Coming in First Place (Between the Teeth Book 1) Page 5

  Benson, Romano, and Samuels are already settled down in a booth near the back, and David barely has time to slide in, Lourdes boxing him into a corner, before the bartender’s setting three pitchers on the table. Two are obviously beer, one light, one dark, and there’s another, smaller, that looks like orange juice.

  “We didn’t know what you wanted, Chaps,” Romano says, smiling with teeth. “But we figured even you couldn’t hate screwdrivers.”

  David opens his mouth — to say what, he doesn’t know — before Lourdes cuts him off before he can say a word.

  “Awesome, I love screwdrivers,” he says, leaning over David, a hot line down his side, to pull the pitcher closer.

  Romano blinks.

  “I’m fine with beer, thanks,” David says quietly, and Romano rolls his eyes, but pours everyone their drinks, biting his lip in concentration while he does, glass tilted, like it’s a fine art to pour a drink, and David gets a pint of beer in front of him in the end.

  “Do you think I could just stick a straw in this?” Lourdes asks. “Maybe they have some of the cool twirly ones.”

  “Dude, that’s like, double strength,” Benson says, hasty. “Maybe stick with beer.”

  “I’m not a lightweight,” Lourdes says, but doesn’t argue when Romano pours him a pint as well, leans back into the booth, knee knocking into David’s under the table, accidental seeming, though he doesn’t move it after, and his thigh presses warm against David’s. David feels his face heat, embarrassment and some anger, and he looks away from Lourdes, the line of his jaw as he swallows, and over at Benson, who’s looking back at him, frank, a little mean.

  “Didn’t know you and Chaps were friends,” Benson says.

  “Didn’t know Chaps had friends,” Romano mutters, half under his breath but still clearly audible, and Samuels snorts.

  “Yup,” Lourdes says, wraps an arm around David’s shoulder, which David doesn’t flinch at only because it’d prove the assholes right. He squeezes David’s shoulder, showing no sign of dropping his arm any time soon, so David’s bracketed by him, the line of his thigh, his arm tucked over him, sleeves rolled up at the elbows, watch digging in, a little, to David’s shoulder. David wants to shrug it off, but he doesn’t do that either. “We figure the media shit about us being enemies is stupid, so.”

  David takes a long sip of beer.

  “Dude, I’m pretty sure Chaps is out for your blood,” Benson says, through laughter.

  David takes a longer sip of beer. No one’s asking him anyway.

  “Are you sure I can’t just stick a straw in this?” Lourdes asks, and when the conversation devolves into chirping Lourdes for trying to shirk beer, David’s never been more grateful to him in his life.

  Which still means he’s more pissed than not, but Lourdes is all warmth against him, his thumb nudging David’s pulse, and David’s human, despite all the chirps he gets from opponents who say otherwise, so all he can think about is how Lourdes’ mouth felt around him, the way his hair fell in his eyes, how badly David wanted to push it out of the way, so he could see. He didn’t, though. He has that, at least.

  They don’t continue to needle David, thankfully. Mostly they just act like he isn’t there, asking Lourdes about Florida, Benson and Lourdes trading laughing stories about pranks they pulled at US Development Camp. The only real attention paid to him is Romano refilling David’s glass practically every time he takes a sip, asking, faux-polite, if the beer’s not to his taste because he’s drinking slower than everyone else, who are putting it back like it’s water.

  Well, Lourdes is an exception on the attention front. He keeps trying to pull him into the conversation, like it isn’t obvious that no one, David included, wants David involved in it. He’s dropped his arm from David’s shoulder, but left it between them on the booth, thumb brushing the outside of David’s knee, distractedly, once in awhile, until David can’t focus on anything else, wouldn’t be able to focus on the conversation if he wanted to, cheeks flushed, hard in his pants. Romano asks if he’s had too much, faux-concerned this time, and David’s next beer goes down like silk.

  David’s three beers in to everyone else’s four when a group of girls comes in, pretty enough, and Romano nudges Benson’s side. “Think we need another round,” he says, even though there’s still more than enough on the table.

  “Don’t look at me,” Benson says. “You know I’ve got a girlfriend, dude.”

  “So be a decent wingman for once,” Romano says, and Benson rolls his eyes but slides out of the booth, Samuels following.

  “Coming, Jake?” Benson asks. “Chaps can hold down the fort, he’s not doing anything else.”

  “Nah,” Lourdes says. “Wouldn’t want to cramp your style.”

  “Ladykiller Lourdes?” Benson asks sceptically.

  “I mean, if you think you can handle the competition…” Lourdes says, raising his eyebrows, and Benson snorts.

  “Suit yourself, man,” he says, ruffling Lourdes’ hair, which he just takes with a smile, and leading the way over to the girls at the bar.

  “Hey,” Lourdes says. “You want to get out of here?”

  David gives him a flat look, which just makes Lourdes laugh.

  “I mean with me,” Lourdes says.

  “You want to come over,” David says, less of a guess and more of a statement, because the hand nudging David’s leg hadn’t been subtle, and Lourdes has thrown away even the last bit of subtlety, putting his hand on David’s knee. It’s under the table, at least, hidden, but it’s not exactly something David can ignore.

  Lourdes laughs again. David’s not sure what makes him laugh, but it seems like everything does, so he’s sure it’s nothing particularly funny. “Yeah, dude,” he says. “I want to come over.”

  It’s a bad idea. It’s a fucking stupid idea, and the whole point of last time was getting it out of his system, but that twist of anger and lust is still running through his veins.

  It’s a bad idea, but David’s had three pints, Lourdes’ hands on him, and the inane chatter of assholes in his ears all night, and if he turns Lourdes down, goes home tipsy and smelling like him, he’ll probably like himself better in the morning, but he’ll hate himself all through the night.

  “Okay,” David says.

  “Okay,” Lourdes echoes, grinning. “Okay, lemme just tell them we’re heading out and give them some cash for the beer, can you catch us a cab?”

  David nods, gathers his coat. He wonders, after a minute, if Lourdes is just going to stick around inside with people that seem a little more like him. Maybe he’ll crack them up with how easy David is for him, so that the jibes in practice can strike home better than Samuels’ stupid robot voice, but Lourdes comes out after a couple more minutes. “Sorry,” he says. “Taylor talks a lot.”

  “Yes,” David says, which makes Lourdes laugh again.

  They’re quiet in the cab, other than Lourdes beating out some abstracted, off-rhythm pattern on his thigh that makes David’s teeth clench, before Lourdes says, “Do they always treat you like that?”

  “Pretty much,” David says.

  “That’s fucked up,” Lourdes says. “They’re supposed to be team.”

  David shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

  “Okay, that’s fucked up,” Lourdes says.

  “It is what it is,” David says, and Lourdes looks like he’s going to say something, but doesn’t, returns to tapping out that little beat on his thigh until David can’t stand it, reaching out to still him. Lourdes does, and when David takes his hand away, he doesn’t start again, though he’s watching David hard, scrutiny that David’s more than used to, but is never going to like.

  It’s not that far to David’s place, and David beats Lourdes to the fare again. Lourdes stands too close to him in the elevator, arm nudging David’s shoulder.

  David’s been half-hard since the bar, Lourdes’ hands on him while he and Benson talked about some epic prank pulled on their coach, of all people. Lourdes
was in his space all night like it was his right, like David let anyone in it, and David’s hyper-aware of everywhere they’re touching now, of everywhere they’ve touched since the game ended, his body lit up, leaning into Lourdes before he can even think to do otherwise.

  Lourdes is almost plastered against him by the time David’s unlocking his door, and it should be claustrophobic, the way he’s boxing David in, nudging David through the door when it’s finally open, but it isn’t. David turns around once they’re inside. Lourdes has the shadow of a bruise on his jaw, and it could be from a fight, an errant stick, could be someone’s mouth leaving marks against his skin. David doesn’t care. He’s pissed still, less at Lourdes, since he was the least of it, than the whole night, win excepted, and he’s heard teammates talk in the room about needing to fight or to fuck, but he’s never understood it until now, caught between the urges.

  He settles for the latter, but not by much, drops to his knees in his own hallway like the worst kind of easy, because he wants to get off, he wants to get Lourdes off, but he wants it to hurt. Maybe not in the obvious ways, but he wants to leave Lourdes overwhelmed, so he can’t laugh at nothing, so he doesn’t have some reply always on his tongue, like it’s easy. He wants to be better than Lourdes, and if he’s better on his knees, he’ll take it.

  “Wow, okay,” Lourdes says, kind of dim, helping David with his belt. David’s knees are already starting to protest — porn did not accurately portray how terrible hardwood would be on joints — but David refuses to get up, take it somewhere easier, not with Lourdes’ hands already unsteady on his belt, cock flushed dark at the tip once he manages to get his pants and his briefs down around his thighs, like he’s been turned on as long as David has, like he’d chatted about Juniors hard in his pants.

  David hasn’t done this much — or at all, except the other time with Lourdes — but he still knows this is sloppy, his hand meeting his mouth, slick, too much spit. The whole thing is inelegant, embarrassing, but Lourdes’ thighs are shaking hard enough that David can feel the tremble without touching them, like he can barely stay standing, one palm braced against David’s wall like he needs something to hold himself up, and there’s something supremely satisfying in that, to hear Lourdes’ unsteady inhale exhale, to have Lourdes come bitter on his tongue, fast, embarrassingly fast, even, his breath hitching into a cut off moan.

  David’s barely swallowed before Lourdes is hitting the ground in front of him, can hear the impact on his knees, which makes David wince sympathetically despite himself, his own knees stiff already. His hands aren’t steady on David’s zipper, but they do the job, and he gets his hand in David’s pants, his tongue in David’s mouth, making a noise against him like he likes the taste of himself on David’s tongue.

  David’s practically on a hair-trigger — he’s been ramped up half the night and he got off too much on sucking Lourdes off — already slick at the tip and leaking over Lourdes’ hand, but that makes it an easy slide, Lourdes jerking him off fast and hard, nothing special, but exactly how David needs it, and it’s all David can do to avoid biting either his tongue or Lourdes’ when he comes in Lourdes’ fist.

  Lourdes doesn’t pull back right away, just breathes, still shaky, against David’s mouth, before he finally pulls his hand out of David’s pants, putting a couple inches between them. David looks at him, his hair a mess despite the fact that David never got his hands in it, his pupils blown wide so that it’s even harder to tell whether his eyes are hazel or green, until David gets self-conscious about looking, about Lourdes in his apartment at all.

  He wonders how you’re supposed to kick someone out when they’re on their knees in your front hall, when you didn’t even make it into the apartment proper. At Lourdes’ place he could just leave, but Lourdes shows no sign of planning to move, until he looks at his hands, nose wrinkling, laughing softly.

  “Bathroom?” Lourdes asks, waving his right hand like David needs the explanation.

  “Second door on the right,” David says, and Lourdes gets up, hitching his pants back up around his hips with his left hand. David tries to right himself, tucking his shirt back into his pants, running his hands through his hair, and finally makes it into his apartment as far as the living room.

  He listens to the sound of the sink, muted, and wonders what he’s supposed to say, what you’re supposed to say after you suck someone off inches from your front door. If there’s proper etiquette for this, he’s certainly never learned it.

  Lourdes comes out of the bathroom, his tie gone, maybe tucked in his pocket, his shoes squeaking against David’s floor. He never took them off, which is no surprise, considering he never got his pants past his knees, but it just hammers it home how easy David is. He’s never been easy in his life, he’s been called difficult more times than he can count, and Lourdes is the last person he wants to be easy for.

  “Hey,” Lourdes says, smiles at him, no teeth this time, close mouthed. He’s got a dimple in one cheek that David’s never noticed before.

  David waves one hand, internally wincing at how awkward that seems.

  “I wasn’t bullshitting earlier,” Lourdes says. “We’ve got an early flight out to Chicago.”

  “Okay?” David says.

  “I’ve probably blown curfew, but,” Lourdes says, shrugs a shoulder. “I should get back before that’s for sure.”

  “Yeah,” David says. He’s reminded of his own excuse about curfew when he was down in Florida, the way he’d had to beg Kurmazov to come down and pay the cab driver for him because they didn’t take debit, flushed with shame.

  Kurmazov never mentioned it after, rolled his eyes at David when he paid him back the next day but acted like it was nothing, even when David was sure he must’ve known. Known what, David couldn’t imagine, but every scenario was worse than the one before, the worst, of course, being Kurmazov knowing the truth.

  Lourdes comes up to him, shoes on his living room carpet. David manages not to flinch, or to look down pointedly at his own socked feet, but it’s a struggle. “I’ll see you,” Lourdes says, “Good luck against the Leafs tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” David says, automatic, and Lourdes leans down, mouth against David’s. He pulls back before David can do more than register the kiss.

  “Bye,” Lourdes says, and David echoes it as Lourdes heads through his front door. David stays where he is, looking at the imprint of Lourdes’ shoes on his carpet, trying to discern if he’s left dirt behind. Wonders why Lourdes bowing out with some flimsy excuse makes him feel blank instead of relieved. It’s no surprise Lourdes is full of shit. David has had him pegged from the start.

  David nudges his toe against the flattened threads, trying to put them back to rights, before he goes to lock the door behind him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The rest of the season feels like a status quo, and that isn’t a good thing, since the Islanders end it sitting well out of contention. The Panthers are even worse off, but that isn’t much of a comfort when David’s season is over while over half the league prepares for the playoffs.

  The only bright spot is that he ends up shortlisted for the Calder as expected, along with Lourdes and a distant third who probably shouldn’t even bother to show up.

  Lourdes ends the season with three more points than him. Just three. More goals than David by a fairly wide margin, but Lourdes spent his whole season alternating hot streaks and cold spells, once went ten straight games without a point, and David’s been nothing if not consistent. It comes down to short-term glory or long-term success, and David hopes, no, he knows that hockey writers aren’t going to be fooled by Lourdes’ pretty nights like fans seem to be, that they know that David had the better season.

  He considers spending the offseason in New York, because at least here he has a lease and could easily arrange some training, but the majority of the players leave within the first week, Kurmazov to Russia and then the World Championships, the rest to home and hopefully improvement, and it’s hard
er than David would have thought to convince trainers to take him on. He stays for a week — arranging for a cleaning service for when he’s gone, throwing out the contents of his fridge, and packing summer clothes — and then he goes back to Ottawa before the first round series are even properly underway.

  His mother’s at work when he gets in; she doesn’t exactly have the sort of job where she can take an afternoon off just to pick him up even if she was inclined to. He takes a cab in, wonders if it would be worth it to finally try for his licence, get a car for the summers, or just brave OC Transpo and the risk of being recognised. He will be, he knows he will, but it’s typically only kids who approach him in public, and he doesn’t mind that as much.

  His bedroom is immaculately clean, like it’s never been touched. He does his best not to change its appearance, other than putting away the clothing he needs to in his drawers, Islanders gear mixing in with the Remparts shirts already there, worn and soft from washing. He calls his agent once he’s settled, asks him to look around for some decent training facilities in Ottawa, see if there’s someone good locally, and if not, if someone could be called in.

  “Sure, kid,” Dave says. “There’s a training camp in Toronto if you’re willing to pay for it, good trainers, always attracts some big names. Starts in July, I think.”

  “Sure,” David says. “Sign me up. And Dave—”

  “I know,” Dave interrupts. “The sooner the better. I got you.”

  “Thanks,” David says.

  *

  David’s at the stove half-heartedly poking at some chicken breasts that aren’t cooking evenly when his mother comes in a little past seven. He can hear her drop her keys in the bowl by the door, the click of her heels before she kicks them off in the hallway, and it’s so familiar that for a moment he feels like a kid, a little excited that his mother finally came home, but mostly sad that it meant his nanny Mary Anne would be going home to her own family, the real one.