Coming in First Place (Between the Teeth Book 1)

by Taylor Fitzpatrick

  David makes it to practice on time, if not early enough to get any extra work in before everyone else arrives. His reaction times are all off, always a microsecond behind where they should be. Caldwell seems to notice, which is embarrassing, and David’s frustrated with himself by the time their ice-time is up.

  His frustration must be obvious, because Hamilton punches his arm lightly, offering him an encouraging look. A captain even in the off-season, even away from his own team. David gives him a small smile before making his escape to his stall, hoping he doesn’t drop weights on his foot or sprain his ankle jogging, because at the rate today is going it’s a plausible concern.

  “Holy shit, man,” Vopni says, just as David sits down, looking down at his phone. “You know how that Leafs guy got caught kissing a dude?”

  “Breaking news, Vopni,” Hamilton says dryly, while the rest of the room ignores him.

  “Yeah but the dude he was kissing was Marc Lapointe,” Vopni says, and now he’s got everyone’s attention.

  Riley’s no one important, a bottom six grinder, but Lapointe is one of the reasons the Leafs won the Cup last month, played hot all season and didn’t let up when the playoffs started. Even if people were willing to brush off Riley, they’re not going to do the same for Lapointe.

  “It’s probably just some bullshit rumour,” Hamilton says. “You subscribed to Deadspin or something?”

  “No,” Vopni says, waving his phone for emphasis. “My sister has a huge crush on the guy, she follows everything he does. Apparently he held a press conference. That dude’s his boyfriend.”

  That has a few players reaching for their own phones. David keeps his head down, focuses on untying his skates, putting all his attention into it, trying to mask the way his hands have started to shake, his heart has started to pound in his chest.

  Almost everyone has filtered out of the room by the time David’s managed to strip out of his gear. Jake comes to sit in the stall next to him. “You okay?” he asks quietly, and David looks pointedly toward the remaining players before he finally looks at Jake, noticing the phone in his hand.

  “Is it true?” he asks, as low as he can.

  “Looks like,” Jake says. “C’mon, let’s get some lunch.”

  David hesitates.

  “David, no one’s going to assume you’re gay for eating lunch with me,” Jake says, and David looks around again, sharp, but they’re the only ones left in the room.

  “Not with ‘Ladykiller Lourdes’,” David allows.

  Jake frowns. “I hate that fucking nickname,” he says. “Let’s go, Davey.”

  “You can’t call me that either,” David says, and Jake reaches out, ruffling his hair before he can duck his head.

  “You buy a guy dinner and look at how he treats you,” Jake says, and David rolls his eyes, his heart slowing for the first time since Vopni spoke up.

  “You lost that fair and square,” David says.

  “Yeah,” Jake says, grins at him, all teeth. “I’d happily do it again, too.”

  David scowls, but it makes Jake grin wider.

  *

  It’s easy enough not to talk about it at lunch, even if David can’t stop thinking about it, because Jake never runs out of things to say, pulls David into a discussion on how the latest draft should have actually gone that piques David’s interest, since he has to admit Jake knows more about the OHL than he does, and he seems to have the picks pretty well pegged. Vincent jumps into the conversation halfway through, running a constant editorial on Jake’s predictions until Jake’s hitting him every second word, and David can’t help but laugh at them.

  But the second they’re in the locker room again, David can tell the subject hasn’t been dropped. There are enough murmurs and side-eyes that you’d think a major trade had just gone down.

  “All I’m saying is it’s a good thing Lapointe’s signed to the Leafs basically forever,” Merchant says to Vopni from beside David. “Because I wouldn’t want to deal with that kind of gay bullshit in my room.”

  David freezes.

  “Dude, shut the fuck up,” Jake says from across the room.

  Merchant looks over at him. “Hit a nerve, Lourdy? There something you want to tell us?”

  “Leave the kid alone,” Hamilton says. “It’s the twenty-first fucking century, Merchant, you’re the only one who gives a shit. Sure there isn’t something you want to tell us?”

  “The fuck are you saying, Hamilton?” Merchant snaps.

  “Shut the fuck up, all of you,” Caldwell says. “Jesus fucking Christ, Merchant, do you ever shut your mouth?”

  Merchant silently fumes, and David watches Hamilton roll his eyes and nudge Jake’s shoulder, which gets him a quick flash of a smile in return.

  The atmosphere is stifling throughout the afternoon, Merchant still pissed and everyone avoiding him, Jake throwing looks at David that David keeps catching, until David half-thinks that everyone must realise he’s doing it, realise why.

  There’s less chatter than usual after practice before everyone starts filtering out, and David doesn’t feel like sticking around either. He calls a cab on his way out the door, because he’s not good company right now, not for anyone. Not for himself, but he doesn’t have any choice in that. He knows he’ll read all the articles on Lapointe the second he gets back to his hotel room, even the ones that will make him feel simultaneously sick and guiltily grateful that the articles aren’t about him.

  He waits further down than he usually does, but Jake still pulls up in front of him.

  “C’mon,” Jake says.

  “I got a cab,” David says. “You go ahead.”

  “Not moving,” Jake says, almost sing-song, and doesn’t.

  David narrows his eyes.

  “It looks weird if you suddenly stop catching rides with me,” Jake says, raising his eyebrows.

  David frowns. “No one would notice. You’re just trying to convince me.”

  “Then no one would notice if you got in,” Jake says, then, cheerfully, “Is it working?”

  David sighs and gets in the car.

  “Besides,” Jake says, pulling away from the curb once David’s put his seatbelt on. “You don’t want to do anything that would make Merchant happy, do you?”

  “You shouldn’t have said that to him,” David says.

  “Why not?” Jake asks. “If no one tells him off then he’s just going to keep spouting that shit.”

  “But now he’s going to think you took it personally,” David says.

  “I did take it personally,” Jake says. “And I would have told him to shut up even if I’d never sucked a dick. He’s a homophobic asshole.”

  David flushes, looks away.

  Jake laughs. “I can suck your dick but I can’t talk about it?”

  “Shut up,” David mutters.

  “Okay,” Jake says, laughter still in his voice, and flips to some station that’s more bass beat than anything else. They’re almost at the exit Jake would take if he wasn’t driving David home when Jake says, “You want to come over?”

  David frowns. “I’m not really—” He stops.

  “Not really?” Jake prompts, when David doesn’t continue.

  “It’s not a good idea,” David mumbles.

  “Hey,” Jake says, and then, “Hey,” until David looks at him. “I’m going to brave the Foreman grill and try the fancy thing and crack open one of the wine bottles in the fridge. You get movie dibs. You in?”

  David waffles, and it must be visible, because Jake says, “Dinner, movie, that’s it. Nothing else.”

  “Okay,” David says finally.

  “Okay,” Jake repeats, and takes the exit when it comes up.

  *

  David is fairly sure ‘nothing else’ wasn’t supposed to include Jake on his knees between David’s thighs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he pulls back, pausing to press a kiss to the inside of David’s thigh. David would love to be able to blame Jake for that, but he’
s the one who kissed Jake first, after Jake had spent two-thirds of the movie sitting a scrupulous foot away and David was itchy with irritation. So it’s both of their faults, maybe.

  “Oh my god I have to buy him a new couch,” Jake says, voice slightly raspy, and David’s dick twitches with interest despite the fact there’s no way he can do anything about it right now.

  Instead he makes an effort to catch his breath, and when he’s mostly managed, says, “Let me—”

  “Uh,” Jake says, sounding sheepish. “No need?”

  David looks down at where Jake’s rested his chin on David’s thigh, notices for the first time that he’s got a hand down his shorts.

  “Seriously?” David asks.

  “You have no idea what you look like, do you,” Jake says. David frowns, confused. “Dude, Team USA used to call you the pretty boy.”

  David frowns deeper. “I doubt it was a compliment,” he says. His nicknames never are.

  “From them, no,” Jake says. “From me, totally.”

  “Pretty boy,” David repeats darkly. It’s not much of a step to go from ‘pretty boy’ to what everyone’s probably saying about Lapointe right now.

  Jake finally pulls his hand out of his shorts, making a face before wiping his hand on them, which has David making a face as well, and then realising, mortified, that Jake is fully dressed and David still has his shorts and underwear around his ankles. He quickly pulls them up.

  “They were just jealous because their girlfriends all thought you were adorable,” Jake says, leaning back to give David room, before getting up, kicking his shorts off before sitting on the couch beside David. David eyes him, sprawled on the couch in his underwear.

  “Dude, I just had your dick in my mouth,” Jake says, and then laughs when David flushes practically on cue.

  Jake leans against David, and David can’t help but lean back into him. “I should go,” David says, after a minute.

  “No, hey,” Jake says. “it’s still early. You want to come back to my room? I’ve got the last season of Big Brother on my laptop.”

  There is just about nothing less tempting than that, at least the Big Brother part. The fact that Jake’s room presumably includes a bed, and Jake’s already down to his underwear, that’s...more tempting.

  “And nothing else?” David asks sceptically.

  “I can’t promise that,” Jake says, pressing his mouth against David’s shoulder. He picks his head up immediately. “I mean, unless you don’t want to,” he says quickly. “Then of course not.”

  “No, that’s—” David says. “That’s cool with me.”

  “Cool,” Jake echoes, standing. He offers David a hand, which David takes, trying not to think about whether it’s the one Jake came into. He’s had Jake come down his throat, it’s a stupid thing to be squeamish about.

  David follows, pausing when Jake walks through a half open door. “Jake?” he says, and Jake stops, turns around. “I don’t actually want to watch Big Brother,” he says, feeling shy.

  “Awesome,” Jake says. “I’ve already seen that season anyway.”

  David’s jaw tightens.

  “Oh my god, I’m kidding,” Jake says, tugs David in by the hem of his shirt, which he allows after a moment. He leans down, presses his mouth to the edge of David’s jaw. “I’ve only seen the first half,” he murmurs.

  David elbows him, hard, but when Jake keeps tugging him forward, he follows.

  CHAPTER TEN

  There isn't a set routine to camp. Or there is: five days a week training, but they change it up enough that David doesn't find it monotonous, throw in trips to a pool for conditioning, an outdoor rink for a ball hockey game, grass sprouting through cracks in the concrete.

  He doesn’t have a routine outside of training either, but more often than not he's getting into Jake's car at the end of the day, until Jake's borrowed condo is more familiar than David's hotel room, until David could shut his eyes and know where everything is in the kitchen. David’s watched more movies in the past few weeks than he had in the past year, has a mouth red raw with stubble burn, knows the weight of Jake's cock on his tongue, the heat of his body around David when David's sinking into him on an off day, hand between Jake's shoulder blades, feeling his muscles tense and release under David's fingers.

  There isn't a routine, nothing David can count on, and maybe that's why time slips the way it does, sticky summer days and the echoing cool of the rink and Jake's fingers rough against David's jaw, why the end comes before David can get used to anything.

  *

  It's been a long week. There are only a few days left until camp wraps up, everyone ramping up their effort levels accordingly, and the fatigue's set in. David’s certainly feeling it. It’s not even five and his eyes are half-shut as he waits for a cab, wondering if going straight to bed when he gets back to his room will energise him the next day or just throw off his internal clock.

  Jake pulls up after a minute, rolls the window down. "Coming?" he asks, and David blinks tiredly at him.

  "I'm tired," David says, "I'm just—"

  "That's cool," Jake says. "It's not like — just whatever, come over anyway. I won't judge you if you fall asleep on me."

  David gives him a sceptical look.

  "Promise," Jake says, "I'll wake you up if you fall asleep."

  David sighs but lets Jake drive him back to the condo, lets Jake herd him into his room, even if that's a bad idea. David is bone tired and not looking for anything, not that Jake tries. He just puts some asinine reality TV show on his laptop, and David falls asleep less than halfway into an episode.

  David wakes up to a dark room and Jake draped over him, an arm and leg pinning David to the bed. It's impossible to tell what time it is, beyond late, since David can't get himself untangled from Jake's weight to check his phone, and he settles after a moment, shuts his eyes, lets Jake's slow, even breathing, hot against his neck, lull him for a minute, until he's half asleep again, comfortable and warm. Until his heart clenches, hard, because this is the last thing he should be doing. He has an early morning, like every morning. He’s in Toronto for a reason, and it has nothing to do with this bed.

  He tries to pry Jake's arm off, but he's even heavier in sleep, fingers curled in David's shirt and holding steady, so in the end David has to shove at his shoulder until he wakes up with a slurred "Whaa—" and then a blind kiss to David's neck. Not even awake and he’s trying something. He probably doesn't even know who's in bed with him.

  David's jaw tightens, and he pushes Jake harder. "You said you'd wake me up," he says, and his eyes have adjusted enough that he can see Jake's eyes open, can watch him blink sleepily in David's direction.

  "Sorry, dude," Jake says through a yawn. "Just go back to sleep? I have shit that'll fit you."

  "I have to go," David says, tight, and when Jake hums but doesn't move, "You have to get off me."

  Jake sighs, but rolls off him, sitting up. "I'll drive you," he says.

  "No," David says. "It's late. Go back to sleep."

  "You go back to sleep," Jake mutters under his breath, and David ignores him, gets up, checking his phone and wincing. It's past one. He'll be lucky if he manages to sleep again tonight.

  Jake's still sitting up, watching him, fuzzy looking, and David gently nudges his shoulder until he lies down again.

  "Want me to pick you up in the morning?" Jake asks through another yawn.

  "Okay," David says.

  It's harder than it should be to walk out the door, the slight chill of the night making him shiver in his t-shirt while he waits for a cab he called outside. The worst of it all is how much he wanted to stay. How much he wants to turn around and go back inside, crawl back into bed and let Jake sprawl all over him again.

  Instead he goes back to his hotel room, stares up at the ceiling until his eyes finally get heavy. He's tired and grumpy when Jake picks him up, snappish, but if Jake notices, he doesn't say anything about it.

  *


  The last few days are less individualised routines and more of a standard training camp, the practice groups being trained like a team. They have the game for the public coming up, giving Toronto kids, starving for some hockey by this point in the offseason, a chance to watch professionals, the proceeds going to a local children’s charity David isn't familiar with.

  They put Jake on David's opposite wing, and he fits there, feels right there, seems to know what David's going to do, puts himself between David and anyone gunning for him in the half-friendly scrimmages they play in the lead up to the game.

  Jake drives him in on the final day, keeps glancing over at him until David has to resist snapping at him to keep his eyes on the road. "What're you up to when this is over?" Jake asks, finally.

  David shrugs. "Going to New York."

  "Not home?" Jake asks.

  David shrugs again, glances out the window. "I have to keep training," he says finally. Dave’s arranged a trainer for him when he gets there; he doesn’t even have to take a day off, can get right back to it.

  "Yeah, but—" Jake says, before going quiet, and David keeps watching the city fly by.

  "I'm going to text you, okay?" Jake blurts out after a minute, and David looks over at him. Jake's finally watching the road, but his neck's gone pink.

  "Okay," David says, finally.

  "Okay," Jake repeats, and David watches him for another minute before he goes back to looking out the window.

  *

  David’s team wins the game 4-2, the game winner a goal from Jake in the second. It was a pretty little top-shelf shot that isn’t really his style, will be an ugly new thing for goalies to face in the upcoming season, the camp clearly paying dividends, at least for Jake.

  David should head back to his hotel room after the game, should pack. He needs to be out by ten tomorrow morning if he doesn’t want to pay for another night. But when Jake raises his eyebrows at him, unsubtle, David follows him back to his car, lets Jake drive him to the condo one last time.

  “That was a pretty goal,” David says when they’re a couple minutes out.