“You don’t have to do that,” she says, standing in the doorway. “We could just get delivery. You know where the menus are.”
“That’s fine,” David says. “None of those places are particularly healthy.”
“Suit yourself,” she says. “I hope you made enough for two.”
She retreats, and David’s done by the time she comes back down, out of the sensible pantsuit and in jeans and an Islanders shirt she must have bought since he last saw her. He’s a little surprised to see it, surprised she bothered to buy one at all, since she didn’t bother to come to the game when the Islanders played the Senators, apparently had an important dinner meeting.
“Are you staying for the summer?” she asks when David sits beside her on the kitchen island.
“I don’t know,” David says. “If I can find a good trainer.”
“Well, this is your home,” she says, patting him on the hand once before taking hers away, and David keeps his head down, focusing on his food. There’s nothing really to talk about. Half of her work is confidential and the other half is boring, and he’s pretty sure she considers everything to do with his job boring, though she asks him where he’s going to train, mentioning that there’s a Goodlife Fitness nearby, like he just needs to find a Pilates class or something.
“I don’t know,” David mumbles. “I might have to go to Toronto, they have a training camp there Dave mentioned.”
“Dave knows best,” she says, spearing a tomato, and they sink back into silence.
“I have to do some more work,” she says, once he’s cleared their plates. “But you can watch TV if you keep the volume low, it won’t bother me.”
“I’m tired. I’m just going to go to my room,” David says, and loads the dishwasher while he listens to her berate someone in French about some Bloc business that’s making the Prime Minister look bad. Her French is flawless, right out of the government handbook, more France than Québec. David suddenly misses Québec City, where everyone would turn their noses up at it.
When he came back after his first season in the QMJHL, his mother had described his French accent as ‘hopelessly low-brow’, and when he went back for training he asked his linemate Poulin to teach him every single bit of slang he knew. Poulin did it gleefully, pulling the rest of the guys into it until there was a team-wide ‘teach all the Anglos Québécois slang’ initiative, complete with a pawed over list of the worst insults, which the coaches rolled their eyes at but pretended didn’t exist.
David’s never used any of it outside of the locker room or the ice, but sometimes he wants to, wants to see if she would chide him or if she wouldn’t even know what he was saying.
He won’t, of course.
*
Dave ends up finding someone good for David, or at least good enough that he won’t be out of shape at the start of the camp in July. The trainer’s not a hockey specialist, but he’s willing to do his research and set David on a path that is familiar enough to tread, and he lets David push himself just hard enough to hurt and not hard enough to injure.
His mother’s not home much. He’s used to that: her long days at the office and trips across the country, around the world. People would ask him, when he was young, but not too young to know what condescension sounded like, if he knew just how important his mommy’s job was. Back then she would bring something back for him every time she left, and he has a shelf in his bedroom of souvenirs from around the world — pretty but useless.
He cooks every day to avoid the temptation to eat out, and either eats with his mother at the kitchen island, or alone against the counter if she’s not home yet, leaving her leftovers in the fridge. He jogs along the Ottawa River every morning, meets with his trainer most afternoons. His days sink into a regimented simplicity. It settles some of the anger still working through him, as long as he studiously avoids watching any playoff games, and he finds himself genuinely looking forward to the July camp, especially once Dave mentions some of the players who’ve also signed up, players David considers meaningful opponents.
He also finds himself looking forward to the NHL Awards — media-desperate farce it will inevitably be, wrapped in Las Vegas spectacle — just to break the monotony. He receives a cheerfully worded email informing him he can have one person up front with him and up to four in rows further back, that up to two additional rooms in a hotel will be provided at no cost, and he mentions the Awards over dinner.
His mother pulls her phone out. “I’ll be in Moscow,” she says, frowning down at what’s presumably her calendar. “Is it really important?”
“No,” David says. “It’s nothing special.”
“Sorry,” she says. “Maybe next year?”
It takes everything in David to restrain himself from snapping at her that unless she thinks he’s going to be winning the Art Ross or Rocket Richard at twenty, she’s out of luck. After dinner he goes for a jog along empty streets, runs until he can’t catch his breath and has to walk home, his lungs aching.
His father would probably come, but he’d also probably spend the whole time handing his card to NHLers and executives, like it’s a business conference — the first time he met Dave he tried to charm him into investing in whatever it is he sells — so David screens him the next time he calls, sends an email back to the organizer that additional seats and additional rooms will not be necessary.
*
The Leafs win the Stanley Cup. The city of Ottawa sulks for days, and David does as well, though he probably would have regardless of who won it, considering it wasn’t him. His mother goes to BC and he makes food for one. She goes to Moscow and he packs for the Awards, just a suit bag and an old backpack he hasn’t pulled out since high school, wincing at the Las Vegas weather forecast on his phone during a layover in Toronto.
He doesn’t leave the hotel once he’s there, has dinner, breakfast in the hotel dining room; he eats room service lunch before getting into his suit, fiddling with his tie when it won’t lie flat against his chest and internally debating himself about whether gelling his hair is the appropriate course of action. He does, but just a little.
When he gets in the elevator a Norris trophy nominee and his wife or girlfriend are already inside, share a tight-lipped smile with him. The last time David met him was on the receiving end of a brutal check that sidelined him for two games, the only two he missed all season, so it’s hard to muster a smile back.
There’s an orderly line into the venue, unremarkable except for the fact that some of the best players in the league have to stand around and wait like everyone else. David settles into his designated seat with time to spare, noticing Lourdes seated a row ahead of him. David tries not to read into it.
There’s an empty seat beside him, once everyone’s settled in, and David wonders if they grouped all the people who can’t even get one person to show up to keep the seating even. Instead, a beautiful blonde woman who’s dressed like she’s at the Oscars and not the NHL Awards sits down beside him, flashing him a quick smile.
“I don’t think you’re in the right seat,” David says after she shows no sign of leaving.
She smiles at him again, teeth blinding white. “I was asked to sit here, I hope you don’t mind.”
“What,” David asks, “the NHL provides fake girlfriends for the players who can’t get their own?”
She smiles at him like it’s her job now, tight and close-mouthed. “I’m just a seat filler,” she says. “You’re a little young for me.”
Protesting that he wasn’t hitting on her would be pointless. She probably gets hit on all the time. Instead, David looks around, wonders who else isn’t even involved in this. There are a lot of stylish, beautiful women in the crowd, but that doesn’t really mean much. He’s seen his teammates’ wives and girlfriends, and pretty much without exception, they’re all out of their league, or would be if they weren’t millionaires.
The lights dim. They start with a few musical performances that David fidgets through
, since it’s not the time or place for live music, occasionally pressing his hand against his right pocket to make sure the speech he wrote on the plane is still there, as if it could have disappeared between the opening monologue and the interminable music.
By the time they announce the Calder finalists, accompanied with short videos of their highlights, David’s checked his pocket so many times that the seat filler must think he has a nervous twitch, and he can tell he’s sweating. The confidence he’s had since he was nominated has disappeared, and all he feels is scared. The announcer — some actor David’s never heard of — keeps cracking weak jokes, taking his time, and David wants him to get on with it, needs him to get on with it.
He announces Jake Lourdes.
David doesn’t hear Lourdes’ speech. He doesn’t hear, or see, much of anything once Lourdes stands. Lourdes has a pretty girl beside him that stands with him, and he has to tilt his head down so she can kiss him on the cheek, probably leaving a smear of gloss against his skin. Lourdes heads up the stairs, and David looks down at his hands in his lap, and notices, dimly, that they’re shaking.
He can’t get them to stop.
*
David doesn’t want to go to the reception after, but he knows it would be unprofessional not to, that the same writers who deemed him unworthy of the Calder would call him a crybaby or a sore loser, that there are executives he needs to shake hands with, that Dave would yell at him if he knew David was considering just going up to his hotel room and ordering — he doesn’t even know, a piece of cake. An entire cake. Or maybe just heading to the airport and seeing if there are any red-eyes out.
He goes because it’s part of his job, even if it’s a part he hates. He orders orange juice and soda water from a bartender who smiles without recognition, leaves her a crumpled tip in the jar. He doesn’t know where Lourdes is in the crowd, and he wants to, if only so he can stay away from him. If he has to face him, he’s afraid the thin veneer of professionalism he’s plastered over himself will crack, that he’ll punch him in his smug face in front of the media and assorted important people.
No matter how much he’s trying to avoid Lourdes, it’s impossible to when the first time he catches sight of Lourdes is when Lourdes is walking right up to him, a beer in his hand even though he’s only nineteen, surrounded by people he’s supposed to impress.
He probably thinks his Calder is enough to get him a pass on underage drinking. David viciously hopes that someone takes a picture, but even then, people probably wouldn’t care. From what he can tell, Jake Lourdes gets a lifetime pass on everything. No one cares if he’s streaky, or slewfoots someone, or instigates a fight, or drinks. He’s America’s sweetheart no matter what.
“Hey,” Lourdes says, and when David just stares back at him, “I — you were really good this season.”
David’s pretty sure he’s supposed to say ‘you too’, but he doesn’t want to. Maybe Lourdes was, but he didn’t have a better season than David, and he got the award anyway. There’s nothing in him that wants to cater to Lourdes’ ego any more than it has already been catered to. David’s sure he’s had more than enough back-slaps and congratulations to swell his head for the rest of his life.
“Shouldn’t you be celebrating your victory with the piece of ass you came with?” David asks.
Lourdes looks angry, and David realises that it’s the first time he’s seen him look like that off the ice, feels dim satisfaction that he did that, finally got under Lourdes’ skin. It’s not the Calder, though. It’s not even close.
“That’s my fucking sister,” he snaps, “so yeah, I probably should, instead of talking to an asshole who just called her a piece of ass.”
David winces. “Sorry,” he says, knee-jerk. He’s well aware that sisters are pretty much considered sacrosanct in the locker room. Probably outside of it too.
The anger leaves Lourdes’ face almost as soon as it’s arrived. “There isn’t anyone—” he starts, then chews his lip. “I don’t have a girlfriend or anything.”
He cuts his eyes to the side, voice getting quieter. “Or boyfriend.”
“Okay,” David says. He doesn’t know why Lourdes thinks he cares. “Good for you.”
“Chaps—” Lourdes says.
“Don’t call me that,” David snaps, and when someone glances over, drops his eyes. “Look, you won, congratulations. Your family probably wants to celebrate with you.”
“Where’s yours?” Lourdes asks. “I didn’t see you with anyone.”
“That’s none of your fucking business,” David says, and Lourdes looks hurt, which is what he gets for prying into David’s life like it’s his right.
“David,” Lourdes says, reaching out, his hand brushing David’s sleeve, and David jerks his arm back, orange juice splashing his hand. He feels his eyes fill, and that’s worse, even, than losing control and punching Lourdes in the face in front of everyone. When he was a kid he cried after every loss until his teammates all called him Crybaby Chapman, and all that meant is he had more incentive to win, but this is a stupid contest he has no control over, and of course Lourdes won it. Everyone loves him. Of course he won again.
“I have to go,” David says, turns on his heel and walks out like a coward, dropping his glass on an unused table on his way out.
He makes it as far as the elevator bay, stabbing the up button and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to get his breathing back to even, before he hears rapid footfalls behind him. David knows it’s Lourdes without looking, because he never leaves anything alone.
“It’s bullshit, okay?” Lourdes says. “Everyone knows you did better than me, you barely went a game without a point. It’s a bullshit award.”
“And yet you’re the one who won it,” David says, not taking his hands off his eyes, so he startles, hard, when Lourdes grabs him by the arm.
“I would have voted for you,” Lourdes says. “And so would most of the guys in the league. They’re just reporters, David, they don’t know shit.”
David hears the elevator doors open and lowers his hands, hoping his eyes aren’t red. He pulls his arm free from Lourdes’ loose grip. “Enjoy your party,” he says, and steps inside.
Lourdes gets in right beside him. “Which floor?” he asks.
David stares at him until the doors shut.
“Okay,” Lourdes says. “I’m on the twelfth.” He presses the button.
“What are you doing?” David asks, anger beaten out, just for a moment, by genuine curiosity.
Lourdes shrugs. “Hanging out with you,” he says.
“You just won the Calder,” David says. “Your family is here.”
“They’ll be here tomorrow,” Lourdes says.
The doors open on twelve, and Lourdes steps out. “Coming?” he asks.
David does, but only because his room’s on the same floor. That doesn’t explain why he follows Lourdes, who’s going in the opposite direction of David’s room. He doesn’t want the explanation for that.
Lourdes opens the door, not even bothering to flip the lights on before he’s turning, leaning down to press his mouth against David’s. He pulls back when David turns his face away, but only to drop to his knees.
“Don’t,” David says, once Lourdes’ hands are on his belt, and Lourdes stops, looking up at him, face half-lit by the bright lights outside the window. The Calder Memorial Trophy winner’s on his knees in front of David just a few hours after he won, and that’s not enough. David never gets first place, and the reason’s kneeling in front of him.
“I want to fuck you,” David says, the words coming out rough, and he expects Lourdes to flinch, pull back, prove himself to be the coward David knows he is, but Lourdes just blinks twice, his lashes shadows against his cheekbones.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” David repeats, blankly.
Lourdes stands, making his way over to turn on a bedside lamp before he starts going through a bag at the foot of his bed. “Yeah,”
he says. “I’m pretty sure I — aha!”
He flourishes a strip of condoms and a small bottle of what looks like hand sanitizer but David assumes must be lube. Prepared, of course.
Maybe David should have expected that. David’s first real kiss may have been Lourdes, but Benson probably wasn’t calling him ‘Ladykiller Lourdes’ for no reason. He may have brought his sister to the Awards, but David doubts the seat filler would say that Lourdes was too young for her, especially now that he’s won a trophy that will bear his name.
David immediately has second thoughts. It was one thing to blow Lourdes without knowing what he was doing, but the full extent of his experience with anal sex is porn and a few guides, all carefully scrubbed from his browser history. Lourdes has condoms and lube on hand on a night he’s supposed to spend with his family, and he was pretty obviously used to a dick in his mouth by the time he swallowed David’s. The last thing David needs is to give Lourdes more ammunition.
Lourdes’ smile fades. “We don’t have to,” he says, like he’s placating David. “We could just hang, get room service, watch a movie or something.”
“No,” David snaps. He’s not fucking scared. He won’t let himself be. “Just — just get on the bed.”
“‘kay,” Lourdes says, shrugs his jacket off and lets it hit the floor, like it doesn’t even matter. He tugs his tie free so he can start unbuttoning his shirt, and David gets caught watching him, the slow reveal of his throat, his collarbones, before he looks away and sheds his own jacket, laying it on the bureau, taking off the cufflinks Dave bought him before the draft, the ones he’d decided were lucky. He puts them in his right pocket beside his useless speech, thinking maybe he should just throw them out. Or give them to Lourdes, because each time David’s worn them, Lourdes has won, left him with second place.
Coming in First Place (Between the Teeth Book 1) Page 6
