“I have to go,” David says, turns on his heel and walks out like a coward, dropping his glass on an unused table on his way out.

He makes it as far as the elevator bay, stabbing the up button and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to get his breathing back to even, before he hears rapid footfalls behind him. David knows it’s Lourdes without looking, because he never leaves anything alone.

“It’s bullshit, okay?” Lourdes says. “Everyone knows you did better than me, you barely went a game without a point. It’s a bullshit award.”

“And yet you’re the one who won it,” David says, not taking his hands off his eyes, so he startles, hard, when Lourdes grabs him by the arm.

“I would have voted for you,” Lourdes says. “And so would most of the guys in the league. They’re just reporters, David, they don’t know shit.”

David hears the elevator doors open and lowers his hands, hoping his eyes aren’t red. He pulls his arm free from Lourdes’ loose grip. “Enjoy your party,” he says, and steps inside.

Lourdes gets in right beside him. “Which floor?” he asks.

David stares at him until the doors shut.

“Okay,” Lourdes says. “I’m on the twelfth.” He presses the button.

“What are you doing?” David asks, anger beaten out, just for a moment, by genuine curiosity.

Lourdes shrugs. “Hanging out with you,” he says.

“You just won the Calder,” David says. “Your family is here.”

“They’ll be here tomorrow,” Lourdes says.

The doors open on twelve, and Lourdes steps out. “Coming?” he asks.

David does, but only because his room’s on the same floor. That doesn’t explain why he follows Lourdes, who’s going in the opposite direction of David’s room. He doesn’t want the explanation for that.

Lourdes opens the door, not even bothering to flip the lights on before he’s turning, leaning down to press his mouth against David’s. He pulls back when David turns his face away, but only to drop to his knees.

“Don’t,” David says, once Lourdes’ hands are on his belt, and Lourdes stops, looking up at him, face half-lit by the bright lights outside the window. The Calder Memorial Trophy winner’s on his knees in front of David just a few hours after he won, and that’s not enough. David never gets first place, and the reason’s kneeling in front of him.

“I want to fuck you,” David says, the words coming out rough, and he expects Lourdes to flinch, pull back, prove himself to be the coward David knows he is, but Lourdes just blinks twice, his lashes shadows against his cheekbones.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” David repeats, blankly.

Lourdes stands, making his way over to turn on a bedside lamp before he starts going through a bag at the foot of his bed. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m pretty sure I — aha!”

He flourishes a strip of condoms and a small bottle of what looks like hand sanitizer but David assumes must be lube. Prepared, of course.