Page 11 of Drop the Gloves

Despite getting the Third Star against the Pythons, the achievement was short-lived. Evan had a mediocre game against the Tennessee Outlaws and was falling behind in practice.

He needed to get out of his own head. This checking and fighting garbage, the Barczyk stuff, it was throwing his game off. It was small enough right now for him to fix it. He just needed to make the effort and stop it from getting out of hand.

Pretty much everyone on the team had their coping mechanisms. For Moreau and Doyle, it was recreational drinking (with whiskey being their preferred drink); Kates, Antonov, and Farrell had established a video game club where they played Mario Kart religiously on road trips; a lot of them used exercise; Lawson had taken up knitting when his daughter was born and routinely made whole scarfs on plane rides.

For Evan? He had a very specific way of detoxing from hockey.

“Hey, Dalty,” Evan said after practice a couple days after the Outlaws game. “You feeling putt-y?”

Dalton’s eyes lit up. “Hell yeah, bro.” He offered a fistbump to Evan, which he gladly accepted. “Wanna grab dinner too? It’s my cheat day, and I could really go for a milkshake.”

“Sure.” He frowned. “Your dinner isn’t going to be just milkshakes, right?”

“No,” Dalton scoffed. “...maybe.”

Evan thought over their options. There was a new place he’d been meaning to check out, just to be thorough in his mini-golf of Pittsburgh knowledge, that was inside a bar/restaurant.

“You wanna go to that new fancy place in the Strip?” he asked. “They might have milkshakes.”

“Milkshakes?”

Both turned to see Barczyk walking behind them to the parking lot. “What’s this about milkshakes? And putty? Doesn’t sound healthy, guys.”

Dalton laughed, like a traitor. “Not putty, putty. Putt putt. Like, mini-golf.” He hooked a thumb at Evan. “Abs here loves it. We go a couple of times a season. Wanna come?”

Actually, traitor was too nice of a word for Edward Dalton. Maybe his middle name was Judas.

“Mini-golf?” Barczyk gave Evan a look like he was reevaluating everything he knew about him. “I don’t want to intrude.”

Good, Evan thought, but he would never in a million years be rude enough to say it out loud.

“Nah, bro,” Dalton said. “The more the merrier. And maybe if you come, I might not lose every round.”

Barczyk didn’t take his eyes off Evan. “Abs is that good, huh?”

“Real good. Understands the angles and how hard to hit and all that. I don’t think he’s ever done a course over par, even when he’s never been there before.”

Barczyk’s expression lit up with delight. “Never?” he teased, and Evan felt like his cheeks were on fire. “I need to see this in action. Count me in.”

* * *

They agreed to meet in an hour, giving them time to go home and change. It meant they drove separately, thank God, because Evan didn’t know if he could handle more Barczyk. Mini-golf was his escape from this sort of thing, but here was Barczyk, tagging along like they were friends or something.

Barczyk probably thought they were friends, and that only made Evan’s chest constrict with guilt.

Barczyk had been nothing but friendly to Evan since joining the team.

More than friendly, honestly. He’d talked to Evan more about his checking and fighting fears than literally anyone else on the team, and he’d spotted it back in the pre-season whereas some of these guys Evan had played with for three years and hadn’t noticed at all.

If last season hadn’t happened, things would be great.

Evan would’ve enthusiastically welcomed Barczyk to the team, and they’d be more in sync on the ice.

Okay, maybe not enthusiastically because he still didn’t agree with Barczyk’s reckless style of play. The point was he wouldn’t be so on edge all the dang time.

Barczyk was already at the kiosk when Evan arrived, trying to figure out the machine and get their game started. Evan tried his best to picture Barczyk as just one of the guys on the team and not...well, Riley Barczyk.

Evan observed from a distance as he tried to reevaluate Barczyk through unbiased eyes.

Barczyk’s mohawk of messy, poofy curls was ridiculous on a grown man.

..but Evan would’ve loved it when he was a kid.

Evan could never pull it off, but he could a) appreciate someone trying and b) admit that Barczyk did pull it off.

His look of perfectly fitted jeans (where the hell did he find jeans that fit hockey thighs?) and a green tee just tight enough to hint at how toned he was only made him look cooler than he had any right to be, though he lost points for his gold chain.

His credit card was out as he paid for all three of them to play, which was pretty decent of him, and he was polite to the staff when they offered him help getting putters and balls.

That was when he noticed Evan, a smile lighting up his face as he waved him over, and Evan was forced to stop lurking in the entry.

“Wanna grab a drink while we wait for Dalty?” Barczyk offered as he tossed Evan a yellow ball. “He drives ten under the speed limit. It’ll take him another twenty to show up.”

Evan caught the ball and pocketed it in his joggers. He felt like a slob compared to Barczyk, since Evan looked like he was coming from the gym while Barczyk at least looked like he was out to have fun with friends.

“No thanks,” he said. “It's a little early for a beer.”

“Beer?” Barczyk laughed, that stupid dimple on his left cheek on display again and grabbing Evan’s attention more than it should. “What about all that milkshake talk? We gotta get some to rub it in Dalty’s face that he was late.”

Evan didn’t mean for it to happen, but he smiled.

“Yeah,” he said, realizing he’d been scowling before.

Maybe this would be good for him. Hanging out with Barczyk without hockey might help him fix his brain to read Barczyk as friend and not guy-who-injured-me.

“That seems fair. Let’s get two of the biggest milkshakes they’ve got. ”

The milkshakes were massive, on par with a liter of beer by the look of it, and Barczyk’s face brightened when the server dropped them off for them.

“Dalty’s got the right idea. These ain’t no joke.” Barczyk dove right in, ignoring the straw and licking up whipped cream from the top. Some ended up on his nose, and he went cross-eyed as he tried to lick it off.

“Hold up.” Evan took out his phone and pulled up the camera.

He worried Barczyk would get the spot off before Evan could take a picture, but instead he grinned big and held up his massive milkshake.

He managed to wink just as Evan snapped the picture.

“Ugh,” he grumbled as he sent it to Dalty. “You are unfairly photogenic.”

Barczyk winked again. “Don’t I know it.”

Evan sipped his own milkshake—chocolate milk with chocolate brownie topped with whipped cream and a chocolate syrup drizzle, more sugar than he normally consumed in a week—and saw that Dalty was messaging him back.

He waited patiently, expecting a middle finger emoji or a bros nooooo, but the longer he waited, the more confused he was.

When the message finally came through, his shoulders sagged and he groaned.

“What’s up?” Barczyk asked. He was almost done with his milkshake, like some bottomless pit.

“Dalty can’t make it. His piece of shit truck that he bitches about all the time broke down. He didn’t even make it out of the parking lot. He’s in a tow truck right now.”

“Oh.” Then Barczyk shrugged. “Sucks. He need a ride home or anything?”

“No, it sounds like Lawson is going to pick him up and get him set up with a rental. But he’s not making it for mini-golf.” Evan turned over his phone in annoyance as he laid it between them. “Sorry, if you don’t wanna—”

“Let’s get on the course, then,” Barczyk said before Evan could finish.

He hopped off his bar stool, chugged the last of his milkshake, and slid it into the center of their high top.

“We’ll take turns shooting for Dalty. We’re gonna get him such a bad score.

” There was an amused glint in his eyes, the same mischievous one he got on the ice when he was about to royally piss someone off.

Except here at the putt shack bar, it seemed endearing instead of malicious.

Part of Evan didn’t want to be stuck alone with Barczyk, but mostly he didn’t want to give up on his afternoon of zen. Maybe it would be kind of fun if they were messing with Dalton in a harmless way.

See, Barczyk’s a friend. Friends play pranks on each other. You’ve got this.

“Sure,” Evan said. “Let’s do it.”

Barczyk, it turned out, wasn’t very good at mini-golf.

He was better than average, if only because he had decent aim, but he didn’t seem to have the patience to inspect the course or line up his shots, and he wanted to muscle his way through everything.

He even did a toe drag with his putter a few times to get it in position, and when he was waiting for Evan to take his turn, he’d bounce the ball on the end of his putter.

“Can you not stay still for even a minute?” Evan said slowly, breathing evenly as he steadied his hands and lined up the shot. There was a moving bridge to get across, and he had to time it perfectly or the whole hole was ruined.

“Nope.” Evan could hear the bounce of the ball behind him.

“You should see my bed in the morning. I’m tangled up in the sheets, and the pillows are on the floor.

When I was a kid, my ma said they should put me in a straightjacket to sleep, otherwise, it looked like a tornado ran through my room.

Very localized to the bed, but a couple of times I knocked over all the stuff on my nightstand.

Broke a lamp once. Ma wasn’t happy about that one. ”

Evan tuned him out, waited, then shot. The ball went across the bridge, teetering a little at the end, but landing within an inch of the hole. Evan clenched his fist and mouthed a pleased, “Yes!”

“Hey, nice! Way better than when I tried.”