Page 10 of Drop the Gloves

A week and a half later, they hosted the Florida Pythons, which sucked.

The Pythons were a killer team, and the Riveters were coming off their first back-to-back of the season.

They were all tired, exhausted from their loss yesterday (an overtime loss at that, even worse).

As soon as the puck dropped at center ice, with Turner squaring off for the opening face-off against the Pythons’ lead scorer, the Riveters were sloppy.

A few minutes into the game, Evan got his first shift, and yep, he was no exception.

His line couldn’t get any momentum, and he left the ice after his first few shifts feeling insanely frustrated.

The real issue: he was getting manhandled left and right.

Any time he got anywhere within five feet of the puck, he’d have at least one Python player on him, bodying him off track and clogging up all the passing lanes.

He couldn’t remember having so little space and time in a game, and it was driving him crazy.

When the second period rolled around, Evan didn’t know what came over him.

This one defender, Smith, kept pushing him around.

He’d wait until the refs’ backs were turned and then slashed or cross-checked Evan, and once tripped him by hooking his stick behind Evan’s knee.

Maybe it was all the talk about using his body, maybe it was Barczyk’s influence, but in the waning minutes of the second period, Evan had reached his limits.

“You wanna fucking go?” he found himself yelling as Smith pushed him again.

Smith looked startled for a moment—he actually did a double-take—and then grinned widely around his mouthguard. “You sure you wanna do that, 21?”

Normally, that would be when Evan would come to his senses and realize, no, he absolutely did not want to do that.

He liked his teeth and not being in the penalty box, thank you very much.

Except he knew that if he backed out now, it would only get worse.

It was already fucking awful, enduring Smith’s pestering, and if he didn’t stick up for himself, it would be open season for the rest of the game.

So he did the mature thing; he dropped his gloves.

Smith’s eyes lit up in delight. He threw aside his stick and gloves, and brought up his fists.

Oh, right. The fighting part. Evan managed to block the first punch and took the other to his shoulder pad.

Not bad. He had no idea what to do with his own hands, so he clenched them hard and started swinging wildly.

He hit Smith, though he wasn’t tracking where or how hard, but he figured any contact was good contact.

But Smith had a hand on Evan’s shoulder and was doing a good job manhandling him so Evan couldn’t get in a decent punch.

It also put him at the mercy of Smith’s more skilled jabs.

In his adrenaline rush, Evan didn’t feel anything until the one that connected square with his nose.

All that worrying about his teeth getting knocked out, he’d forgotten about his nose.

When he inevitably fell to the ice seconds later with Smith on top of him trying to get a few more blows in before the refs pulled them apart, Evan felt dizzy.

When he finally got up, recollecting his helmet, gloves, and stick so the refs could escort him and Smith to their respective penalty boxes, it was to cheers from the crowd and stick taps from his teammates. He felt like a gladiator, putting on a show for the masses.

Too bad he’d lost. They killed gladiators who fought as bad as him, didn’t they?

After he sat down in the penalty box, he ran a hand through his sweaty hair.

An attendant offered him a towel, which he took as a hint and dabbed at his face.

Yep, blood. Great. He held the towel in place over his nose, sighed, and tilted his head back so he could look at the jumbotron.

Sure enough, they were replaying the fight.

Evan thought he looked reasonably good when he dropped his gloves.

Less so after that. After they showed the punch to his face that took him out, Evan winced.

He’d fought like shit. Looked like a damn rookie.

Granted, it was his first career fight. He was lucky he got any hits in.

“21!”

Evan looked over to the other penalty box, where Smith was leering at him.

“You fight like shit, kid.”

Kid. Always a stupid kid.

“You fight like an old man, fuckface,” he yelled back and turned to watch the game. He didn’t look back at him the rest of the penalty, or at the fans pounding on the glass behind him. He just wanted this game to be over so he could sulk in peace.

God, what if he had media tonight? He didn’t want to answer questions about the worst fight in the history of hockey fights. He didn’t have the training to be diplomatic about Smith provoking him or his own incompetence.

“Fuck me,” he grumbled. He put his helmet back on and watched the clock tick by.

Because it was a five-minute penalty, he’d have to wait for his time to expire and for a stoppage in play before he could head to the bench.

He could kiss the rest of his shifts goodbye until the third period, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he sat more than usual as punishment for taking such a dumb penalty in a game where the team was already struggling.

All in all? Not worth it.

Not to be outdone, Barczyk joined him in the box shortly after.

He skated hard into the Python’s zone, chasing an errant puck.

The goalie covered it well before Barczyk got there, but Barczyk didn’t slow down and instead did a hard stop right in front of the crease.

Snow flew and covered the goalie, who glared up at Barczyk.

A grand total of three seconds later—Evan counted, holding his breath because he knew what was about to happen—Barczyk was cross-checked from behind.

He stumbled, fell into the goalie, and then immediately threw off his right glove to deliver a blind right hook at the person who’d hit him.

He got in a great hit to the jaw of the Python’s defenseman.

By the time he’d regained his balance, Barczyk had both fists up.

Unfortunately for him, the defenseman had no interest in fighting. He skated away, holding his jaw, while the goalie skated after him in solidarity. Barczyk stood in the crease with his arms out in a what the fuck? gesture, and even from the box, there was no mistaking his bewilderment.

When the refs gave Barczyk his own five-minute major, Evan kind of felt bad for him.

“I didn’t even get to fight!” Barczyk complained as he stormed into the box.

He threw his helmet into the corner, gave Smith the finger, and sat down with a thump a little too close to Evan.

His chestnut curls were sweaty and almost straight, matted against the sides of his head.

“The asshole hit me first! What kind of jackass doesn’t fight back when punches are thrown? ”

“You did snow his goalie,” Evan pointed out.

“Et tu, Abs?” Barczyk grumbled. He leaned back against the glass, oblivious to the fans taking selfies behind them.

At least they were in Pittsburgh and it was their own fans.

Evan hated being in the box during away games, because the crowds could be rude if not downright vulgar as they heckled him.

“I’m just saying—”

“That because I’m an asshole, I deserved it?”

“I didn’t—” Evan blushed. “I would never—”

“Call me an asshole to my face?” He’d been staring glumly at the rafters, but his gaze shifted briefly to Evan, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

Evan felt like a jerk, because it wasn’t like Barczyk was wrong.

He didn’t think much of Barczyk’s personality and definitely didn’t approve of his style of play, but he wouldn’t say that to a teammate.

Honestly, he was surprised he’d called Smith a fuckface out loud, but Smith was on another team and he’d never have to live with the consequences of that one.

“It’s okay,” Barczyk said. He knocked his knee into Evan’s.

While he’d been upset about the penalty, he looked completely unbothered to hear that his own linemate thought he was a dick.

“I am an asshole. I’m an asshole who snows goalies and smashes into people and punches them.

But right now, I’m your asshole and I punch them for you.

So if guys like Smith are being jagoffs”—he said this last part loudly while glaring at the other penalty box, the Pittsburghism earning hoots from the nearby fans—“you let me handle it, ‘kay?”

The admission shouldn’t have meant anything, yet it tore through Evan like a bolt of lightning. He squirmed uncomfortably, suddenly too hot and his heart beating madly. Before he could figure out how to respond, though, Barczyk nudged him with his elbow.

“Think they’ll kill my penalty for me?”

Evan blinked and turned his attention back to the ice. He’d forgotten they were in the middle of a game. “Uhm, yeah. Hope so.”

They stayed quiet after that. He felt bad for what he’d said.

Or almost said. After his one embarrassing attempt at a fight, Evan better understood what Barczyk went through every time he dropped his gloves.

It took a lot to put yourself out there, in front of tens of thousands of people (hundreds of thousands if you included TV viewers), and he did it multiple times a season.

Evan might not agree with some of the asinine reasons Barczyk fought, but he found he respected Barczyk’s readiness to stick up for himself a bit more.

He and Smith got out of the box during a stoppage, and Smith scowled at Evan. Barczyk waved at him and blew a kiss, which seemed to scare him off. Thank God. Evan wasn’t sure he wanted to continue trash talking without the safety of plexiglass between them.

“Hey,” Evan said, turning back to Barczyk before he closed the penalty box door. With his stick, he tapped Barczyk’s skate. “See you in a few? Try not to be too lonely without me.”

Barczyk grinned at him, missing tooth on full display. “Aww, Abs, you softie. Gonna miss me for my last minute in the slammer?”

“Not really,” he said, his own smile hard to control. He pushed the door shut and skated away, well aware that Barczyk was laughing behind him.

When he returned to the bench, his teammates were supportive and made a point of congratulating him on his first fight.

“Smith’s a dick,” Lawson said and patted Evan on the back. Evan preened a little whenever he got their captain’s attention. “Way to stand up to him.”

Lawson and the others diplomatically didn’t comment on the outcome beyond a neutral, “We’ve all been there.” He appreciated them overlooking how pathetic he’d looked.

Well...there was one player who wasn’t good at diplomacy.

“That your first fight or something?” Barczyk asked as soon as he’d been freed from the penalty box.

They sat together on the bench, bracketed by Vassiliev to their right and Dalton to their left, waiting their turn to go on the ice.

He was chewing his stupid mouthguard, per usual.

He did it so often, it didn’t do much guarding of his mouth.

Even to shut him up. “Sorry, I should’ve asked when we were in the box. I was kinda…”

“Distracted?”

“Something like that.” He waited expectantly.

“Ugh, yes. That was my first career fight,” Evan grumbled. “You surprised?”

“Not really. A guy who doesn’t like checking people wouldn’t like fighting them, either.” Barczyk frowned as he looked Evan up and down. “It’s just you’re so...so big. You should win every fight. Hell, you breathe on me too hard, I’ll probably go flying.”

Evan wilted. “I don’t think I’ve ever thrown a punch before today.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I believe you. No one would accuse you of knowing what you were doing.”

A line change rescued Evan from Barczyk’s chirping.

They jumped over the boards and rushed onto the ice, and Evan was happy to go back to actual hockey.

The Riveters were fired up after his fight, at least. It was like they’d decided if Evan Abernathy was willing to get into a fight, they could suck it up and play better.

They’d scored twice in the five minutes Evan had been trapped in the box, and they’d been buzzing the whole third.

Smith and the Pythons, on the other hand, seemed to have lost steam. Like the whole thing was embarrassing or something. Same, Evan thought. Hard same.

But he ignored his own embarrassment because he had to.

With the ice tilted in their favor, the Riveters came out of the game with a 4-1 win.

“Wish we could’ve gotten you a Gordie Howe hat trick,” Barczyk joked as they headed back down the tunnel after the game. “That would’ve been something. Could’ve redeemed ourselves if we’d pulled that off.”

Evan highly doubted he’d ever get a Gordie Howe hat trick. He very rarely got a goal and an assist in the same game, and he certainly didn’t plan on fighting again. Getting all three in a single game seemed impossible.

“Abernathy.”

They both stopped in their tracks and turned around. Coach Jack was still by the bench where Doyle was waiting to go onto the ice with Calhoun.

“Yeah?” Evan asked nervously.

“Get over here. You’re third star.”

Evan stood there dumbly. “What?”

“You’re the third star of the game,” Coach repeated wryly. “You go on first. C’mon, kid. They’re about to call it. Don’t worry, they’ll give you a puck. Just throw it to the fans and smile. You’ll be fine.”

“Oh.” He’d never been one of the three stars of the game. And to think he got it for that fight. He trudged back, wondering what his mom and his friends back home would say about all this.

He waved to the fans, threw the puck to a couple of kids by the penalty box, and disappeared off the ice as soon as he was allowed.

When he stepped into the locker room, the team erupted in cheers.

“I didn’t even score,” Evan muttered when he sat down at his stall. Not that he didn’t enjoy or want the praise—he really, really did—but he hadn’t earned it. He hadn’t done anything, except lose.

That didn’t seem to matter, though: he was the hero of the hour.

As the team got undressed, showered, and went through their various post-game routines, Evan kept getting pats on the back, noogies, and whoops of encouragement from everyone, the coaches included.

It was weirdly gratifying, like instead of completing fucking things up, he’d done something right.

Surreal, since as far as he was concerned, it had been the least hockey-thing he’d ever done.

Fighting’s part of hockey, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Barczyk whispered. Can’t ignore it just because you don’t like it.

Evan mulled it over on his drive home, then dreamed of fighting a hundred Smiths while Barczyk coached him from the sidelines. Strangely, it wasn’t a nightmare.