If it is gay chicken, Lourdes is intent on playing it. He calls a cab, because apparently his roommate was his ride and took his car right with him to his girlfriend’s. Lourdes tips his phone screen to show David, like he needs evidence, a text from ‘Goldie’ that reads ya. lol u go man, which implies — whatever this is, probably.

David feels colour rise in his cheeks when he reads it. He can’t meet Lourdes’ eyes, respond to the small talk Lourdes is making: he talks about Benson, who David doesn’t really know that well, since he just got called up last week; about the weather in Florida, which is warm, and in New York, which is cold, like that’s anything new. Everything but hockey or why David’s not going back to his hotel like he should, is instead sitting in the backseat of a cab with a guy he can’t stand, taking up as little space as possible, because Lourdes is all limbs, knee nearly nudging David’s even though David is hunched into himself.

David can feel the heat coming off Lourdes even through his suit pants, tailored tight over the spread of his thighs, feel the heat still in his own cheeks. He keeps thinking about the feeling of Lourdes’ mouth against his, a slightly wet press, caught off guard, and he bites his bottom lip until all he can feel is the sting of it.

They stop in front of a nondescript apartment building, and Lourdes reaches for his wallet. David wants to beat him to until he realises, mortified, that he doesn’t have cash on him and his credit card’s sitting beside his bed in the hotel room, left behind after he ordered grocery delivery for the day of his return.

Lourdes pays, and then they’re stranded there, more or less, Lourdes eyeing him, David trying to avoid his eyes, until Lourdes sighs, unnecessarily theatrical, and heads into the building. David follows close behind because he has no other options, beyond hailing another cab, and well — he can’t actually do that. He isn’t sure how he’s going to get back, but he won’t let himself think about that right now.

The apartment he’s led into is a mess: shoes all over the front hall, cabinets left ajar, a tangle of wires in front of the TV, and only hockey memorabilia on the walls. David looks away from the framed Gold medal, jaw tight.

“So this is home,” Lourdes says, awkward, then, “I’m just chilling with Goldman for the year, he usually takes in rookies. I figure I’ll get somewhere new next year.”

“I don’t care,” David says flatly, because it’s just a backdrop, an ugly, messy backdrop, and Lourdes’ shoulders hunch, threatening, body language that makes David instinctively brace himself for a hit, then relax, almost seeming defeated.

“You want a drink?” Lourdes asks, after a pause, like he was waiting for David to say something. “We should still have beer, and we’ve got Red Bull and Gatorade and shit.”