“Hey,” Lourdes says, smiles at him, no teeth this time, close mouthed. He’s got a dimple in one cheek that David’s never noticed before.

David waves one hand, internally wincing at how awkward that seems.

“I wasn’t bullshitting earlier,” Lourdes says. “We’ve got an early flight out to Chicago.”

“Okay?” David says.

“I’ve probably blown curfew, but,” Lourdes says, shrugs a shoulder. “I should get back before that’s for sure.”

“Yeah,” David says. He’s reminded of his own excuse about curfew when he was down in Florida, the way he’d had to beg Kurmazov to come down and pay the cab driver for him because they didn’t take debit, flushed with shame.

Kurmazov never mentioned it after, rolled his eyes at David when he paid him back the next day but acted like it was nothing, even when David was sure he must’ve known. Known what, David couldn’t imagine, but every scenario was worse than the one before, the worst, of course, being Kurmazov knowing the truth.

Lourdes comes up to him, shoes on his living room carpet. David manages not to flinch, or to look down pointedly at his own socked feet, but it’s a struggle. “I’ll see you,” Lourdes says, “Good luck against the Leafs tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” David says, automatic, and Lourdes leans down, mouth against David’s. He pulls back before David can do more than register the kiss.

“Bye,” Lourdes says, and David echoes it as Lourdes heads through his front door. David stays where he is, looking at the imprint of Lourdes’ shoes on his carpet, trying to discern if he’s left dirt behind. Wonders why Lourdes bowing out with some flimsy excuse makes him feel blank instead of relieved. It’s no surprise Lourdes is full of shit. David has had him pegged from the start.

David nudges his toe against the flattened threads, trying to put them back to rights, before he goes to lock the door behind him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The rest of the season feels like a status quo, and that isn’t a good thing, since the Islanders end it sitting well out of contention. The Panthers are even worse off, but that isn’t much of a comfort when David’s season is over while over half the league prepares for the playoffs.

The only bright spot is that he ends up shortlisted for the Calder as expected, along with Lourdes and a distant third who probably shouldn’t even bother to show up.

Lourdes ends the season with three more points than him. Just three. More goals than David by a fairly wide margin, but Lourdes spent his whole season alternating hot streaks and cold spells, once went ten straight games without a point, and David’s been nothing if not consistent. It comes down to short-term glory or long-term success, and David hopes, no, he knows that hockey writers aren’t going to be fooled by Lourdes’ pretty nights like fans seem to be, that they know that David had the better season.

He considers spending the offseason in New York, because at least here he has a lease and could easily arrange some training, but the majority of the players leave within the first week, Kurmazov to Russia and then the World Championships, the rest to home and hopefully improvement, and it’s harder than David would have thought to convince trainers to take him on. He stays for a week — arranging for a cleaning service for when he’s gone, throwing out the contents of his fridge, and packing summer clothes — and then he goes back to Ottawa before the first round series are even properly underway.