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“Let’s get it done!” they all echoed and drank. Henri took only a small sip. Alcohol wouldn’t mix well with his mood right now. It’d only make his thoughts mushy, take his mind off hockey when he wanted to stay sharp.

The whole team had come to the bar, one near the practice facility and their usual haunt, to get pumped for another year. Their first game was in two days, a home opener versus the Portland Prowlers. Henri hated playing against the Prowlers, but for some reason they’d traded away Lars Nilsson. Everyone expected them to be a disaster without him.

He hoped they would be. If Henri could get a couple of points early in the season, that would be huge. If the timeline held from his other teams, he had about three months to prove himself before he got shuffled down to lower and lower lines. Two months if the team did poorly.

In his head, he was picturing the upcoming game, running through plays, trying to will success into reality, when a heavy hand on his shoulder forced him back to the bar.

“You with us, Baps?” Everett asked. He was so close, Henri could’ve counted his freckles if he wanted to. Or the crinkles and laugh lines around his eyes.

Henri took a long sip of his beer to buy himself time. “Of course,” he said after. “Where else would I be?”

Everett shrugged. He didn’t move his hand. “Just seemed like you were zoning out. Imagining anything good?”

“Oh, I was just…” His instinct was to lie, because it would be less embarrassing. But as he stared into Everett’s blue eyes, his brain couldn’t work fast enough, so he was left with the truth. “I was just thinking about the game.”

“Babe, it’s two days away. Tonight”—he shook Henri’s shoulder playfully—“we’re drinking with the boys. You gotta learn to unwind.”

“Hmm,” Henri hummed. “I’m not very good at that, I’m afraid.”

Everett snorted. “Yeah, I’m getting that. C’mon.” And now his hand slipped from Henri’s shoulder down to the small of his back, never breaking contact as he gently guided Henri toward a quieter corner of the bar where Novak and Duffy were chatting at a high-top. Everett let go of Henri and grabbed every single beer bottle and glass off their cluttered table.

“Evers, what the fuck?” Novak’s protests were halfhearted at best, probably because their drinks all appeared to be empty.

“Baps has the jitters,” Everett said. “I’ll get more booze. You know the drill.”

Novak’s head fell back and he groaned dramatically. Duffy clapped his hands together and appraised Henri, a strange focus on his arms. Henri gripped his beer bottle like a lifeline because what the hell was happening here?

“Who’s first?” Duffy asked.

Henri took an unconscious step back. “For what?”

“You’re scaring him, Duffs,” Novak muttered. He took a deep breath before turning to face Henri. “We have a tradition. Usually at the start of the season and before playoffs. When someone gets the jitters, we arm wrestle.”

There was a lot to unpack, but Henri understood enough to know he wasn’t going to like what came next.

“You…arm wrestle?” he clarified.

“Yep.” Novak jumped off his seat and offered it to Henri. “Since you’re Mr. Jitters, you’re up first.”

“Jitters?” Ugh, he hated the way j’s sounded in English. “I don’t⁠—”

Novak leaned forward to grab Henri’s arm and forced him onto the stool. “Too late. Captain’s orders. Trust me, this helps. Hard to worry about hockey when you’re trying not to get your arm broken.” He took Henri’s beer before he could finish strangling the bottle.

“What?”

“Now who’s scaring him?” Duffy laughed and put his arm on the table, bent at the elbow and wiggling his fingers in invitation. “C’mon, Baps. Let’s see what you got.”

Henri looked between the two men, saw Everett on his way back from the bar with four fresh beers, and realized he was trapped.

More importantly, he realized he was truly part of the team, not just on the periphery.

A coil of warmth unfurled in his gut, memories of his excitement all the way back during his rookie season doing more damage to his system than the beer ever could. Mechanically, he put his arm on the table and took Duffy’s hand.

He beat Duffy twice, then Novak. Then they found out he was left-handed, and he beat them both again with his left hand. Then a couple of defensemen and Briggs, the goalie. More of the team had wandered over, and several other tables had been taken over with arm-wrestling. He couldn’t deny he felt much more relaxed with the distraction. And the endless beer they kept giving him after every win helped too.

“Now that they’ve tired you out,” Everett said, his hand once more on Henri’s back, right between his shoulder blades. He leaned in so close Henri could smell the beer on his breath, all of Henri’s right arm pressed against Everett’s chest. Goosebumps ran up his skin, and he dug his fingernails into his knees under the table. “Mind if I have a go?”

Henri gulped and nodded. “Of course,” he managed and gestured to the empty seat across from him. “You’re the captain.”