He considers pushing right past him, but instead he stops. “What,” he says flatly.

“You okay?” Lourdes asks. “I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”

His face is serious, but David feels like there’s a smirk just in the way he’s talking, something smug. That he’s pointing out that he knocked David down, pointing out that there was a rout that David was on the wrong end of, Lourdes so magnanimous with victory.

David’s sore, and he’s pissed off, and he’s sick of him. He hasn’t talked to Lourdes since they were drafted, has never said more than a few sentences to him in his entire life, but he’s still sick of him, he’s so sick of Jake Lourdes and his shadow that he could scream.

“Are you serious right now?” David asks. “You come by after a fucking rout to say sorry for hurting me?”

Lourdes looks confused. “I’m not going to apologise for winning,” he says. “If that’s what you’re asking for.”

David grits his teeth. “I’m not asking for anything from you,” he snaps.

“Okay,” Lourdes says, puts his palms up, placating, and David wants to punch him in his stupid face. Even more because he seems to genuinely mean what he’s saying, in which case, he’s as stupid as he looks. David has no interest in his apologies.

“Look,” Lourdes says. “I really am sorry, okay? I know the media’s been, like, obsessing about us and everything, but I really didn’t mean anything by it. I don’t even get why they’re doing it. You don’t play anything like me.”

David’s torn between vehement agreement, because at least someone’s finally noticed that, and arguing, just because the idea of agreeing with Lourdes leaves a bad taste in his mouth, especially when his shoulder’s still throbbing with his heartbeat. “Fine,” he says, instead.

Lourdes frowns. It’s almost a pout, pink bottom lip jutting out. David bets some girl told him he looked cute like that and he kept doing it, but it just makes him look even more confused. David wonders if that’s his natural mental state. He wouldn’t be surprised.

He would never make assumptions about a player’s level of intelligence based on play style — Brouwer destroyed everyone at Scrabble once Farmer somehow convinced him to play — but David would be shocked if Lourdes had cracked a book since he graduated high school. Unless magazines count.

“We cool?” Lourdes asks.

“We’re fine,” David grits out, and Lourdes looks content with that. He goes to clap his hand against David’s aching shoulder before hesitating.

“Um,” Lourdes says, pulling his hand back and stuffing it in his pocket. “Cool. See you in February?”

“Looking forward to it,” David says, and he is, just for a chance to wipe the Panthers off the ice.

When he gets back to the room he shares with Howard, he doesn’t have the energy for a bath, doesn’t have the energy for anything, just changes into pyjama bottoms and goes to lie down on the far bed, which Howard, thankfully, takes as a sign to leave the room.