No one standing in this hallway is twenty-one. David’s the youngest of them — yet another way Lourdes is ahead of him, if by less than two weeks — but not one of them is legal. It’s probably that, Benson looking sly and smug, offering David favours like he’s above him, that makes David snap, say, “Sure,” which, pleasingly, surprises Benson.

Lourdes looks surprised too, but he recovers quickly, clapping a hand on Benson’s shoulder. “Lead the way, buddy,” he says, and Benson cuts a path with them following, David’s teeth still stuck in grit.

There are apparently five of them going: Lourdes, David, Benson, and two more of the recent call-ups, who’ve been partaking too much during the few victories to stay up, in David’s opinion, not that anyone asks. They split up for the ride over, Benson sticking his head in the window to give the cab driver directions once David makes it clear he has no idea where the bar they’re going to is located.

The drive into Manhattan feels like it takes forever, Lourdes’ knee knocking against David’s whenever they take a turn, and even when they don’t. David would tuck himself in more, but that would show it was bothering him, so instead he just looks out the window while Lourdes makes cheerful conversation with the cab driver, who’s a Devils fan and thus beneath David’s attention.

“You’ve got a fake, right?” Lourdes asks, when they’re in the neighbourhood, and David cuts his eyes pointedly to the cab driver, though he doesn’t seem to care.

“No,” David says shortly.

“Hope this place doesn’t card, then,” Lourdes says. Of course Lourdes has a fake ID. David is the opposite of surprised.

“Whatever,” David says. “I didn’t want to come out anyway.”

“We could just go to yours?” Lourdes says, and David looks at him sharply, tries to find a hint of teasing, mockery, but Lourdes just looks earnest, with a hint of dirty that David emphatically hopes the cab driver isn’t picking up on.

“No,” David says, short. “No, I’m doing this.”

“Okay,” Lourdes says. “Cool.” He sounds like he’s trying to placate David, and David grits his teeth, looks back out the window.

When they arrive, David jumps to pay first, not willing to let Lourdes pay a second time. The bar looks grimy, like a typical dive, the sort of place David never sets foot in. On the rare occasions he goes to bars, it’s after wins, when he’s invited by the veteran players, the ones he’d feel unprofessional turning down, and they always go to nicer places, ones that would card if he wasn’t with half the roster of a sports team. The second David steps in here he knows he’s not going to get carded this time either — not because he’s an Islander, but because they don’t care if he’s underage.

Benson, Romano, and Samuels are already settled down in a booth near the back, and David barely has time to slide in, Lourdes boxing him into a corner, before the bartender’s setting three pitchers on the table. Two are obviously beer, one light, one dark, and there’s another, smaller, that looks like orange juice.