn’t on his team, someone he didn’t need to ingratiate himself to at all—exactly where to stick it. He wanted to remind Sokolov of all the shit this town had to say about him and the way he’d left. That yeah, Henri’s been moved around a lot, but he was no traitor.

Instead, he held Sokolov’s gaze. “What can I say? I’m popular. People want me.”

At this, Everett’s hand loosened. It slid down his back before Everett brought it to rest behind Henri on the bar, keeping Everett close and physically on Henri’s side of their little space.

“Of course we want you,” Everett said, cutting off whatever Sokolov was about to say. “You seen his face-off stats? Wracking up the assists lately, too.”

Warmth spread through Henri’s chest. It was nothing he didn’t already know, but he’d been so starved for praise the past few years, it still affected him when he heard Everett and the Turkeys were happy with his play. He knew he was good—he never doubted his own abilities, just his execution of them—but it was exhausting to constantly have to prove it and still have no one believe it.

Sokolov clenched his jaw so tightly shut that a vein popped out on his neck. There was a flash of something more than annoyance before he offered a charming smile and laughed. “Yes, I’ve seen your goal total this season. No need to brag. You had me worried a few weeks ago, but I see you’re back to your old self again.”

And then his attention was solely on Everett once more, and Henri was relieved to be done performing. He had no illusions about his place within the league, nor did he think he was regarded as the same caliber player as Sokolov. Henri was certainly less of an asshole, but tonight he thought even that might be up for debate. Sokolov seemed like the type who could charm when it suited him.

Henri focused more on the beer in his hand than the flow of conversation. He didn’t try to engage in Sokolov’s small talk, mostly because it was clear the man had no interest in talking to Henri. Everything was said to Everett, a reference only Everett would get, or a topic designed to appeal to him, and all of it said to construct a wall between them and Henri. And while Henri did occasionally say something when prompted by Everett, he didn’t bother trying to break down that wall.

Because at the end of the night, Sokolov was the one leaving town and Henri was the one staying. Based on the faint coolness beneath Everett’s warm facade, Everett was well aware of this fact. This whole outing was because he felt he had to, but he’d be glad when it was over, same as Henri.

A few drinks later and all three of them were yawning. It wasn’t that late, except they’d played a game earlier. Henri at least had played his heart out, and he suspected the other two men had as well. The beer hadn’t just loosened his tenuous grip on the English language, but it’d stripped him of the little energy he had left. When Everett closed out their tab, Henri was all too happy to leave.

While he knew he would technically be required to see Sokolov again, he’d do his best to never interact with the man outside of hockey. If Everett wanted someone to diffuse the tension, he’d have to enlist Novak or another of the Turkeys to help. Someone who knew Sokolov and could do a better job keeping him in his place.

“Want me to drive you back?” Everett offered to Henri. “Your place is on the way to mine.”

Everett knew no such thing, but Henri enjoyed the way Sokolov glowered at them.

“Sure,” Henri said, and Sokolov’s annoyance was almost enough to make him smile in childish victory. Almost. The man had had enough vodka that Henri wasn’t willing to risk a punch to his teeth.

“I’ll walk,” Sokolov said icily, which was better than inviting himself along. “My hotel is only a few blocks away. Much warmer here than in Chicago.”

Everett rolled his eyes.

“I’ll buy you a round when you come to Chicago in January,” Sokolov said, his back to Henri to make sure he didn’t think that included him. Everett laughed hollowly and led the way out of the restaurant, his shoulders stiff and his hands clenched. But he still hugged Sokolov when they said goodbye, and Henri once more had to shake the Russian’s hand.

“Good luck this season,” Henri said with a tone he hoped implied that he wished no such thing for Sokolov or the Storm.

“Likewise,” Sokolov said back with thinly veiled incivility. Then they parted ways, heading in opposite directions with the safety of months between them.

“Sorry about that,” Everett said as soon as they were in the car and safe from being overheard. “He was being so rude. I wouldn’t have asked you to come along if I’d known he’d act like that.”

Ah. So Henri had been getting special treatment from Sokolov. He wondered which threatened Sokolov more: Henri replacing him on the top line, or stealing Everett’s attention. He got the distinct impression it was both.

“You didn’t ask,” Henri reminded him. “I offered.”

Everett made an agitated sound in the back of his throat. He was looking out the car window as he started the car, his attention fixed on the rearview mirror. It was only out of gratitude to Everett that Henri decided to be generous.

“I’m sure he was just angry to lose,” Henri said wryly. “Never fun to lose to your old team.”

At this, Everett turned to look at him. “Hey, ignore that shit he said about you. He’s wrong. He’s never had to play for a team with bad coaches, and he’s only just learning what it’s like to play with linemates you don’t gel with.”

Henri frowned. “Have you had to play for bad coaches? And I thought his scoring was up this season. That’s what every reporter says in the many, many articles where they talk about him.” And compare the two of us…

“I wasn’t fond of some of my coaches in college,” Everett said dismissively. “There’s a reason I jumped to the NHL as soon as I could. And yeah, Alexei’s scoring is up because his wingers aren’t pulling their weight, so instead of passing and doing the things he’s more comfortable with, he’s forced to try and score on his own. His goals are up, but his assists and plus-minus are way down.”

This time, Henri didn’t hold back what he was actually thinking. “You keep track of his stats.” He managed to make it sound only somewhat accusatory.

The tips of Everett’s ears went red. “I do not⁠—”