He doesn’t say anything, though, bites his tongue and skates to the end of the rink. He figures he’ll apologise to Markson tomorrow when he presumably doesn’t have Lourdes hanging heavily off of him, plastered to him like a second skin.

After practice and a few more minor media things, everyone heads back to the hotel. There’s a catered dinner, but most of the players skip it, breaking off in groups to find restaurants with something a little less like the hotel food they eat all the time.

David’s not inclined to bother going out. Heading back to his room after a mediocre meal, he passes Lourdes in the hall, talking to yet another opposing player. They’re saying something about enjoying the Pittsburgh nightlife, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Something alcohol-soaked, he supposes.

David has no idea how Lourdes thinks he’s going to avoid being carded, because he’s big, but he’s still got more of a baby face than practically anyone, looks all of the just barely nineteen that he is, clean shaven, soft cheeked, full-mouthed. Maybe Petersen knows about somewhere in Pittsburgh, some bar that cares more about the Penguins than it does the law or doesn’t particularly care about the law in the first place.

There’s plenty of drinking going on in the hotel rooms anyway, David quickly finds out. There must be a rookie who convinced their All-Star teammate to buy alcohol for them, or maybe the Penguins bequeathed Samuelsson with a cache, David doesn’t know.

He has no interest in drinking with a bunch of people he barely knows, people he’s going to be playing tomorrow or in the future, and he has less than no interest in playing hungover, so he guesses he’s not going to leave his room tonight, lest he run into someone who tries to strong-arm him into joining one of the impromptu parties.

David has a roommate, they all do, but his roommate, Bruyere, a Quebécois kid, makes polite conversation with David in French and then leaves to go get plastered. He’s on the other team, so he can drink himself sick for all David cares, as long as he doesn’t wake David up when he stumbles in.

David falls asleep fairly early, drifting off to the news, and when he wakes up to a burst of laughter, the TV’s off, Bruyere’s snoring in the next bed, and the digital clock beside his bed reads 2:43 a.m.

David groans and rolls over, hears someone making exaggerated shushing sounds right outside his door. Fully awake now and angry about it, David gets up, finding a hoodie on top of his duffle bag and zipping it up over his bare chest before he goes to the door, opening it to find Lourdes, Markson, and Petersen in a huddle.

“How are you this much of a lightweight?” Markson asks, loud enough to make it clear that he’s not sober either. Lourdes says something too low for David to hear, to which Petersen responds, exasperated, “We’re not even staying here tonight. I live here, so find your keycard so we can go home.”