David must shift or something, because Petersen looks up, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Hey asshole,” he says. “Come and help or go to bed. No one needs any more of your superior bullshit.”

David flinches, the guilt abruptly returning, and that must be why he ends up grabbing his keycard from his jeans and shoving his feet, sockless, into his running shoes before going back out into the hall.

“Hold him up or check his pockets,” Petersen says when David comes over. “Your pick.”

David ends up taking Markson’s place, Lourdes’ arm heavy around his shoulders, a crushing weight against David’s side. He looks over at David, smiling blearily.

“Chapman,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Shut up, Lourdes,” Petersen says under his breath, and David likes him more, suddenly.

Markson makes a triumphant sound, his hand in Lourdes’ back pocket — David looks away, flushing — before pulling out a keycard and holding the door open while David and Petersen struggle to move over two-hundred pounds of unyielding weight.

They take Lourdes to the nearest bed and silently communicate a drop, and David feels grimly pleased when Lourdes groans upon landing. It’s close to pitch-black, curtains drawn, the only light from the still open door, so it’s almost easy to look at the shadow that’s Markson and say, “Sorry about today, I didn’t mean to —”

“Whatever,” Markson says. “We’re heading out, and Jake technically shares this room with me, so if you find him aspirin and a glass of water we’re cool.”

They do leave, Markson pressing the keycard into David’s hand, and David goes back to his room, rifling through his duffle as silently as possible until he finds some painkillers, grabbing a bottle of water he’d already put into the mini-fridge and heading to Lourdes’ room, where he’s passed out, fully dressed, exactly where David and Petersen left him.

David puts the water and a few Advil on the bedside table, along with the keycard. He considers doing only as much as Markson explicitly asked him to, leaving Lourdes there to suffer in the morning, but they’re on the same team, at least for tomorrow, and are probably going to be on the same line. David doesn’t like to lose, would never willingly sabotage his chances, so he shoves Lourdes’ shoulder until he responds with a groan.

“Get up, Lourdes,” David says. “You’re still in your coat.”

Lourdes groans again, but after some more strategic shoves, he finally sits up. “David?” he says, squinting up at David in the dim light.

“Get undressed,” David says. “Drink this water. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

Lourdes struggles with the zipper of his coat, which David isn’t particularly inclined to help him with, considering he’s the idiot who got plastered before a game, meaningless or not. He has less trouble with his shirt, and David looks away, face hot, when he reaches for the zipper of his jeans.

“Well, good,” David says awkwardly. “Drink that water.” He doesn’t wait around to see if Lourdes actually manages his jeans, just heads back to his room and wraps himself in his blankets, tries to sleep, though between the dim rage at being awoken and Bruyere’s chainsaw-like snores, it’s almost impossible.