Coming in First Place (Between the Teeth Book 1)

by Taylor Fitzpatrick

  They split into two groups, Majors guiding the blues out into, presumably, another, similar room. The thinned group remains with Caldwell, and Lourdes is still there, minus his friend from the Panthers, because of course he is.

  There’s finally enough room for everyone to take a seat, and David has a wide open spot beside him, but Lourdes sits down halfway across the room, running a hand distractedly through his hair until it’s out of control, static beneath his fingers. There’s a murmur of conversation around him, and David catches teammates to the left of him derisively discussing the Leafs’ Cup win, others on his right asking about one another’s wives, before Caldwell clears his throat and they all quiet as if they were in church.

  Caldwell suggests an icebreaker to start, more like summer camp than training camp, everyone going around in a circle and talking about what their expectations are, what they specifically want to improve.

  “This is fucking stupid,” Merchant, sitting to David’s left, says under his breath. David agrees, but says nothing. Partly because Caldwell has a reputation, and partly because Merchant does. David doesn’t particularly want to get involved with either.

  “No one fucking asked you, dickwad,” Vopni mutters back, and Merchant shoves him.

  “This is not preschool,” Caldwell snaps. “Grow up or I’ll throw you out. We’ve got a waiting list, it’s not too late to replace you.”

  Merchant rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything else, and they get around the stupid circle, saying what they want to improve — everything, in David’s case — before Caldwell tells them to pair up and learn five things about their partner before ten minutes have passed.

  “Is he sure this isn’t preschool?” Merchant mumbles.

  “Can still kick you out, Merchant,” Caldwell says without even looking at him, and Merchant’s teeth click shut, a look of panic on his face that has half the room laughing.

  “We may only be here a month, but you’re going to be a team while we are. Maybe you hate a guy you’re about to play on a line with. Maybe he sprained your ankle, or you insulted his mama. But I will be damned if Majors beats me this year, so you will act like a goddamn team. Do you understand? You don’t want to do this, that’s fine, it’s your money and we can replace you within the day. But if you do, you’ll shut the fuck up and do what you’re told.”

  “Sir yes sir,” Vopni says, saluting.

  Caldwell rolls his eyes. “Partner up.”

  Despite their shoving match earlier, Vopni and Merchant partner, along with the players on David’s right, which seems like cheating, since they already knew each other well enough to ask about each other’s home lives. David looks around the room for someone he knows, even just by name, or who doesn’t seem to be already in conversation, but he’s still searching when Lourdes walks up to him, stopping short once he’s a foot away.

  “Can I sit?” Lourdes asks, and David stares at him for a moment before he gestures to the empty spot beside him.

  Lourdes sits down, knee touching David’s, and David swallows, hard. “What are you doing here?” David asks, looking at the floor.

  “Same as you,” Lourdes says. “Getting training.”

  “You’re American,” David says, looking up. “Isn’t it a bit of a trip?”

  Lourdes blinks. “You do know Detroit’s like, the same distance from Toronto as Ottawa is, right?”

  David chews his lip.

  “Look,” Lourdes says. “I know you like — I know you hate me, or whatever. But apparently we’re on a team for awhile, so maybe we can call a truce?”

  “It isn’t a real team,” David says.

  Lourdes’ mouth quirks. “Or maybe we can’t,” he says, finally.

  “Look, Lourdes,” David starts, doesn’t know how to finish. Lourdes is smiling, but it looks wrong. He looks more like he did when David walked out the door in Las Vegas than like he does when he actually smiles, wide enough to crinkle his eyes, the sort of smile that overtakes his entire face. He smiles a lot. It’s hard not to notice.

  “You know you can actually call me by my name,” Lourdes says.

  “Jacob?” David asks.

  Lourdes laughs. David doesn’t bother to tell him he wasn’t trying to be funny.

  “Team,” Lourdes says. “Real or not, I don’t care, it’s still team. I’m Lourdy or I’m Jake.”

  “You still can’t call me Chaps,” David says.

  “Okay,” Jake says. “David, then.”

  “I’m not going to call you Lourdy,” David says. “That’s stupid.”

  Jake laughs again. David thinks it might be a condition.

  Caldwell sighs at them when, ten minutes later, David is unable to name five facts about Jake. He could, of course, but they’re not things he’s personally been told, or anything the room should know, so he just mumbles about Jake winning Gold with Team USA in U18s and being first draft pick and winning the Calder, and tries to ignore the feeling of twenty-two pairs of eyes on him as he recites his own failures.

  Thankfully, once they’re past the pointless exercises, they get onto things that actually make sense. They don’t have ice-time until the next day, but they do hit the gym. Caldwell and his assistants measure their fitness levels, and David’s submitted to a bunch of questions on what he wants to improve on — again, everything — presumably so that they all have appropriate individual plans. That’s the rest of the day, and it’s tedious but at least David sees the point in it, so it doesn’t feel like a day wasted when he waits at the curb for the taxi he called.

  He doesn’t pay attention when a nondescript car pulls up in front of him until the window rolls down and Jake looks out at him from beneath a pair of sunglasses. “You need a ride?” Jake asks.

  “I have a cab coming,” David says. “But thank you for asking,” he adds belatedly, because it’s best to be polite when someone offers you a ride, even though David can’t begin to imagine why Jake is, considering. Perhaps because they’re teammates now.

  Jake flips his sunglasses up. “Get in the car,” he says, and David pauses until someone behind Jake beeps.

  “You’re starting a traffic jam, David,” Jake says.

  “I think that’s you,” David says, not moving, but whoever’s in the car behind them beeps again, and David bites his lip, pulling the passenger door open and getting in.

  Jake finally pulls away from the curb, and David does up his seatbelt. He squints uncomfortably into the afternoon light until Jake speaks, and thankfully it’s just to ask where he’s going, which is easy enough to answer. They don’t really make conversation. Jake’s fiddling with the radio, his split attention making David nervous, not that he says anything, and it’s less painful than David would have expected, the experience, when Jake drops him off outside his hotel.

  The following day they get on the ice, simple drills that they’ve all been doing since they were kids. Or at least David has. It’s hard to tell with some of them.

  David’s unsure if it’s rust or simply bad training, but if their team is going to win at the end of the month, they need to tighten up. He says so to Caldwell at the end of the day, and Caldwell drops the grim expression he always seems to have, barking out a laugh, which startles David.

  “You’re really going to be something,” Caldwell says, and it sounds nice, but David’s not sure if it’s a compliment or not.

  Jake insists on driving him home that night too, and the night after, not pushing him to talk, acting more like a chauffeur than anything. It makes David uncomfortable for some reason he can’t name, and he finds himself awkwardly asking if Lourdes wants to come and get a drink at the bar with him, even though neither of them should be drinking.

  Jake chews his lip, not saying anything. David doesn’t know what he was thinking.

  “No, I—” Jake says finally, and David’s ready to turn around and head inside, before he continues, “You want to come over to mine? Watch a movie or something? I’ve got all the fixings to make these mons
ter salads my dad used to make, they’re awesome, they’re not even like salads.”

  “I—” David says, then, “Okay.” He gets back in the car.

  Jake has to backtrack west to get to his place, which makes David feel dimly guilty, since it means he’s been going out of his way every day. He isn’t staying at a hotel, like David was expecting, but a fairly upscale condo.

  “Is this yours?” he asks, when they get inside. He does have the money to throw away, but it seems like a waste.

  “It belongs to a buddy of mine on the Marlies,” Jake says. “He’s letting me crash here since he’s out of town anyways.”

  David wonders what kind of ‘buddy’ Jake’s talking about. Whether he fucks around with all his ‘buddies’, since he was so insistent that David was one.

  “You want a beer?” Jake asks, wandering towards the kitchen.

  They may be legal in Ontario, but they’re training, even if it’s been pretty lacklustre thus far. Jake smirks, like he knows what David’s thinking, and ends up bringing them both a bottle of water.

  “Thank you,” David says, when Jake hands it over, then sprawls on the couch beside where David has perched, not close enough to touch, but close enough that David can feel the heat of his body. He swallows hard around the knot tying in his throat again, and then around a sip of water, which doesn’t clear it, however much he wants it to.

  “What do you want to watch?” Jake asks. “He’s got like, hundreds of channels. There’s a whole channel for action movies, it’s pretty—”

  David leans in. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, not even when he’s doing it, and the brim of Jake’s baseball hat hits him in the forehead while Jake’s mid-sentence.

  “—awesome,” Jake says after a pause, presumably finishing his sentence, but David can’t ask, because Jake’s tugging his hat off before leaning in, fingers brushing David’s jaw as he presses his mouth against David’s. David’s pulse has kicked up to hypertime, and he doesn’t know if it’s panic or not, thinks it probably is but doesn’t care. Everywhere Jake’s touching him is oversensitive, from where their knees are brushing, to his fingers over David’s racing pulse, his lips against David’s, a chaste press that he pulls back from too soon.

  “Movie?” Jake mumbles, lips still brushing David’s. “Salad? I promise it’s awesome.”

  David blinks his eyes open, Jake’s face, too close, swimming into his vision. He pulls back. “Do you not want—”

  “Dude,” Jake says. “Yes. Totally yes. Just. Movie, dinner? If the movie’s really boring, we can make out on the couch.”

  He says it matter-of-factly, like it’s just something to do if there isn’t anything better, like it won’t be the only thing David’s thinking about, sitting beside him.

  “Okay,” David says hesitantly.

  “Awesome,” Jake says. He’s said the word so much it’s lost all meaning. He bounces up. “You want to find something to watch?”

  He hands the remote over, and David takes it, watches him retreat into the kitchen. The floor plan is open enough that David can see him clattering around, and he catches the edge of a grin before he turns the TV on.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jake drives David back after dinner — which was, David will admit, surprisingly good — and a movie David doesn’t really remember the plot of, since halfway through Jake leaned into his space, and by the time the credits were rolling Jake was blanketing him with a hand wormed under his shirt, David’s mouth felt wet and used, and he was so hard in his shorts all it would have taken was a brush of Jake’s hand for David to go off.

  But instead, Jake put himself to rights, settling his hat back on over hair mussed from David’s fingers, and offered to drive him back to his hotel. David didn’t protest, even though he wanted to. He couldn’t mistake the suggestion for disinterest with the way Jake was tenting his shorts, cheeks pink with a mottled blush that looked like David’s fading sunburn, his mouth as wet and used-looking as David’s felt.

  David’s confused during the short ride back, worried he’s done something wrong, something to alert Jake to his level of inexperience. Jake stops off in front of the hotel. “You want me to drive you in tomorrow?” he asks.

  “That’s okay,” David says. “I usually get there pretty early.”

  Jake tends to be the last person to arrive, and it’s strange, because David always leaves after almost everyone’s filtered out, and Jake is always there to pick him up at the curb. David doesn’t understand him. He’s always figured if you’re the last person there you’ll be the first person to leave. It tends to be a type.

  “What’re you doing for the off-days?” Jake asks.

  David blinks. “I don’t know?” he says. “Maybe I’ll hit the gym or something.”

  “I’m going to a Jays game with some friends,” Jake says. David didn’t know he had friends in Toronto, but then, of course he does. He seems to have friends everywhere. “You want to come? We’ve got an extra ticket.”

  “No, that’s — no,” David says. “I should head up.”

  “Tomorrow, then,” Jake says.

  David nods, jerky, gets out of the car. He looks back once to see if Jake’s gone, but he’s still there, lifts his hand in a wave before he pulls away.

  Once David gets to his room, he goes straight to the shower, because he needs one anyway. The fact that he jerks off with his hand braced against the tile, his lip, still tender, between his teeth, is purely incidental.

  *

  Jake drives him home the next night as well, but he doesn’t suggest hanging out before dropping him off, not David coming over or getting a drink or anything, and the tension David’s held, the fear that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, pulls tight.

  David spends the two days off doing some workouts that aren’t in his schedule, pure endurance work that leaves him satisfyingly drained, enough that he almost doesn’t have the energy to jerk off at the end of the day. Almost, but it’s a losing battle to fight the urge, so on edge that no amount of pushing himself can wring it out of him.

  The camp provides free ice-time for the hour running up to the official start time, and there are a two players already on the ice when he arrives forty-five minutes before camp: the goalie their team’s been handed, an AHLer who’s trying to break into the back-up position for the Canadiens, and Jake, taking potshots at him.

  David skates closer, and Jake looks up, grins when he meets David’s eye. “Want to make it a contest?” he asks.

  “That’s okay,” David says. “What’re you doing here so early? You’re usually late.”

  He doesn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, just a statement of fact, but Jake’s smile dims.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I dunno, I was adjusting to the schedule, I guess, my trainer tends to work me later so my schedule’s closer to the season’s. No reason not to use the extra time, though. And give Vinny the practice.”

  “I got enough practice playing you in the O,” Vincent says. “Leave me some dignity, Jake.”

  “C’mon,” Jake says. “First one to get ten past him buys the other guy dinner.”

  David hesitates.

  “Sure,” Vincent says. “And what do I get? Pucks flying at my face.”

  “Okay,” David says. “But no junk food, it has to be good for you.”

  “You are actually a robot,” Vincent says. “Do you remember your creators? Have you learned to love?”

  David ignores him, taking off his glove to reach out and shake Jake’s outstretched hand. David notches the tenth, ignoring Vincent’s increasingly creative chirping, right after Jake gets his eighth, but Jake just grins at him like that was his plan all along.

  “Did you let me win?” David asks quietly.

  Jake snorts.

  “Just because I’m not a sore loser doesn’t mean I like losing,” he says. “I don’t let anyone win. Except maybe my mom, but she is a sore loser, and it’s totally not worth dealing with it just to win a gam
e of Monopoly or something.”

  David gives him another doubtful look.

  “We can pick up some take-out, watch a movie again?” Jake asks. “I mean, if you want.”

  David flushes, unsure what ‘watch a movie’ means to Jake, but very aware of what it now means to him, ducking his head so that Jake — and Vincent, who’s muttering to himself in the net because goaltenders are all a little strange — won’t see his cheeks light up.

  *

  Jake doesn’t even bother to pick him up curbside that night, just waits around until David’s ready to leave.

  “There’s this awesome Indian place near the condo that has a bunch of healthy shit,” he says. “You like Indian?”

  “Sure,” David says.

  The food is good, though David ends up needing to take Jake up on the offer of a beer just to kill some of the sting in his mouth. Jake gives David the remote again, and David picks a movie he’s already seen. Not that he’s expecting anything, but the last time they ‘watched’ a movie he had to download it afterwards because not knowing how it ended was bothering him.

  It ends up being a good decision, because being pressed up against Jake shoulder to knee is bad for David’s concentration. He doesn’t even remember what movie they’re watching by the time he’s on his back, a hand fisted in Jake’s hair and another, slightly more tentative, on his ass. When David shifts beneath him, his thigh brushes against Jake’s dick, and Jake groans into his mouth, pulls away.

  “Okay,” he says breathlessly. “I was trying to be good, but can I please blow you?”

  David stares at him. He has no idea how that isn’t being good. That’s about as good a thing as he can think of.

  “Yes,” he says, finally.

  “Awesome,” Jake says.

  The word’s starting to grow on David.

  *

  The next morning, David wakes thirty minutes after his alarm was supposed to go off, stubs his toe on his laptop, which he doesn’t even remember leaving on the floor, and has to fight with the shower for five minutes before it stops cycling between scalding hot and barely lukewarm. He should have known it would be a bad day. He isn’t as superstitious as some of his teammates, but it still should have tipped him off.