Jake drives him back to the hotel after dinner--which was, David will maybe admit, awesome-- and a movie David didn’t really get the plot of, since halfway through Jake turned into him, 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’d probably take was a brush of Jake’s hand and David would go off. Instead, Jake put himself to rights, plunking his hat back down over hair messed up from David’s fingers, and offered to drive him back.
David hadn’t protested, even if he had wanted to, confused, though couldn’t mistake the suggestion for disinterest since 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.
All David feels is confused for the short ride back, worried he’s done something wrong, something to tip Jake off to his general 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 sneak in within minutes of being late. Though David tends to stay late, after almost everyone’s filtered out, and Jake is always there to pick him up at the curb. David doesn’t understand him, figures if he’d be the last guy there he’d be the first guy out. 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. “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, looking back once to see if Jake’s gone, but he’s still there, and he lifts his hand in a wave before he pulls out. Once David gets to his room, he goes straight to the shower. Because he needs one anyway. The fact he jerks off with his hand braced against the tile, his lip, still tender, between his teeth, is purely incidental.
Lourdes drives him home the next night as well, but he doesn’t suggest anything 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 covered in the 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, David edgy enough that no amount of pushing himself can wring it out of him.
He arrives a good forty-five minutes early once training resumes, since there’s free ice-time in the hour running up to the official start. There’s a couple guys already on the ice: the goalie their team’s been handed, an AHL guy trying to break into the back-up position for the Habs--which sure as hell won’t happen if the Bulldogs keep playing the way they do--and what turns out to be 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 accusing, 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.”
“Got enough fucking practice out of you when you were kicking ass in the O,” Vincent says. “Leave me some dignity, man.”
“C’mon,” Jake says. “First one to get ten past him buys the other guy dinner.”
“Sure,” Vincent mutters. “And what do I get? Pucks flying at my fucking face.”
“Okay,” David says. “But no junk food shit, it’s got to be good for you.”
“You are actually a robot,” Vincent says. “Are you aware of that? Do you remember your creators? Have you learned to love?”
David ignores him, shucking his glove to reach out and shake the hand Jake outstretches. David notches the tenth, ignoring Vincent’s increasingly creative chirping, right after Jake gets his eighth, and 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 game of Monopoly or something.”
David gives him one last doubtful look.
“We can pick up some take-out, watch a movie again?” Jake asks. “I mean, if you want.”
David flushes, unsure of what ‘watch a movie’ means to Jake, but very aware of what it now means to him, ducks his head so that Jake (and Vincent, who’s muttering to himself in the net because goaltenders are all crazy) can’t see his cheeks light up.
Jake doesn’t even bother to pick him up curbside this time, just sticks around until David’s ready to leave. “There’s this awesome Indian place near the condo,” he says. “You like Indian?”
“Sure,” David says.
It’s good, even if David ends up needing to take Jake up on 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 he had to download and watch the end of the last one they ‘watched’, just because not knowing how it ended was bugging him.
It ends up being a good decision, because being pressed up against Jake shoulder to knee is bad for his concentration in the first place, and David 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 cock, and Jake groans into his mouth, pulls away.
“Okay,” he says breathlessly. “I was really trying to be good, but can I please blow you.”
David stares at him. “Yes,” he says, finally. He has no fucking clue how that isn’t being good. That’s about as good a thing as he can think of.
“Awesome,” Jake says.
The word’s starting to grow on David.
David catches a cab back after he returns the favour (“I had two beers, like, two hours ago,” Jake says exasperatedly. “I’m over two-hundred pounds. I am safe to drive you home.”, but he doesn’t push it when David insists.), and that night, wrung out by a good day of training and Jake’s mouth around his dick, it’s easy to fall asleep.
The next day, 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 and barely lukewarm. He should have known it would be a bad day. He isn’t as superstitious as some of his teammates, puts his play in his own hands and earns it when he does well and accepts the blame when he doesn’t, but it still should have tipped him off.
He makes it on time to practice, if not with enough time to get some work done before everyone’s crowded in. His reactions are off, though, always a microsecond behind where they should be, and Caldwell seems to notice, which leaves David embarrassed and frustrated with himself by the time their ice-time’s up. It must be obvious, because Hamilton gives him a tap on the shoulder, looking encouraging. Still a captain at heart, 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 or something, because at the rate this day is going it’s a plausible concern.
“Holy shit, man,” Vopni says, just when David’s sat down. He’s looking down at his phone. “You know how that Leafs guy got caught kissing a dude?”
“Breaking news, Vopni,” Hamilton says dryly, while most 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.
“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 guys reaching for their own phones. David keeps his head down, focuses on untying his skates, putting all his attention into it to counteract the way his hands have started to shake, his heart’s started to pound in his chest. Riley’s nothing, a bottom six grinder, but Lapointe is the whole damn reason the Leafs have the Cup, stayed 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.
Most of the guys have 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 at the remaining guys, before he finally looks at Jake, noticing the phone in his hand.
“It true?” he asks, as low as he can.
“Looks like,” Jake says. “C’mon, let’s get some lunch.”
“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, after a minute.
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, ruffles 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 down 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, which only 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 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 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 the both of them.
But the second they’re in the locker room again, David can tell that it hasn’t been dropped as a subject. 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,” Marchant says to Vopni from beside David. “Because I wouldn’t want to deal with his gay bullshit in my room.”
“Dude, shut the fuck up,” Jake says from halfway across the room.
Marchant 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, Marchant, 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?” Marchant snaps.
“Shut the fuck up, all of you,” Caldwell says. “Jesus fucking christ, Marchant, do you ever shut your mouth?”
Marchant fumes silently, and Hamilton rolls his eyes and nudges Jake’s shoulder, which gets him a quick flash of a smile.
The atmosphere sucks throughout the afternoon, enough that even David notices, Marchant 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.
After, there’s less chatter than usual 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, either, but he doesn’t have any choice in that. Knows he’ll head back and read all the articles on Lapointe, even the ones that will make him feel sick and guiltily grateful that at least they’re not 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 weirder 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, pointed, then, cheerful, “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 Marchant happy, do you?”
“You shouldn’t have said that to him,” David says.
“Why not?” Jake asks. “If no one tells him 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. “You can do it but you can’t talk about it?”
“Shut up,” David mutters.
“Okay,” Jake says, still with laughter 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’ didn’t include Jake on his knees between David’s spread thighs, wiping come from 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 cock 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 has gotten close enough to that, at least, 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 own 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. Not much of a step to go from ‘pretty boy’ to what everyone’s probably throwing Lapointe’s way right now.
Jake finally pulls his hand out of his shorts, makes 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 shifts to pull 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 command.
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 about nothing less tempting than that, at least the Big Brother part. The fact that Jake’s room presumably implies a bed, and Jake’s already down to his underwear, that’s...more tempting.
“And nothing else?” David asks skeptically.
“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, offering 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.