David’s sore, took a check — from Lourdes, of course — that’s messed up his shoulder, and he feels tense, tight, furious. He’s taking it personally, maybe because everyone keeps telling him to take it personally.

The stalemate continues through half the period and another 8 shots from the Panthers, but Knutsen can only do so much, and the Panthers play dirty, coming in hot on a missed pass that’s entirely David’s fault, Goldman catching David on the way back with a stick around the shins and sending him sprawling, forcing a three-on-two.

They don’t get a clear shot, but David’s still scrambling up when they form a screen, Lourdes maybe an inch from Knutsen’s face, crowding him into his crease when Gallagher shovels it in, and the bench is already erupting in protest when the goal lights up. They don’t wave it off, but it goes above their heads, Kurmazov gesturing furiously at the ref while Gallagher stands back and gloats, like he knows something they don’t, which he might, because the call on the ice stands even after they send it back to headquarters.

The final score is 2-0, the Panthers sealing the deal with an empty-net goal. The mood is dark going back into the room, Knutsen not talking to anyone, a pall settling, the team dead silent. No one says a word until the media crams its way in, filling the room with noise again.

David’s tired, drained, but that anger still simmers its way through him, keeping his muscles tight, tense. He needs a shower. He needs to go home, punch a pillow, sleep it off until it pales the next morning, the way bad losses always do. He can’t do that, though, not yet, because of course the media wants to talk to him. Of course they want to talk to him about Jake fucking Lourdes, who didn’t even have a goal, though he should have been the reason one of them was disallowed.

They ask David about the giveaway, which he deserves to be asked about, deserves to be called out on, but they shift to Lourdes quickly enough, ask about the hit, ask about how he felt about the goal. David does his best not to give them anything, but they keep on it, nagging, someone from NBC asking how he felt playing Lourdes for the first time, as if David hasn’t ever been across the dot from his smug, smirking face, as if he hadn’t taken Gold from Lourdes’ fingertips.

“I don’t know why you keep asking me about him,” David snaps, forgetting, for a moment, to provide the nice, polite, non-committal answer they’re expecting. “As far as I’m concerned, Jake Lourdes is completely irrelevant.”

They muscle in closer, suddenly animated, and —

Shit. That’s going to be the sound bite.

CHAPTER THREE

After that, the media’s all over the stupid Chapman-Lourdes rivalry, and David can’t blame anyone but himself. He can’t even blame Lourdes, because his only response when asked about David’s statement was a bit of a smirk and a comment that his play was showing just how relevant he was. Which was arrogant, maybe, but nothing the media wasn’t saying already, nothing David could even argue, not when he was still trying to catch up to him. Or, not even catch up, just to make his own place. Preferably ahead of Lourdes.