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Howell had been having as good a time as one could have when celebrating the victory of another team, especially when one's girlfriend played for said team, which was surprisingly a nice time indeed. Saoirse, tipsy as tipsy could be with not simply champagne but the heady feeling of a league victory, flitted to and from his side through the night, but he didn't mind. She was so rarely this carefree and open, and other than ensuring she didn't accidentally drink herself to sickness, Howell had no wish to dampen her spirits and was content to be a wallflower.

Late in the evening, when she came back to him, seemingly for good, she seemed to wrap herself right around him without a care. Hands crept in rather illicit places, and there was definitely some pinching—although not of his doing. His one drink had relaxed him enough to tease her right back, and it seemed they might, in fact, duck out of the party. He relaxed against the wall as Saoirse whispered in his ear, his eyes reduced to slits. They wandered aimlessly over the crowd, until, through the haze, he spotted drunk Michal. Very close to him was, if he was not mistaken, his ex-girlfriend Therese.

His body stiffened. Howell regretted what was about to come out of his mouth before he even knew he was going to say it. He tried, as hard as he could, to choke them back, but his unfortunate loyalty knew no bounds.

"I have to go," he said heavily, his hand wrapping around Saoirse's waist, not to bring her closer but to push her further away. Saoirse's eyes widened and before she could do more than make a noise that was both disbelieving and angry, he put his hands up pleadingly. "I'm sorry," he said hastily, kissing her temple before straightening and backing away, "I'm sorry, I just have to—I'll—I'll be back."

He purposefully neglected to mention with someone else in tow.

It seemed as if he'd made it just in time, as the two people's heads inclined towards one another, and—hands were touching, laid on her cheek in a seemingly intimate gesture. Howell furiously wondered where Seth had gone, and vowed to himself to ream out his teammate when he had a chance..

He made a lot of noise as he approached them, flagging Michal down. "Oh—there now—there you are." Howell not so gently yanked Michal's free arm while subtly nudging the back of Michal's knee with his own foot so his sozzled Keeper began to crumple. "I've been looking for you," he said admonishingly, sliding a supporting arm around Michal's waist. Just as he was about to turn away, Howell's attention went to the witch from whom he'd not quite forcefully pried Michal from.

"Sorry," he figured he should say. His glance fell on Michal, and then he squared his shoulders. "If he bothered you. He's used that speech on three girls already. I thought my girlfriend was about to snap his fingers off." Howell paused and readjusted his listless friend. "I'll take him off your hands."

He then towed Michal, currently nuzzled into his neck, off in the direction from which he had come, eyes glued to the floor so he could pretend all the while not to notice the increasingly burning stare of his infuriated girlfriend.