Lourdes grins when he meets David’s eye, pushing off the wall. David has to wonder if the arena security team is completely incompetent, letting an opposing player lurk around the home dressing room. Has to wonder whether Lourdes is out of his mind for making a habit of doing so, especially after he sucker punched Eisler, still inside the room, during a scuffle in front of the Panthers’ net.

“What are you doing here?” David hisses, voice low so he doesn’t alert the room, because he doesn’t particularly want anyone else to come out and find Lourdes there, though it’d serve Lourdes right if Eisler came out and finished what Lourdes started.

Lourdes shrugs, still smiling. He looks stupid. No one who just lost a game should be grinning like he is. He looks like he’s been hit in the head. David bites his tongue, looks away, immediately penitent for even having the thought. He’s heard enough lectures from coaches about how concussions aren’t jokes to have the guilt hit him like a reflex.

“Hi to you too,” Lourdes says.

“Hi,” David says flatly. “What are you doing here?”

Lourdes shrugs, takes another step forward until he’s in David’s space. He’s too close, closer than David wants anyone to get, except on the ice, and then only because it’s a sign of celebration. Or a hit, David supposes.

Lourdes has had David’s dick in his mouth, but he’s also tried to smear David against the boards more than once, so it’s not like David’s wrong to tense. This close, the four inches Lourdes has on him, the thirty-five pounds, they’re a lot more obvious than they are across the ice, and David resents that he has to look up in order to meet Lourdes’ eyes.

“I was wondering—” Lourdes starts.

“Jake motherfucking Lourdes!” David hears from behind him, turning to find Taylor Benson, because one obnoxious American wasn’t enough, clearly. He may not have known much about Benson when they last played the Panthers, but what he’s learned of him since has been the opposite of impressive.

“Tay!”, Lourdes says, then pulls Benson into some over complicated greeting, involving fist bumps and chest bumps and who knows what else.

“We’re heading out for drinks,” Benson says. “Uh, victory drinks, but hell, I’ll take the first round, throw the loser a couple.”

“Generous of you,” Lourdes says, looking back at David for no reason he can ascertain.

“C’mon, Lourdy,” Benson says. “Promise we’ll be nice enough.”

David clenches his jaw. Benson and the players he hangs out with are all around David’s age, but they haven’t invited him to anything, not once. It’s not like he cares, because they’ll be knocked right back down to the minors soon enough, but it’s one thing not to invite your teammate, and it’s another thing entirely to invite an opponent.

“I don’t know,” Lourdes says, still looking over at David. “We’ve got an early flight.”

“You too, Chaps,” Benson says. “We’ll even sneak you a few.”