He does eventually fall asleep, must, because when he wakes up the chainsaw noise is Bruyere’s electric toothbrush. David is groggy at breakfast, unsurprisingly feeling off after a night of interrupted sleep, though at least Lourdes looks worse, red eyes and a slump to his broad shoulders.

Lourdes skates over to David at warm-up, towering over David where he’s on his knees stretching.

“What?” David says, hating that he’s practically getting a crick in his neck trying to meet Lourdes’ eyes.

“Marksy said you helped out last night,” Lourdes says. “Thanks.”

“Whatever,” David says. It figures he wouldn’t remember, with how drunk he was. It would serve him right if he was too sick to play, but he looks fine now.

Better than fine, it turns out. He’s on David’s opposite wing on the first line, and from the first face-off he seems to have a sense of where David’s going to end up, sending passes that go tape to tape, connect firmly, the best kind of set-up David could get. The score’s ridiculous, like it always is during All-Stars, a 10-8 final, but it’s in their favour.

David scores two goals, both with Lourdes assisting, and Lourdes ends up with one of his own, the game-winner. They’re on the ice when the time ticks down, and Lourdes crashes into him, practically bowls him over, forehead knocking against David’s helmet.

“Not bad, Chapman,” he shouts, grinning, and David, always happy to win, can’t help but smile back.

The adrenaline doesn’t really last; the win doesn’t mean anything except maybe to some Penguins who had bets about whether Samuelsson or Petersen would win. There are no points, no medals, no cups. No one cares, not really. Lourdes was David’s teammate for all of a day, but now he isn’t, and that’s what matters.

Lourdes comes over in the dressing room after the game, towel slung low on his hips and hair sticking damply to his forehead, droplets of water beading on his chest.

“Good game, bud,” he says, smiling that smile that David hates more than anything.

David looks up at him, at that stupid, ridiculous smile, all teeth.

“I’m not your friend, bud,” David says, and then he ducks his head, keeping his eyes on the floor until Lourdes goes away.

CHAPTER FIVE

David and the Islanders are back in Florida less than two weeks after the All-Star Weekend. David’s less inclined to soak up the sun this time, less than impressed with everyone who does. Last time, it left them sun-stupid, stunned.

He isn’t planning on saying anything, even though he wants to. No one takes him seriously, the rookie designation hanging over his head like it means he’s immature. He cracks after seeing half the team rushing through breakfast, all talking about catching some ‘rays’.

He looks over at Brouwer, who’s sitting the closest to David, snorting over The New York Times. At least he doesn’t look inclined to go tanning.

“I don’t think it’s good for our game to spend the whole day lying in the sun,” David says.