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“Your loss.” He popped a cookie into his mouth, smiled around it, then started chewing loudly. “You ready to rock Portland?” He was surprisingly articulate given the Oreo situation.

“Always,” Henri said with more confidence than he ever felt going into a game.

“Good. My sister’s gonna be at the game. Hate making her travel just to see us lose.”

“Your sister?” Henri didn’t know Everett had a sister. “Travel?”

“Yeah, my older sister. She’s also my agent, technically. She lives out in Seattle. Kinda caught between Portland and Vancouver for games, but she usually opts for Portland because then she doesn’t need a passport. Plus her wife is from Portland, so.” He shrugged, like nothing he’d just said was a big deal.

Henri realized his jaw had dropped and picked it back up. Once again, he was forced to sift through the mountain of information Everett was willing to dump on him to find something tangible he could latch onto.

“Your sister’s your agent?”

“Uh huh.” Another cookie disappeared, crumbs scattering across his light-gray suit. Henri resisted the urge to brush them away. “She represents a bunch of guys around the league. And women in the women’s league. A few other sports too. You can ask her about it tomorrow. She’ll probably stop by before the game to say hi.”

He could not imagine this woman, this older sister slash agent of Dylan Everett, who was married to another woman and represented athletes across multiple leagues in North America. If Everett was impressive, his sister might be more so.

“The Prowlers aren’t doing well, right?” Henri asked, hoping to keep the conversation going.

Everett grunted. “They weren’t, but they’ve been fired up ever since Nilsson played them. I think they’ve won three in a row since then.”

“Fired up? The Prowlers?” Henri didn’t understand. Hadn’t they been the ones to trade Nilsson? It wasn’t as though he’d chosen to abandon the team that’d drafted him and the fans who’d supported him for years. For whatever reason—and admittedly, the circumstances were rather suspicious—they’d sold off Nilsson’s contract for pennies. It didn’t seem right that they could be upset about it. No one had made them do it.

Lars Nilsson wasn’t someone Henri knew. They had shared a few words when they’d met in the face-off circle, but they never crossed paths outside of games. Nilsson was brash and confident in the way that only talent and stardom could foster. He wasn’t fun to play against, because he was as good as they said and very physical…but as annoying as he could be, he wasn’t a complete dick.

Besides, no one deserved to be vilified for being pushed away from a team. Whatever spurred Nilsson’s departure from Portland, Henri could empathize with how hard it must have been to go back. And how extremely frustrating it must be that they would use it to rally against him. Henri had hated to see the way they’d jeered at him in Carolina when he’d come back.

Henri didn’t realize his hands were clenched until Everett’s hand came to rest on his balled right fist. He had to pry his fingers apart one by one.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Everett agreed, as if reading Henri’s mind. “I have no idea what the hell went down in Portland, but either Nilsson messed up big, or the Prowlers did.” He paused, considering. “Probably both.”

“You know him?” Henri asked. Everett’s hand was still over his; he could barely concentrate on anything else. “Nilsson, I mean.”

“Uh, yes, technically. We’ve met a bunch at those All-Star games, and I’ve obviously played against him a lot from when he was on the Prowlers. Not outside of hockey, though. He’s kinda young. Not, like, actually young, but enough that our lives don’t cross outside of the NHL. Hung out with his brother at the Olympics. Chill guy.”

A mountain of information once again. Had Everett always babbled this much, or had Henri been too distracted with the team change to notice it sooner?

“Chill?” Henri experimentally flexed his hand beneath Everett’s; he didn’t move his away. “Isn’t he always fighting his brother?”

“I mean, that’s just siblings for you. I’m a relatively chill guy and my sister is too, but I promise I could get her clocking me within five minutes if I tried.” His head cocked to the side. “Maybe even if I didn’t.”

Henri smiled. “I would like to see that.”

“Then maybe I’ll piss her off, just for you.” Everett winked and finally reclaimed his hand, though he seemed not to have noticed how long it had lingered—he went right back for more Oreos. “Maybe after the game, though. She’ll kick my ass, and I don’t want Portland getting four in a row. Fuck those guys.”

“Fuck them,” Henri agreed. He slipped his hand into his pocket. Maybe that way he could preserve the feel of Everett’s skin pressed against his a little longer.

“You don’t have any siblings?” Everett asked after a moment.

Henri shook his head. “It was just me. My parents had me very late. My mother was forty when I was born, and my father was forty-seven.”

Why had he said any of that? He never talked this much about his family.

“That’s not that old. My parents were around that age when they had me, though I was a surprise. My sister’s ten years older,” he added. “So I understand the sibling experience and the only child vibe too. V was out of the house by the time I was eight.”

“I always wanted a little brother,” Henri confessed. “A little less after I saw the Nilssons.”

Everett laughed so hard that the seats shook. “You’re funny, Baps. Fuck, sit next to me on every flight, will you? Way better than sitting next to Nover. What a fucking tool.”