No matter how much he’s trying to avoid Lourdes, it’s impossible to when the first time he catches sight of Lourdes is when Lourdes is walking right up to him, a beer in his hand even though he’s only nineteen, surrounded by people he’s supposed to impress.

He probably thinks his Calder is enough to get him a pass on underage drinking. David viciously hopes that someone takes a picture, but even then, people probably wouldn’t care. From what he can tell, Jake Lourdes gets a lifetime pass on everything. No one cares if he’s streaky, or slewfoots someone, or instigates a fight, or drinks. He’s America’s sweetheart no matter what.

“Hey,” Lourdes says, and when David just stares back at him, “I — you were really good this season.”

David’s pretty sure he’s supposed to say ‘you too’, but he doesn’t want to. Maybe Lourdes was, but he didn’t have a better season than David, and he got the award anyway. There’s nothing in him that wants to cater to Lourdes’ ego any more than it has already been catered to. David’s sure he’s had more than enough back-slaps and congratulations to swell his head for the rest of his life.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating your victory with the piece of ass you came with?” David asks.

Lourdes looks angry, and David realises that it’s the first time he’s seen him look like that off the ice, feels dim satisfaction that he did that, finally got under Lourdes’ skin. It’s not the Calder, though. It’s not even close.

“That’s my fucking sister,” he snaps, “so yeah, I probably should, instead of talking to an asshole who just called her a piece of ass.”

David winces. “Sorry,” he says, knee-jerk. He’s well aware that sisters are pretty much considered sacrosanct in the locker room. Probably outside of it too.

The anger leaves Lourdes’ face almost as soon as it’s arrived. “There isn’t anyone—” he starts, then chews his lip. “I don’t have a girlfriend or anything.”

He cuts his eyes to the side, voice getting quieter. “Or boyfriend.”

“Okay,” David says. He doesn’t know why Lourdes thinks he cares. “Good for you.”

“Chaps—” Lourdes says.

“Don’t call me that,” David snaps, and when someone glances over, drops his eyes. “Look, you won, congratulations. Your family probably wants to celebrate with you.”

“Where’s yours?” Lourdes asks. “I didn’t see you with anyone.”

“That’s none of your fucking business,” David says, and Lourdes looks hurt, which is what he gets for prying into David’s life like it’s his right.

“David,” Lourdes says, reaching out, his hand brushing David’s sleeve, and David jerks his arm back, orange juice splashing his hand. He feels his eyes fill, and that’s worse, even, than losing control and punching Lourdes in the face in front of everyone. When he was a kid he cried after every loss until his teammates all called him Crybaby Chapman, and all that meant is he had more incentive to win, but this is a stupid contest he has no control over, and of course Lourdes won it. Everyone loves him. Of course he won again.