“Yes,” David says, which makes Lourdes laugh again.

They’re quiet in the cab, other than Lourdes beating out some abstracted, off-rhythm pattern on his thigh that makes David’s teeth clench, before Lourdes says, “Do they always treat you like that?”

“Pretty much,” David says.

“That’s fucked up,” Lourdes says. “They’re supposed to be team.”

David shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

“Okay, that’s fucked up,” Lourdes says.

“It is what it is,” David says, and Lourdes looks like he’s going to say something, but doesn’t, returns to tapping out that little beat on his thigh until David can’t stand it, reaching out to still him. Lourdes does, and when David takes his hand away, he doesn’t start again, though he’s watching David hard, scrutiny that David’s more than used to, but is never going to like.

It’s not that far to David’s place, and David beats Lourdes to the fare again. Lourdes stands too close to him in the elevator, arm nudging David’s shoulder.

David’s been half-hard since the bar, Lourdes’ hands on him while he and Benson talked about some epic prank pulled on their coach, of all people. Lourdes was in his space all night like it was his right, like David let anyone in it, and David’s hyper-aware of everywhere they’re touching now, of everywhere they’ve touched since the game ended, his body lit up, leaning into Lourdes before he can even think to do otherwise.

Lourdes is almost plastered against him by the time David’s unlocking his door, and it should be claustrophobic, the way he’s boxing David in, nudging David through the door when it’s finally open, but it isn’t. David turns around once they’re inside. Lourdes has the shadow of a bruise on his jaw, and it could be from a fight, an errant stick, could be someone’s mouth leaving marks against his skin. David doesn’t care. He’s pissed still, less at Lourdes, since he was the least of it, than the whole night, win excepted, and he’s heard teammates talk in the room about needing to fight or to fuck, but he’s never understood it until now, caught between the urges.

He settles for the latter, but not by much, drops to his knees in his own hallway like the worst kind of easy, because he wants to get off, he wants to get Lourdes off, but he wants it to hurt. Maybe not in the obvious ways, but he wants to leave Lourdes overwhelmed, so he can’t laugh at nothing, so he doesn’t have some reply always on his tongue, like it’s easy. He wants to be better than Lourdes, and if he’s better on his knees, he’ll take it.

“Wow, okay,” Lourdes says, kind of dim, helping David with his belt. David’s knees are already starting to protest — porn did not accurately portray how terrible hardwood would be on joints — but David refuses to get up, take it somewhere easier, not with Lourdes’ hands already unsteady on his belt, cock flushed dark at the tip once he manages to get his pants and his briefs down around his thighs, like he’s been turned on as long as David has, like he’d chatted about Juniors hard in his pants.