*

The Panthers drop the hits in the third, and the Islanders get shelled. They can’t seem to shift gears from the knock down drag out game, their defence thread thin, their goaltending woeful. Fuller lets in four goals on twelve shots, and the Islanders can’t get any of their own back, not a thing, so the score beams out 4-0, and the Islanders leave the ice with the same grit tooth, clenched jaw feeling as before, with the added sting of bile.

David can’t meet anyone’s eyes. He feels like everyone is looking at him, even though he knows they’re not, locked inside their own misery, a few pulling themselves out of it long enough to wander over to commiserate with Barker, who hasn’t moved from where he was sitting during the second intermission other than to change to street clothes, his chin darkened with hasty stitches.

Kurmazov elbows David lightly as he unlaces his skates, but he doesn’t say anything. David’s grateful for that, albeit in an exhausted, beat down way. He stands under the spray of the shower while it batters over his various aches, but makes it a short one. He doesn’t want to linger, would rather go to sleep aching than stick around any longer, deal with any of the looks he isn’t getting, the ones he feels regardless.

The bus to the hotel is almost empty when he reaches it, set to idle awhile, and David prefers the sticky Florida heat to the manufactured cold. His hair, still wet, sticks to his temples, drying fast as he leans against the hot metal of the coach, exhales slowly. He looks down at his phone so he doesn’t have to make eye contact with anyone, and he doesn’t realise until the last ten feet, the unmistakable stride, that it isn’t a teammate walking over to him.

He straightens up, waits until Lourdes is five feet away before he opens his mouth. “What do you want?” he asks.

He doesn’t know why Lourdes looks injured by that, and he doesn’t care. He can still feel the jab of the stick around his waist, the humiliation of the Panthers bench looking over to see who was getting called a faggot. He doesn’t care at all about Jake fucking Lourdes’ sensitivity.

Lourdes stops just outside of his personal space, too close still, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Sorry about Brzezinski,” he says, after a moment.

David bites down on the inside of his cheek. “I’ve heard all that shit before,” he says.

“I’m sorry about that too,” Lourdes says, and David feels anger, white hot, wash over him, the worst it’s been all day.

“Oh fuck you,” David snaps, and takes no satisfaction from the way Lourdes looks taken aback. “So fucking what if he said that shit? The only reason anyone knows he said it is because you ran your mouth.”

“So what, I should have just let him say that shit to you?” Lourdes asks.

“Yes!” David yells. “What, he can’t say that shit but you can hook me, and that’s all fine? The only person who can pull shit is you?”