David sits stiff, uncomfortable beside Kurmazov, who is practically smouldering, a rare occurrence that David doesn’t know what to do with. Kurmazov’s usually even-keeled, calms the team by example, but he’s singing with tension now, and the whole bench is wound as tight as he is. When the Panthers’ fourth line ices the puck after a long shift, David’s just relieved not to be sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, feeling the tension sink under his own skin, settle heavy in him.

When their line jumps on with fresh legs, the Panthers players are gasping like fish on land, so gassed it looks like it takes all their energy to just skate the few feet to the circle. Their coach is arguing, but he doesn’t call a timeout, so David matches up against Brzezinski, who looks like the only thing holding up his considerable bulk is the stick he’s leaning on.

It doesn’t stop him from mouthing off the second David skates into place beside him, panting out some comment about David’s mouth, the typical ‘cocksucker’ bullshit that has David bitterly remembering that the entire US Junior team called him pretty boy in the privacy of their locker room.

David gives Brzezinski a completely unimpressed look, one he’s practiced a lot. It’s hard to take any chirp seriously when it’s panted out between gasps for air, and David isn’t going to waste any energy on a fourth line moron who’s trying to buy more time by riling David up. He isn’t going to give the Panthers any satisfaction.

“Too good for this shit, huh, Chapman,” Brzezinski says, then smirks. “That stick in your ass must hurt.”

David rolls his eyes, waiting for the puck to drop, but the ref’s consulting with Kurmazov about something, giving the Panthers more time than they deserve.

“You ever get sick of it, I can pull it out and shove something else in there for you. Bet you’d like that. Bet you’d fucking love it, pretty boy.”

“Cut the shit, Brzezinski,” Lourdes calls, sharp, leaning over the end of the Panthers bench. “You know what the league policy on homophobic comments is.”

Brzezinski doesn’t look away from David. “I’m just asking him what he’s doing later, Captain,” he says, grinning at David. His teeth are very white. “Whaddya say, Chapman? Wanna come back to mine?”

David’s flushes red, humiliated and completely unable to think of a comeback. It’s not the comment — he’s heard similar ones more times than he can count — it’s Lourdes bringing attention to it. Half the Panthers bench have looked over to find out what Lourdes is telling Brzezinski off about, Kurmazov looking over from the circle. It ends up distracting Kurmazov, too; he drops his stick too early, gets thrown out of the circle, David subbing in, giving the Panthers even more time to suck in air.

David takes the face-off, loses it, and the only consolation is that when the puck gets passed back, Brzezinski shoots the puck like he’s aiming for the net and ices it all over again, and this time the second line goes out to meet them. Kurmazov nudges David as they’re sitting down, back to responsible captain. David can’t look at him.