Page 12 of Drop the Gloves

“You tried to saucer it over the bridge,” Evan said as he walked around to the hole. He tapped the ball in and allowed himself a few seconds to be happy about his score so far.

“What do you do? Imagine you’re going five-hole?”

“I don’t visualize it like hockey,” he said. “They’re completely different.”

Barczyk raised an eyebrow and looked between the putter in one hand, the ball in the other, then back at Evan.

“I don’t think they’re as unalike as you think, bro.

We can do Topgolf sometime. I’ll show you what I mean.

” He dropped the orange ball—Dalton’s ball—and squared up at the start.

“Dalty’s been having such a terrible game today. Think he’ll make it in less than ten?”

“Doubtful.” Evan grabbed his ball and stepped off the course.

He snickered and watched some truly terrible mini-golf, amusing only because of Barczyk’s theatrics.

Back-handed shots while facing away from the course.

Squatting down so he could use the putter like a pool cue.

Making everything a bounce shot instead of trying to take the most direct path.

It was impressive how many ways he could find to play mini-golf wrong.

Of course, Evan could argue that he’d found as many odd ways to exploit ice hockey too, so it shouldn’t be that surprising he’d do it with any sport or game.

When they reached the end, there was a scoreboard that showed their final scores, and Barczyk insisted they take a selfie with it in the background to show Dalty.

Abs: 13

Barzy: 20

Dalty: 74

Evan smiled, then froze when Barczyk slung his arm around Evan’s shoulder (no easy feat given their height difference) and pulled him down. Evan watched on the camera display as Barczyk made a duck face; Evan belatedly tried not to look constipated. Neither of them quite succeeded.

“Perfect,” Barczyk said gleefully as he released Evan. He started messing around on his phone, and Evan took a step back to get some air. “Gonna put this on Insta. What’s your username? I’m gonna tag both of you guys, even though this is obviously a Dalty callout post.”

“Evanabernathy21,” he mumbled. His shoulder had felt too warm with Barczyk’s arm around it, and now it was too cold.

“How professional,” Barczyk said, though he was too busy with his phone to put his usual teasing tone behind it.

Before Evan could ask what Barczyk used as his handle, his phone pinged with a notification.

@bardownbarzy has tagged you in an Instagram post.

It was certainly on brand; Evan had to give him that.

At the Puttshack with my boys @evanabernathy21 and @eddydalton78 - par for the course is 15 and Abs beat it!? Dalty don’t quit your day job

Evan hit the like button. He figured it was time to head back home. His head felt a lot clearer, even after having Barczyk for company.

“Let’s grab dinner,” Barczyk said, dragging Evan by the sleeve of his sweatshirt toward the bar. “I’m starving. Who knew you could work up an appetite with mini-golf?”

“I uhm...uh—”

They were seated at the bar with two more milkshakes in front of them and burgers on the way before Evan had properly formed a sentence. Well shit.

“You’re good at mini-golf,” Barczyk said. “I can see why you score so much. Even with a goalie, the net’s a lot bigger than those holes.”

“I don’t score that much,” Evan said. “I haven’t scored yet this season.”

Barczyk shrugged. “But you did good in the pre-season. You’ve got good hands and a wicked shot. Good game sense, too. I mean, the only thing really stopping you from being in the top six is…” He looked at Evan expectantly.

“That I’m not good enough?”

“What? No. Jesus, Abs, have you been listening to me at all? You’ve got all the skills. You just don’t take advantage of your other assets.”

“My other assets? I don’t—”

“Fuck, if I had your size,” Barczyk said wistfully, then shook his head. “Actually, it’s better that I don’t. I’ve got no restraint. You, though, you’ve got too much. You fix your checking and your fighting, and every team in the league’ll want you.”

“I don’t know about that.” Evan’s cheeks were burning. This conversation wasn’t happening. Riley Barczyk wasn’t gushing with praise over him. Maybe the milkshakes were spiked or something.

“I promise it’s true.” Barczyk’s face lit up. “Hey! I’ve got an idea!”

Evan grimaced. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like Barczyk’s idea. “What? I sign up for boxing lessons?”

“No. I mean, yes, you totally should, but who’s got time for that? I can help. You did all that checking practice with Coach Mel, and it did wonders for you. Huge improvement—”

“I still don’t check much.”

“But you do it more, and that’s what you needed.

And don’t interrupt. The only thing that’s missing is your fighting game.

That fight the other day with Smith was weak, bro.

Like I know I’ve had some less than stellar fights and gotten my ass handed to me, so I get it, it’s not easy, but that was kind of embarrassing.

Good for you for doing it. We’re all proud of you for sticking up for yourself. But yikes, man. Yikes.”

Yep, Evan’s cheeks were on fire. His ears and neck, too. This was the worst.

“And how would you help exactly? Be my enforcer?”

“I do that anyway,” Barczyk said dismissively.

“That’s not what you need. If you’re gonna throw your body, even if it’s only now and then, you gotta be willing to drop the gloves too.

And you need to not look like a kitten swatting at a ball of yarn when you do it, or people are gonna antagonize you more ‘cuz they’ve got nothing to be afraid of. ”

“A kitten and a ball of yarn?” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. What was he doing here, listening to this? All the stress he’d let go of during mini-golf was seeping back in with every word Barczyk said.

“See.” Barczyk pointed at him and smirked. “You’re pissed right now, but I ain’t afraid because I know you’re not gonna do anything about it. You’re this giant, polite Canadian boy who’ll offer to pay at the end of the meal and thank me for my advice, even though I can tell you fucking hate it.”

Evan gritted his teeth. He wanted to deny it, but it was pretty spot on. He did hate it, he would thank Barczyk, and he would offer to pay.

“Well, you paid for the mini-golf—”

Barczyk burst out laughing. Mercifully, their burgers arrived, and Barczyk had a mouthful of fries for the next few minutes. Evan thought he’d escaped; he should’ve known better.

“So,” Barczyk said as he chased down his entire side of fries with more milkshake. “I can help you learn to fight.”

“Who says I want to learn how to fight?”

Barczyk snorted. “Yeah right. Every hockey player wants to know how to fight.” Then, after a moment of appraisal, he straightened up. “Oh shit. Sorry. You’re serious.”

“Yes, I’m serious. I’ve gone this long without fighting. It’s not part of my game.”

“Okay, well, that’s great, but it is part of the game of hockey, which you play.”

“Plenty of leagues—”

“So when you join one of them, you’re set. Right now we’re talking about the NHL, and fighting is definitely still part of the game. If you can throw a few reasonable punches when necessary, it’ll do you a world of good.”

“And you’ll just generously teach me how to do it? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Yes?” Barczyk’s nose scrunched up in confusion. “That so hard to believe?”

“Kind of. I mean, what’s in it for you?” Evan pressed.

A guy with that many penalty minutes didn’t seem like a team player, so why would he offer to help Evan?

What was in it for him? At the very least, he seemed to love being the center of attention.

If Evan started laying people out left, right, and center, wouldn’t that detract from the Barczyk Show?

“I won’t have to kick someone’s ass for you when you bite off more than you can chew. Like you did with Smith.”

“You gonna keep rubbing that in my face?” Evan grumbled. He wished he could eat in peace, but he found he wasn’t all that hungry anymore.

“Have another fight where you don’t suck, and I won’t be able to.” Barczyk said it reasonably, like it was the obvious solution to a problem that wouldn’t exist if Barczyk would just drop it.

“And what does your so-called fighting lesson look like?”

“Uh…” Barczyk’s eyes crossed as he thought about it. “I dunno. The curriculum’s a work in progress. Probably like the checking drills. Just...practice. Lots of reps. Make sure you know the basics.”

“I know the basics—”

“I mean, make sure you can execute the basics. I don’t want you getting your hands stuck in your gloves when you try to drop them or something.”

Evan rolled his eyes, though now his heart was racing because, oh no, was that a thing? Given his luck, it would be.

“Look, I appreciate the offer—”

Barczyk held up his hands to stop him. “You don’t have to say anything right now. If you’re not up for it, cool. If you change your mind later, also cool. It’s a long season.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said. It was true—he would think about the time Barczyk offered to teach him how to fight for a long time, probably longer than they’d be teammates—but he had no intention of taking him up on the offer. “Thanks.”

Whether or not Barczyk believed him, he let it go. “Cool. Hey, you gonna eat all those fries or what?”