“Yeah?” Jake asks, slanting a grin at him. “You think so?”
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” David says.
Jake’s grin doesn’t drop, just gets wider, as he says, “It gets you hot, doesn’t it?”
David can feel his cheeks heat. It does, honestly, watching a pretty play, watching Jake making a pretty play. Before this summer it burnt him up from the inside out, but not in a good way. He’d choke on it.
Now he finds himself wanting to choke on it, stretch his mouth around Jake, unravel him so he can understand even a fraction of what David wants from him. Though even David doesn’t understand a fraction of what he wants from Jake, he just knows it’s too much.
Jake’s grin edges on cocky, smug, and it drives David crazy, not in a good way.
“I want to blow you,” David gets out, trying to regain control of the conversation. His voice comes out even, though it wants to crack, and he takes satisfaction in the way Jake’s smile drops right off, fingers clenching on the wheel.
“Yeah?” Jake asks. David doesn’t know if he’s imagining the car speeding up or not. Probably not. Jake’s not exactly a safe driver at the best of times, is pretty much the epitome of why teenage boys pay more for car insurance.
“And then I want to fuck you,” David says, quiet, feels like his face is on fire, but it’s worth it, watching Jake’s face flush red, thinking of Jake driving back to Detroit tomorrow still feeling it.
“Yeah,” Jake says, unsteady. “Yeah, we can do that.”
*
David sucks Jake off in the front hall, which feels like déjà vu. He remembers feeling humiliated, furious, knees sore on the hardwood floor, trying to unbalance Jake as much as Jake effortlessly unbalanced him. This time there’s no real goal except to make Jake’s legs shake, to have his fingers clench in David’s hair, for him to flood David’s mouth, salt bitter.
Jake’s back to halfway hard by the time David has two fingers in him, sprawled out on his bed, shorts left back in the hallway and his t-shirt shoved up his chest. David watches the muscles of his stomach jump when David curls his fingers against his prostate, fascinated by how responsive he is, until Jake grabs him by the shoulder and hauls him in for a kiss, biting down on David’s lip when David’s nudging a third finger in, Jake stretched tight around his knuckles.
David takes his time, despite the fact he wants Jake to shift in the driver’s seat tomorrow, feeling it, despite the way his cock’s smearing the inside of his briefs with pre-come, balls drawn up tight.
He finger fucks Jake until Jake’s as hard as David is, dripping onto his own belly, mumbling, “C’mon, c’mon, David,” against David’s mouth until David can’t take it, pulls his fingers out, fumbling with a condom and trying not to look at Jake, feet planted on the bed, hole slick and open, because he’s afraid he’ll come before he can get inside him.
He doesn’t, but he doesn’t exactly last long either, close to tipping over the edge as soon as he’s pushing into the tight clutch of Jake’s body, Jake’s fingers curling around his bicep, just shy of bruising, his mouth red and wet and half-open, looking used.
David braces himself on one elbow, gets a hand around Jake where he’s nudging against David’s abs, and the only thing that keeps him from shooting in a minute flat is focusing on trying to make Jake come first, to get him to clench tight around David’s cock, wrench the orgasm out of him.
It feels like a blow when Jake comes, but in a good way, Jake’s eyes squeezed shut and every muscle of his body gone tense, the look on his face objectively stupid, but in a way David kind of likes despite himself.
David doesn’t last much longer, comes with Jake shifting beneath him, oversensitive maybe. Jake pulls him into a kiss after, which is David mostly just panting into his mouth until he comes down, and they kiss slow and easy until David starts going soft, has to pull out, tying off the condom before lying down beside Jake.
“High five,” Jake says, after a minute, and David snorts.
“I’m not giving you a high five,” he says, when Jake raises his hand expectantly.
“That was awesome,” Jake says. “And you deserve a high five. Let’s go, David, high five.”
David rolls his eyes, but when Jake doesn’t show any sign of lowering his arm, reaches out and slaps Jake’s palm lightly.
“Good man,” Jake says.
“You’re an idiot,” David says, and it doesn’t come out as anything other than affectionate.
David drags himself out of bed after a few minutes, trying to right himself, wrinkling his nose at the state of his t-shirt, sweaty and filthy, lube and come drying on the hem.
“Borrow one of mine,” Jake says, and David goes to the drawers, finds one for their training camp, no different than David’s, just a size larger. It’s better than taking one branded with the logo of a team he’s never played for, or some plain one that might be one of Jake’s favourites, for all David knows.
He tugs his shirt over his head, replaces it with the near perfect match. When he turns around, Jake’s watching him, still in only a t-shirt, legs spread shamelessly.
“I don’t know how I’ll get this back to you,” David says, uncomfortable.
“Keep it,” Jake says. “We got a bunch. Hell, leave yours here, we can swap.”
David squeezes the shirt in his hands, then goes over to the hamper, puts it inside.
“I need to go back and pack,” he says, still looking into the hamper.
“Yeah,” Jake says. “I figured. C’mere.”
David turns, walks back to the bed, and when Jake reaches out, perches on the edge, he lets himself be drawn into a kiss, bracing his hand on the heat of Jake’s bare thigh.
“Gonna text you,” Jake mumbles when David pulls back. “You better text back.”
“Okay,” David says, tucks a strand of Jake’s hair, fallen into his eyes, behind his ear.
“Walk you to the door?” Jake asks.
“No,” David says. “You’d have to put pants on.”
“Nuh-uh,” Jake says. “Give everyone a show.”
David snorts, pulls back. “I have to go,” he says.
“I know,” Jake says.
“I really have—” David starts.
“I know,” Jake repeats. “Enjoy New York.”
“Enjoy Detroit,” David says sceptically, and Jake laughs, shoves at him.
“Get out of here, Chapman,” Jake says, a smile tucked around the corner of his mouth, and David does.
*
David gets into New York at five the next evening, phone buzzing in his pocket when he waits at baggage claim. home sweet home!, he gets, followed by, u get to nyc safe? :).
Yeah., he sends back, and tucks his phone back into his pocket, keeping his eye out for his suitcase. His phone buzzes again, and he doesn’t pull it out until he’s in the back of a cab, headed to his apartment.
c u in oct :), it reads, then, or maybe sooner!, and David doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just puts his phone away and watches the city streets, half-familiar, as he crawls through traffic on his way to what’s become home, or at least close enough.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
David expects his time in New York to drag until training camp, but it doesn’t. The trainer Dave found David is perfect for him, pushes him as hard as he wants to be pushed, as hard as he’d push himself. David spends long hours at the gym, putting on the weight that will melt off his body once the season starts. He mixes things up at the rink, his building’s pool, and it’s enough to leave him exhausted every night in an apartment that is only nominally more his than the hotel in Toronto was. He spends more time in it at least, goes home every night and stays there and doesn’t let himself think of anything else, remember that there was anything but this.
Training camp’s less of an adjustment than it was last season. David’s already comfortable playing on a line with Kurmazov and Eisler. He knows the goalies’ strengths and weaknesses — though it’s most
ly weaknesses — knows the names of some of his teammates’ wives, children, dogs, whatever they talk incessantly about.
There are some new call-ups and rookies, and they hang around the edges, awkward. David would try to pull them in, make them feel welcome, but he doesn’t really know how to. Kurmazov does, in his typically gruff way, and David learns their names, where they’re from. He’ll probably forget it all when most of them inevitably get cut, sent right back to where they came from.
Once training camp is over, the Islanders’ roster doesn’t look much different from last season’s. Some players were traded away, or traded to the Islanders, signed here in free-agency or went somewhere else, and some prospects managed to crack the ranks, at least for the preseason, but David knows most of the players in the room, has already spent a year with them. He wishes it made a difference.
The Panthers’ captain tears his MCL in the preseason and decides he’s going to retire instead of fight through rehab at the tail-end of his career. He wants to be honest with the fans, and they deserve better than him sitting on the LTIR all year then promptly retiring. At least that’s what David gathers from the article summarising his press conference, a press conference in which the new Panthers captain is named as well. David can’t say he’s surprised to see Jake’s name. He’s young for a captain, but not the only young one, not the youngest ever to be made captain, and the media’s pretty much in agreement about him being the shot in the arm the Panthers need.
A year ago David would have thought that was the worst idea in the world, someone with no drive being made captain. Now he knows Jake has the drive, and he just thinks it’s a terrible idea, a nineteen year old captain with a penchant for stupid penalties and streaky play. The media loves it. Of course they do. They love everything Jake does. David doesn’t know what he does to secure their unwavering affection, can’t even begin to guess.
When Jake sends him a text that just consists of a string of idiotic smileys, David sends back Congratulations., and doesn’t let it burn in him. He tries not to, at least.
The Islanders’ season starts in much the same way the last season had, perhaps a little better: a handful of wins, a handful of losses. Kurmazov is playing strong and David tries to be a part of that, hand him the passes he needs, take the passes he gives, counter the poor defence and worse goaltending and make something of themselves. It works sometimes, doesn’t work other times, and David tries not to let it frustrate him, but no matter how well he plays, no matter how well his line plays, they lose as much as they win.
It’s a few weeks into the season, just long enough to settle, when Jake texts him. Jake texts him all the time, has since David left Toronto, sometimes inane chatter David sees no point in responding to, sometimes decently intelligent hockey talk David finds interesting, but this text sets a stone in his belly.
excited for trmw ;), is waiting for David when the Islanders land in Sunrise, and David doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond to that. He sends nothing, in the end. Jake will see him on the ice.
*
It’s ugly. There’s no other way to describe it. It’s an ugly game against a team that doesn’t care about fighting fair if playing dirty means they win. It starts ugly, and it stays ugly, and nothing about it comes out right in the end.
The aggression starts early, fourth line scuffles that don’t turn into full-fledged fights but notch up the tension on the benches. The refs start looking wary, stern-faced, one of them leaning over the bench to talk to Kurmazov.
“Rein your boys in,” he says. “The next time any of you so much as tap a Panther, I’m calling it.”
He’s as good as his word, though Barker does a little more than tap, Petrovic vehemently gesturing at the refs with blood on his fingers after a stray stick to the face. Barker sits the four minutes, but they’re only shorthanded for the first three, because the Panthers aren’t interested in playing nice either.
Lourdes is arguing as he’s gestured toward the penalty box, but as far as hooks go, catching David around the middle with the blade of his stick the second he managed to skim toward a shorthanded breakaway is pretty blatant. David watches, jaw set, and looks away when Lourdes meets his eyes from the box.
The locker room’s tense after the first, all clenched jaw, grit tooth silence. The Panthers get under David’s skin in a way they shouldn’t, he knows that, but he isn’t the only one annoyed right now. When you’re trying to avoid being dead last, losing to a team that’s even worse leaves a bad taste in your mouth.
The refs’ warnings basically go unheard, and instead of continuing to make calls, they sit back on their hands and take no one, let it play out: more hits than shots on net, David’s ribs stinging from a stray elbow, Barker furious with the refs, blood down his chin. The ref tells him to wipe it off or they’ll send him to the locker room. David doesn’t hear what Barker says in response, too far down the bench, but it ends with a game misconduct, the Islanders down a man, and Kurmazov loses his temper so spectacularly he almost follows Barker down the tunnel.
David sits stiff, uncomfortable beside Kurmazov, who is practically smouldering, a rare occurrence that David doesn’t know what to do with. Kurmazov’s usually even-keeled, calms the team by example, but he’s singing with tension now, and the whole bench is wound as tight as he is. When the Panthers’ fourth line ices the puck after a long shift, David’s just relieved not to be sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, feeling the tension sink under his own skin, settle heavy in him.
When their line jumps on with fresh legs, the Panthers players are gasping like fish on land, so gassed it looks like it takes all their energy to just skate the few feet to the circle. Their coach is arguing, but he doesn’t call a timeout, so David matches up against Brzezinski, who looks like the only thing holding up his considerable bulk is the stick he’s leaning on.
It doesn’t stop him from mouthing off the second David skates into place beside him, panting out some comment about David’s mouth, the typical ‘cocksucker’ bullshit that has David bitterly remembering that the entire US Junior team called him pretty boy in the privacy of their locker room.
David gives Brzezinski a completely unimpressed look, one he’s practiced a lot. It’s hard to take any chirp seriously when it’s panted out between gasps for air, and David isn’t going to waste any energy on a fourth line moron who’s trying to buy more time by riling David up. He isn’t going to give the Panthers any satisfaction.
“Too good for this shit, huh, Chapman,” Brzezinski says, then smirks. “That stick in your ass must hurt.”
David rolls his eyes, waiting for the puck to drop, but the ref’s consulting with Kurmazov about something, giving the Panthers more time than they deserve.
“You ever get sick of it, I can pull it out and shove something else in there for you. Bet you’d like that. Bet you’d fucking love it, pretty boy.”
“Cut the shit, Brzezinski,” Lourdes calls, sharp, leaning over the end of the Panthers bench. “You know what the league policy on homophobic comments is.”
Brzezinski doesn’t look away from David. “I’m just asking him what he’s doing later, Captain,” he says, grinning at David. His teeth are very white. “Whaddya say, Chapman? Wanna come back to mine?”
David’s flushes red, humiliated and completely unable to think of a comeback. It’s not the comment — he’s heard similar ones more times than he can count — it’s Lourdes bringing attention to it. Half the Panthers bench have looked over to find out what Lourdes is telling Brzezinski off about, Kurmazov looking over from the circle. It ends up distracting Kurmazov, too; he drops his stick too early, gets thrown out of the circle, David subbing in, giving the Panthers even more time to suck in air.
David takes the face-off, loses it, and the only consolation is that when the puck gets passed back, Brzezinski shoots the puck like he’s aiming for the net and ices it all over again, and this time the second line goes out to meet them. Kurmazov nudges David as they’re s
itting down, back to responsible captain. David can’t look at him.
*
The Panthers drop the hits in the third, and the Islanders get shelled. They can’t seem to shift gears from the knock down drag out game, their defence thread thin, their goaltending woeful. Fuller lets in four goals on twelve shots, and the Islanders can’t get any of their own back, not a thing, so the score beams out 4-0, and the Islanders leave the ice with the same grit tooth, clenched jaw feeling as before, with the added sting of bile.
David can’t meet anyone’s eyes. He feels like everyone is looking at him, even though he knows they’re not, locked inside their own misery, a few pulling themselves out of it long enough to wander over to commiserate with Barker, who hasn’t moved from where he was sitting during the second intermission other than to change to street clothes, his chin darkened with hasty stitches.
Kurmazov elbows David lightly as he unlaces his skates, but he doesn’t say anything. David’s grateful for that, albeit in an exhausted, beat down way. He stands under the spray of the shower while it batters over his various aches, but makes it a short one. He doesn’t want to linger, would rather go to sleep aching than stick around any longer, deal with any of the looks he isn’t getting, the ones he feels regardless.
The bus to the hotel is almost empty when he reaches it, set to idle awhile, and David prefers the sticky Florida heat to the manufactured cold. His hair, still wet, sticks to his temples, drying fast as he leans against the hot metal of the coach, exhales slowly. He looks down at his phone so he doesn’t have to make eye contact with anyone, and he doesn’t realise until the last ten feet, the unmistakable stride, that it isn’t a teammate walking over to him.
He straightens up, waits until Lourdes is five feet away before he opens his mouth. “What do you want?” he asks.
He doesn’t know why Lourdes looks injured by that, and he doesn’t care. He can still feel the jab of the stick around his waist, the humiliation of the Panthers bench looking over to see who was getting called a faggot. He doesn’t care at all about Jake fucking Lourdes’ sensitivity.
Coming in First Place (Between the Teeth Book 1) Page 10