Page 17 of Drop the Gloves

They returned to Pittsburgh five days later. They got a win in Vermont, then lost in overtime to the Buffalo Bears. Instead of focusing on the team’s small jump in the standings, all Evan could think about was stupid Riley Barczyk’s invitation to his apartment gym.

When it had been Future Evan’s problem, days away and not quite real, he’d been able to ignore it. Now he was stuck next to Barczyk on a plane (again), forced to pick a day that worked for him (was never an option?).

“I can’t do Wednesday,” Barczyk muttered as he scrolled through his phone.

He was wearing a hoodie over his button-down shirt and chewing the end of one string.

Could that man go a day without chewing on something?

Maybe if Evan got him a pack of gum, half his anger problems would go away.

“Sophia’s got an appointment with the groomer. Lemme check the rest of the week…”

Knowing he had about a minute before Barczyk just picked a day and time for them, Evan needed to act. This was his chance to decline the offer once and for all, but what he said instead was: “Couldn’t we just use the team gym after practice Tuesday?”

Barczyk didn’t argue with the venue change, just flipped his calendar back a few days. “Yeah, that’ll work. We can meet up with Dalty, S’more, and Vassy for drinks after at that new place. You’re going to that, right?”

Shit. He’d forgotten about whatever new bar Dalton had found out about and insisted a bunch of them go to.

The whole point of practicing at a neutral location was so there was no risk or expectation to hang out after.

At least the bar wasn’t going to be weirdly intimate like Barczyk’s apartment.

As a bonus, there’d be other people there to defuse the one-sided tension that was making Evan act like an idiot.

“Yeah.” He gulped. “I’m going.”

“Cool, that settles it. We can practice and then head over.” Barczyk added a calendar event that read ‘Abs ,’ then looked up at Evan with a lopsided grin, that stupid sweatshirt string still in his mouth. “We’ll have you in fighting form by Thanksgiving.”

“It was Thanksgiving last week,” he said automatically.

He’d had a video chat with his mom, which had become their tradition years ago when he'd moved to live with his first billet team out in Ottawa.

Nothing like a turkey breast sandwich, boxed stuffing, and canned cranberries while hundreds of miles away from family to hit home he needed to be thankful for all the times they could share holidays together.

Barczyk made a pinched face, squinting at Evan like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to contradict Evan or let it slide.

Apparently he couldn’t be bothered, because he shrugged and said, “Right. So by the end of November, you should be ready to graduate from the Barczyk School of Kicking Ass and Taking Names.”

“Is there a diploma that comes with that?” Evan asked.

“I can maybe hook you up with a certificate,” Barczyk said. “But I can’t sign it until after you win a fight.”

“Sounds like you won’t be signing it,” he grumbled. He saw Barczyk about to argue, so he said, “You’re teaching me as insurance in case I get in a fight again. I’m not trying to pick fights.”

“Aww, you’re no fun, Abs. You’d be a real contender if you wanted to be. I mean, if I can hold my own”—he pointed to his chest, but all Evan noticed was that even sitting, he had to look down farther than usual—“then the sky’s the limit for a guy like you.”

“A guy like me?”

“Yeah. A Canadian giant. What, you part sasquatch?”

Even with teammates, Barczyk couldn’t shut up.

“Scottish,” he said.

Barczyk squinted at him. “Hmmm.” Then he stretched and wiggled deeper into his seat, eyes fluttering shut. Still with the string in his mouth. “My family’s Polish. My grampa speaks it and everything. Rest up, Abs. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

* * *

It felt like he blinked and when he opened his eyes, he was at the far end of the team gym where the mats were laid away from the weight racks. He poked the mats with his foot, suddenly worried they weren’t thick enough. It couldn’t be worse than falling and hitting the ice, though, right?

He’d gotten there before Barczyk, and, not knowing how to prepare for fighting practice, he sat on the mat and stretched.

“You’re pretty flexible for a big guy,” Barczyk called, startling Evan so badly that he nearly pulled a muscle in his groin. “Is that useful in hockey if you’re not a goalie?”

Evan took a measured breath in and out, then gently rose out of the stretch before turning to Barczyk.

“Shouldn’t you…” He trailed off as he saw Barczyk in a too-big Riveters tee with the sleeves cut off (why?) and bicycle shorts.

Very tight spandex bicycle shorts. He also stood close enough to Evan that his dick was at eye level.

Evan immediately went back down to stretch again so he could regroup and try to forget the mental image of Barczyk’s dick outlined in dark spandex.

You’ve seen him naked before, he reminded himself. In the locker room and showers. Dozens of times. You don’t care about his dick.

His own dick disagreed. He bit the inside of his cheek and prayed he didn’t get hard. Why was this happening? Thank fuck his own gym shorts were loose.

Barczyk poked him in the side with his bare foot. “Bro, stop. You’re not going to pull anything. That’s not how fighting works.”

Thankfully, Barczyk’s annoyingness worked as well as a cold shower. Evan pushed out of the fake stretch and stood up, crossed his arms over his chest, and scowled at Barczyk (mostly to remind himself he barely liked Riley Barczyk so he couldn’t be attracted to him).

Or any guy, he told himself firmly, as if that put the period at the end of his worries.

“So how does fighting work?” Evan asked.

“Well, aside from the equipment stuff we already worked on, mostly just punching.”

“That’s it?”

“No, but the other stuff is too advanced for you. Took me years to master tripping someone while we’re fighting, and it’s hard to wrestle guys to the ice without practice. No offense, but I don’t want you tackling or tripping me when a good right hook will do the trick.”

There was a bag slung around Barczyk’s shoulder—it was a testament to how out of it Evan was that he hadn’t noticed it before—and he pulled out what looked like a pair of goalie blockers.

He tossed aside the bag and started putting them on his hands.

“I stole these from my apartment gym so we could work on stuff, so don’t break them.

Hopefully no one misses them and checks the security cameras. ”

“You don’t need to worry about breaking them,” Evan said. They looked deceptively soft, but he was more worried about bruising his knuckles than doing any damage to the pads. “I don’t think I can punch hard enough.”

“Let’s see what you've got.” Barczyk raised the mitts and squared his feet. “Put ‘em up.”

Evan rolled his shoulders before balling his hands into fists. He raised his fists, aimed for Barczyk’s right blocker, and stepped into the punch—

Barczyk jumped to the side, swinging the blocker out of Evan’s reach. Evan’s momentum carried him a few steps forward, and he had to scramble to keep from faceplanting.

“What the fuck, Barczyk!?” he yelled, not sure if he was more surprised or angry. “If this is some stunt to piss me off so I’ll punch harder, I swear—”

“Not a stunt.” Barczyk used his mouth to undo one of the mitts and wiggled his hand out. “Trying to keep you from busting up your hand.” He motioned Evan over. “C’mere.”

Still peeved, he strode over.

“Gimme your hand.”

He lifted his hand and watched goosebumps rise along his arm as Barczyk lightly grabbed his wrist.

“Make a fist.”

He did, and Barczyk knocked him with the blocker on his other hand.

“Never do that again!”

“Ow!” Evan tried to jerk away from Barczyk, but he tightened his grip. “What was that for? I thought I was doing the hitting today.”

“Not like that, you’re not. Jesus, didn’t your dad ever teach you how to punch?”

“I don’t have a dad,” Evan grumbled.

“Okay, then your mom. Hockey moms are scarier than the dads. She didn’t teach you?”

“She told me not to fight because I might hurt someone.”

“Well,” Barczyk drawled. “She wasn’t wrong, but you’re just going to hurt yourself. Make another fist.”

“You gonna hit me again?”

“If necessary, yes. Do it.”

Evan did, though this time he dodged Barczyk’s swing.

“Ehhh! Wrong! Look at your hand, dummy. What do you see?”

When he looked, all Evan saw was his hand and not the mortal error Barczyk seemed to think he was committing. “My fist?”

“Yeah. And where’s your thumb?”

“In my fist?” This time he caught Barczyk’s mitt. “Stop that,” Evan said. He pulled the mitt off Barczyk’s hand and threw it across the gym. “What are you—?”

“If you put your thumb in your fist and throw a punch, you could break your thumb. You’re trying to hurt the other person, not yourself.”

“Oh.” He looked at his fist, then carefully opened and closed his hand so his thumb was now wrapped outside his fingers. “Like this?”

“Hallelujah, he gets it! Now open and close your fist a bajillion times so you get it right. Both hands. I gotta go find that other glove thing.”

As much as it aggravated him, he did as he was told.

He couldn’t complain about Barczyk treating him like a complete beginner, because apparently he was a complete beginner.

He couldn’t even make a fist properly, for fuck’s sake.

It made him feel like a rookie again…except that Barczyk never treated him like a ‘kid.’ Sure, he gave Evan shit, but it was never about his age like most of the guys did.