“Did you let me win?” David asks quietly.

Jake snorts.

“Just because I’m not a sore loser doesn’t mean I like losing,” he says. “I don’t let anyone win. Except maybe my mom, but she is a sore loser, and it’s totally not worth dealing with it just to win a game of Monopoly or something.”

David gives him another doubtful look.

“We can pick up some take-out, watch a movie again?” Jake asks. “I mean, if you want.”

David flushes, unsure what ‘watch a movie’ means to Jake, but very aware of what it now means to him, ducking his head so that Jake — and Vincent, who’s muttering to himself in the net because goaltenders are all a little strange — won’t see his cheeks light up.

*

Jake doesn’t even bother to pick him up curbside that night, just waits around until David’s ready to leave.

“There’s this awesome Indian place near the condo that has a bunch of healthy shit,” he says. “You like Indian?”

“Sure,” David says.

The food is good, though David ends up needing to take Jake up on the offer of a beer just to kill some of the sting in his mouth. Jake gives David the remote again, and David picks a movie he’s already seen. Not that he’s expecting anything, but the last time they ‘watched’ a movie he had to download it afterwards because not knowing how it ended was bothering him.

It ends up being a good decision, because being pressed up against Jake shoulder to knee is bad for David’s concentration. He doesn’t even remember what movie they’re watching by the time he’s on his back, a hand fisted in Jake’s hair and another, slightly more tentative, on his ass. When David shifts beneath him, his thigh brushes against Jake’s dick, and Jake groans into his mouth, pulls away.

“Okay,” he says breathlessly. “I was trying to be good, but can I please blow you?”

David stares at him. He has no idea how that isn’t being good. That’s about as good a thing as he can think of.

“Yes,” he says, finally.

“Awesome,” Jake says.

The word’s starting to grow on David.

*

The next morning, David wakes thirty minutes after his alarm was supposed to go off, stubs his toe on his laptop, which he doesn’t even remember leaving on the floor, and has to fight with the shower for five minutes before it stops cycling between scalding hot and barely lukewarm. He should have known it would be a bad day. He isn’t as superstitious as some of his teammates, but it still should have tipped him off.

David makes it to practice on time, if not early enough to get any extra work in before everyone else arrives. His reaction times are all off, always a microsecond behind where they should be. Caldwell seems to notice, which is embarrassing, and David’s frustrated with himself by the time their ice-time is up.

His frustration must be obvious, because Hamilton punches his arm lightly, offering him an encouraging look. A captain even in the off-season, even away from his own team. David gives him a small smile before making his escape to his stall, hoping he doesn’t drop weights on his foot or sprain his ankle jogging, because at the rate today is going it’s a plausible concern.