Coming in First Place (Between the Teeth Book 1)

by Taylor Fitzpatrick

  Lourdes pays, and then they’re stranded there, more or less, Lourdes eyeing him, David trying to avoid his eyes, until Lourdes sighs, unnecessarily theatrical, and heads into the building. David follows close behind because he has no other options, beyond hailing another cab, and well — he can’t actually do that. He isn’t sure how he’s going to get back, but he won’t let himself think about that right now.

  The apartment he’s led into is a mess: shoes all over the front hall, cabinets left ajar, a tangle of wires in front of the TV, and only hockey memorabilia on the walls. David looks away from the framed Gold medal, jaw tight.

  “So this is home,” Lourdes says, awkward, then, “I’m just chilling with Goldman for the year, he usually takes in rookies. I figure I’ll get somewhere new next year.”

  “I don’t care,” David says flatly, because it’s just a backdrop, an ugly, messy backdrop, and Lourdes’ shoulders hunch, threatening, body language that makes David instinctively brace himself for a hit, then relax, almost seeming defeated.

  “You want a drink?” Lourdes asks, after a pause, like he was waiting for David to say something. “We should still have beer, and we’ve got Red Bull and Gatorade and shit.”

  “Can we just go to your room?” David asks. If Lourdes keeps offering him outs he’s going to take one; he’s practically shaking with nerves by now, not that he’s letting it show, or at least he hopes not. He wonders if that’s Lourdes’ plan or something.

  “Yeah,” Lourdes says. “Cool. Just — wait a sec, I need to be sure it’s clean.”

  David stands stranded in the front hall when Lourdes disappears. He almost wishes he’d accepted a drink so he’d have something to do with his hands, palms sweating, tie too tight against his throat, choking him. He wonders, dimly, absurdly, if Lourdes has escaped out of a back window or something.

  Lourdes comes back after a fairly extended time, in jeans and a t-shirt, which makes David feel even more awkward in his game day suit. “Sorry, dude,” he says. “Room was a mess.”

  David wants to point out he’s not Lourdes’ ‘dude’, he would never be Lourdes’ ‘dude’ in his fucking life, but that’s probably pretty self-defeating right now, so he forces himself to smile, one Lourdes blanches at.

  “Uh, come in?” he says, and David follows him into a room that’s still a mess, bed half-heartedly made, clothes on the floor shoved in a corner, drawers half-open.

  Lourdes is looking at him a little hopefully, and David can’t meet his eye, can’t even think of it. Not when they’re sitting on the bed, maybe half a metre between them, maximum, because Lourdes apparently spreads his legs wherever he goes. Not when Lourdes made his bed in the hopes of getting laid, or gay-bashing, or who knows, maybe both.

  “Mi casa es su casa,” Lourdes says, and David gives him a blank look, which Lourdes ignores, reaching in to curve a hand around David’s jaw, mouth brushing David’s again, lingering, longer than the first time, which had felt like forever, David’s heart in his throat the entire time.

  David can’t help the way his eyes flutter shut then, overwhelmed by the way Lourdes’ tongue slides, slick, into his mouth, more obscene than anything he’s ever experienced, one hand holding David still, firm against his jaw, the other nudging lower, where David’s dress shirt is tucked into his pants, a ticklish spot he’s learned to shield.

  He grabs Lourdes’ hand before it can get anywhere that’ll embarrass him, but doesn’t stop it when it curves around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, David’s breath hitching at the spark that runs through him.

  Lourdes kisses him like he’s done it a lot. Not that David would necessarily know the difference, but the way Lourdes kisses him is practiced, easy as a drill done a hundred times over, while it’s all David can do to keep up.

  Lourdes’ hands find the buttons of his shirt, blind, and it’s too much, Lourdes’ fingers brushing against his stomach where he’s revealed skin, David sucking in breath as best he can. Lourdes’ hands move up to David’s throat, which David wants to shrink away from, but he manages to stop himself, lets Lourdes tug his tie free, get the last buttons undone, before he pushes David’s shirt from his shoulders.

  David’s more naked than this around teammates every single day, but right now he truly feels it, skin prickling despite the warmth of the room, ducking his head when Lourdes pulls back to look at him.

  “Can I blow you?” Lourdes asks, and David’s head snaps up. He doesn’t look like he’s teasing or anything, eyes half-lidded, mouth plush and wet, straining the front of his jeans when David can’t stop himself from looking down, gauging interest; he knows from bitter experience that’s one thing that tends to betray someone.

  “Um,” David says, and Lourdes must take that as a yes. David’s not actually going to argue, this is one thing he doesn’t want to argue, Lourdes’ hands on his belt, Lourdes’ hair falling into his face when David lifts his hips, his fingers curled into David’s briefs, tugging them down, before he leans down and takes David in, no hesitation, mouth hot and slick and overwhelming, just taking it when David’s hips shift up without his permission.

  His eyes are hidden behind the fall of his hair, and David wants to see them, though he doesn’t know why. He fights the urge to tuck Lourdes’ hair behind his ear with an unsteady hand, closing his eyes, even though that just makes everything feel like more.

  Lourdes has done this too, there’s no way he hasn’t, no hesitation, no fumbling, so he’s either done it or he’s a prodigy at this as well. It pisses David off, hot all over, chest tight, because Lourdes managed even this before David did, and when David pushes up, Lourdes doesn’t stop him, doesn’t gag, just takes it, makes a noise around him like he wants it.

  David doesn’t want to give Lourdes anything that he wants, but he wants to fuck him more than he wants to fuck him over right now, so he shoves into the heat of his mouth, into his throat, pulls back only to come against his tongue, and Lourdes continues to just take it, swallowing around him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when David shoves him off after a few seconds, oversensitive.

  David may not want to give him anything he wants, but he doesn’t want Lourdes beating him in this either, and he wants him in his mouth as much as he hates that he wants it, so he ends up cradled between Lourdes’ thighs, breathless, Lourdes heavy, thick, stretching his mouth wide. He can’t manage to take him as deep as Lourdes took him, which bothers him, but he does the best he can, sucks him viciously, if you can give a vicious blowjob, trying to tear sound out of him.

  Lourdes is vocal, far more vocal than David was, a hand tangled in his own hair and his thighs shaking against David’s shoulders, and David finds grim satisfaction in how quickly Lourdes comes undone, breathlessly warning David, which David ignores, then coming hot, bitter against his tongue. David swallows around him, Lourdes completely surrounding him: the taste of him, the warmth of his thighs bracketing David’s head, his fingers reaching down and brushing at the corner of David’s mouth, coming away slick.

  David pulls back, sitting up, the taste lingering on his tongue. He watches Lourdes catch his breath, flushed from his cheeks down. It figures that he’d look good like that, panting like he just finished a hard shift, lips red from being stretched around David.

  He stares, and then he realises how that must look, David sitting there watching Lourdes as he comes down, so he reaches for his briefs, still tangled in his pants, gets up to put them on.

  “Heading out?” Lourdes asks, voice gravelly, and that sends another burst of heat through David, not angry, this time, just satisfied, because he’s the reason Lourdes sounds like that.

  “Curfew,” David says, abrupt, even though it can’t be for some time, and Lourdes probably knows that.

  “Cool,” Lourdes says anyway, sitting up. “See you in a month?”

  David looks up from buckling his belt. Lourdes is grinning at him with those red lips, white teeth, and David loathes him for thinking that David is go
ing to fall at his feet, let him come to David’s home ice and fuck him on his own turf. This was a mistake, that’s becoming more and more clear as David puts himself back together, buttoning his shirt while Lourdes just lounges there, unabashedly naked, because he looks good like that and he knows it.

  This was a mistake, but he can’t really quite regret it; he has it out of his system now, can get back on the ice in a month and face him and hate him, pure and clean, and know that he’s managed to make him a panting, red-faced mess, and that it’s never going to happen again. David can get back to playing better hockey than him, can beat him that way, and now he knows something about him he wouldn’t want getting out, even though it’s not something he could ever use.

  “Call you a cab?” Lourdes asks, when David’s put himself back together, Lourdes finally tugging his jeans on.

  “I can do it myself,” David says, and leaves Lourdes’ room without bothering to look back.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It’s out of his system.

  That’s what David tells himself whenever he’s overwhelmed by self-loathing, disgusted that he acted just like everyone else, swooning at Jake Lourdes’ feet. It’s what he tells himself when he jerks off in the shower, determinedly trying to think about anything other than the wet heat of Lourdes’ mouth, the way the muscles of his thigh jumped under David’s hand, the salt-bitter taste of him on his tongue. It happened, and it won’t happen again, because it’s out of his system.

  Lourdes is slumping, which helps. His whole season has been a glut of goals and then dry spells, so unreliable it’s a marvel that people are talking about him like he’s a marvel. He has pretty nights, he has pretty weeks, and then he sinks down into mediocrity, adds nothing to the box score except a couple shots, maybe, a couple hits, a couple penalty minutes, an unchanging points total.

  David’s consistent. David hasn’t gone more than two straight games this season without a point, and he may not have those flashy nights that Lourdes does, but at least he’s still producing. His points are creeping closer to Lourdes’ by the game, the two of them almost neck and neck, and David can practically taste metal against his lips, the Calder Trophy so close he could reach out and touch it.

  It’s out of his system, and the only place he’s going to see Lourdes is on the ice, one more game between them this season, one more chance to even the score, for the Islanders and for David, and then he won’t have to see him until the Awards, until he’s snatching that trophy from under his entitled, smirking face.

  When Florida comes for their final bout of the season, the Islanders are busy licking their wounds after a long, brutal trip to the West Coast. Metaphorically, because they only managed to pull three points out of the extended mess, but physically too, because Dallas makes up for any lack of skill they have by trying to take out their opponents at the knees. Literally, in Burgess’ case; he’s going to sit out the rest of the season on the IR, and the last thing they needed right now was to lose one of their top defencemen.

  Playing the Panthers is a relief after that catastrophe, and they win it. It’s ugly, nothing any of them are going to be bragging about, but it’s a chance to even the score against the Panthers and it gives them two more desperately needed points if they even want to think about playoff contention.

  The atmosphere in the room after isn’t one of victory but of a fundamental sense of relief, Kurmazov walking around to share a few quiet words with individual players, everyone taking a deep breath for the first time since they left for that doomed road trip. David lets the relief settle in him while he showers the sweat off, leaning his forehead against cool tile. It was nothing like the rout Florida handed them earlier in the season, but points are the only thing that matter, and they’re square now.

  No one’s talking about going out for victory drinks. The West Coast trip has left them all drained, and the fathers and husbands filter out quickly, the single guys making plans for a Madden marathon the next day. No one invites David, which is fine. He’s not much for video games. He’ll use the time off tomorrow to get a little conditioning in — something he doubts anyone else would want to do, unless it’s conditioning their thumbs to better work a joystick.

  Benson belatedly starts to talk about going out, but the locker room is half-empty by the time he does. David ducks out as well, stopping short when he catches Lourdes leaning against the far wall, hair damp but otherwise put together, though his tie’s hanging a little crooked.

  Lourdes grins when he meets David’s eye, pushing off the wall. David has to wonder if the arena security team is completely incompetent, letting an opposing player lurk around the home dressing room. Has to wonder whether Lourdes is out of his mind for making a habit of doing so, especially after he sucker punched Eisler, still inside the room, during a scuffle in front of the Panthers’ net.

  “What are you doing here?” David hisses, voice low so he doesn’t alert the room, because he doesn’t particularly want anyone else to come out and find Lourdes there, though it’d serve Lourdes right if Eisler came out and finished what Lourdes started.

  Lourdes shrugs, still smiling. He looks stupid. No one who just lost a game should be grinning like he is. He looks like he’s been hit in the head. David bites his tongue, looks away, immediately penitent for even having the thought. He’s heard enough lectures from coaches about how concussions aren’t jokes to have the guilt hit him like a reflex.

  “Hi to you too,” Lourdes says.

  “Hi,” David says flatly. “What are you doing here?”

  Lourdes shrugs, takes another step forward until he’s in David’s space. He’s too close, closer than David wants anyone to get, except on the ice, and then only because it’s a sign of celebration. Or a hit, David supposes.

  Lourdes has had David’s dick in his mouth, but he’s also tried to smear David against the boards more than once, so it’s not like David’s wrong to tense. This close, the four inches Lourdes has on him, the thirty-five pounds, they’re a lot more obvious than they are across the ice, and David resents that he has to look up in order to meet Lourdes’ eyes.

  “I was wondering—” Lourdes starts.

  “Jake motherfucking Lourdes!” David hears from behind him, turning to find Taylor Benson, because one obnoxious American wasn’t enough, clearly. He may not have known much about Benson when they last played the Panthers, but what he’s learned of him since has been the opposite of impressive.

  “Tay!”, Lourdes says, then pulls Benson into some over complicated greeting, involving fist bumps and chest bumps and who knows what else.

  “We’re heading out for drinks,” Benson says. “Uh, victory drinks, but hell, I’ll take the first round, throw the loser a couple.”

  “Generous of you,” Lourdes says, looking back at David for no reason he can ascertain.

  “C’mon, Lourdy,” Benson says. “Promise we’ll be nice enough.”

  David clenches his jaw. Benson and the players he hangs out with are all around David’s age, but they haven’t invited him to anything, not once. It’s not like he cares, because they’ll be knocked right back down to the minors soon enough, but it’s one thing not to invite your teammate, and it’s another thing entirely to invite an opponent.

  “I don’t know,” Lourdes says, still looking over at David. “We’ve got an early flight.”

  “You too, Chaps,” Benson says. “We’ll even sneak you a few.”

  No one standing in this hallway is twenty-one. David’s the youngest of them — yet another way Lourdes is ahead of him, if by less than two weeks — but not one of them is legal. It’s probably that, Benson looking sly and smug, offering David favours like he’s above him, that makes David snap, say, “Sure,” which, pleasingly, surprises Benson.

  Lourdes looks surprised too, but he recovers quickly, clapping a hand on Benson’s shoulder. “Lead the way, buddy,” he says, and Benson cuts a path with them following, David’s teeth still stuck in grit.

  There are appa
rently five of them going: Lourdes, David, Benson, and two more of the recent call-ups, who’ve been partaking too much during the few victories to stay up, in David’s opinion, not that anyone asks. They split up for the ride over, Benson sticking his head in the window to give the cab driver directions once David makes it clear he has no idea where the bar they’re going to is located.

  The drive into Manhattan feels like it takes forever, Lourdes’ knee knocking against David’s whenever they take a turn, and even when they don’t. David would tuck himself in more, but that would show it was bothering him, so instead he just looks out the window while Lourdes makes cheerful conversation with the cab driver, who’s a Devils fan and thus beneath David’s attention.

  “You’ve got a fake, right?” Lourdes asks, when they’re in the neighbourhood, and David cuts his eyes pointedly to the cab driver, though he doesn’t seem to care.

  “No,” David says shortly.

  “Hope this place doesn’t card, then,” Lourdes says. Of course Lourdes has a fake ID. David is the opposite of surprised.

  “Whatever,” David says. “I didn’t want to come out anyway.”

  “We could just go to yours?” Lourdes says, and David looks at him sharply, tries to find a hint of teasing, mockery, but Lourdes just looks earnest, with a hint of dirty that David emphatically hopes the cab driver isn’t picking up on.

  “No,” David says, short. “No, I’m doing this.”

  “Okay,” Lourdes says. “Cool.” He sounds like he’s trying to placate David, and David grits his teeth, looks back out the window.

  When they arrive, David jumps to pay first, not willing to let Lourdes pay a second time. The bar looks grimy, like a typical dive, the sort of place David never sets foot in. On the rare occasions he goes to bars, it’s after wins, when he’s invited by the veteran players, the ones he’d feel unprofessional turning down, and they always go to nicer places, ones that would card if he wasn’t with half the roster of a sports team. The second David steps in here he knows he’s not going to get carded this time either — not because he’s an Islander, but because they don’t care if he’s underage.