If their last game against Florida was a disaster, this is a bloodbath. Hamburg lets in two in the first five minutes, and that’s just a sign of things to come. By midway through the second, it’s 4-0, Knutsen’s relieved Hamburg at the net, looking murderous again, and they’ve spent the majority of the game in their zone, playing a frantic defensive game, which is not their strength. It’s not the Panthers’ either, but they don’t need it to be tonight, not with the way they keep driving in, peppering the net, forcing the Islanders to be a reactionary team instead of an active one.

On a rare chance to get it back into the Panthers zone, David skates it in instead of bothering with chip and chase, knowing where that will lead. David’s just made it past the blue line when he’s crushed against the boards at an awkward angle that brings him down, winded, gasping, his shoulder throbbing, and he is the opposite of surprised to find out it’s Lourdes who gets two minutes for boarding.

Their trainer checks in on him once he’s back on the bench, but there’s nothing to be done but to play through the pain. It’s nothing serious, but it’s another frustration in a game of frustrations. David almost wishes he was the kind of player who would go after opponents, who could go after opponents, the kind of player who could stack up against Lourdes. Brouwer lurks around Lourdes instead, at least until Florida’s enforcer takes him on once Brouwer’s gotten one too many cheapshots in, and the mostly empty arena rings with cheers once again, like they’ve ever fucking stopped.

At the end of the game it’s 7-1 — David’s goal, but it doesn’t matter — and everyone shuffles into the room quietly, Knutsen and Hamburg white-faced and grim, the rest of them keeping their heads down to avoid their eyes. The Panthers had 47 shots on net, the Islanders 16, and everyone knows whose fault this is.

David’s sore when he’s pulling off his pads, and sore when he’s showering, and sore when he’s getting back into his game day suit. He wishes they were at home, wishes he could sink into an ice bath, take some of the ache away, the throb of his shoulder and the dull exhaustion of the rest of him. Instead he just looks forward to getting back to his hotel room, locking his road roommate out of the bathroom, drawing a bath and trying to drown himself. He’s actively longing for it.

But first he has to deal with the media. He gives them nothing this time, and lets them swarm around the Kurmazov and the goalies like flies on a carcass. He gets out as quickly as he can, but he’s stopped in the hall by Jake Lourdes leaning against the wall like he belongs there, which, since he’s in front of the visitor’s room, he decidedly does not. David doesn’t have the patience for this right now.