“I don’t think you’re in the right seat,” David says after she shows no sign of leaving.

She smiles at him again, teeth blinding white. “I was asked to sit here, I hope you don’t mind.”

“What,” David asks, “the NHL provides fake girlfriends for the players who can’t get their own?”

She smiles at him like it’s her job now, tight and close-mouthed. “I’m just a seat filler,” she says. “You’re a little young for me.”

Protesting that he wasn’t hitting on her would be pointless. She probably gets hit on all the time. Instead, David looks around, wonders who else isn’t even involved in this. There are a lot of stylish, beautiful women in the crowd, but that doesn’t really mean much. He’s seen his teammates’ wives and girlfriends, and pretty much without exception, they’re all out of their league, or would be if they weren’t millionaires.

The lights dim. They start with a few musical performances that David fidgets through, since it’s not the time or place for live music, occasionally pressing his hand against his right pocket to make sure the speech he wrote on the plane is still there, as if it could have disappeared between the opening monologue and the interminable music.

By the time they announce the Calder finalists, accompanied with short videos of their highlights, David’s checked his pocket so many times that the seat filler must think he has a nervous twitch, and he can tell he’s sweating. The confidence he’s had since he was nominated has disappeared, and all he feels is scared. The announcer — some actor David’s never heard of — keeps cracking weak jokes, taking his time, and David wants him to get on with it, needs him to get on with it.

He announces Jake Lourdes.

David doesn’t hear Lourdes’ speech. He doesn’t hear, or see, much of anything once Lourdes stands. Lourdes has a pretty girl beside him that stands with him, and he has to tilt his head down so she can kiss him on the cheek, probably leaving a smear of gloss against his skin. Lourdes heads up the stairs, and David looks down at his hands in his lap, and notices, dimly, that they’re shaking.

He can’t get them to stop.

*

David doesn’t want to go to the reception after, but he knows it would be unprofessional not to, that the same writers who deemed him unworthy of the Calder would call him a crybaby or a sore loser, that there are executives he needs to shake hands with, that Dave would yell at him if he knew David was considering just going up to his hotel room and ordering — he doesn’t even know, a piece of cake. An entire cake. Or maybe just heading to the airport and seeing if there are any red-eyes out.

He goes because it’s part of his job, even if it’s a part he hates. He orders orange juice and soda water from a bartender who smiles without recognition, leaves her a crumpled tip in the jar. He doesn’t know where Lourdes is in the crowd, and he wants to, if only so he can stay away from him. If he has to face him, he’s afraid the thin veneer of professionalism he’s plastered over himself will crack, that he’ll punch him in his smug face in front of the media and assorted important people.