Page 19 of Drop the Gloves

Evan paused outside of the locker rooms, straining to hear signs of the showers.

He couldn’t, so instead he held his breath and listened for any noise at all that might signal Barczyk was on the other side of the door.

When it was silent, he tiptoed inside, dropped off the gloves, and then he bolted from the training facility.

There was absolutely no way he could handle seeing Barczyk right now, especially not if he was wet and any amount of naked.

Evan’s condo was on the way to the bar, so he stopped by to shower and change.

It was a bad sign that he was still half-hard when he undressed and got in the shower.

He shuddered as the hot water hit his cock, reaching full hardness while he desperately tried to ignore it.

He’d rinsed out his shampoo before growling, “Fuck it,” and taking himself in hand.

He didn’t jerk off much. He usually didn’t have the energy for it, and he didn’t get aroused very often. Sometimes it helped him relax during playoffs or before season openers, those big games where he was all nerves and couldn’t sleep. The rest of the time, he kinda just…didn’t bother.

The relief he felt once he started stroking was instantaneous.

He moaned in surprise at how good it felt.

Eyes closed and head tilted up toward the spray, he slowly stroked himself.

He was worked up for whatever reason. That was all.

That was why he’d reacted like that during his practice with Barczyk. If he handled things—

Except now that he’d thought of Barczyk and their workout on the mats, he couldn’t let the image go. His dick jerked in his fist as he remembered the feel of Barczyk straddling his hips. That moment when Barczyk had pressed his hips back against Evan’s dick…

Balls tightening, Evan put out his other hand to brace himself against the wall.

He jerked himself faster, picturing what would’ve happened if he hadn’t freaked out.

What if he’d held Barczyk’s waist to keep him firmly in place over his cock?

What if he’d bucked up against the swell of Barczyk’s ass, again and again?

What would Barczyk do? He was such a tease.

He wouldn’t just sit there and let him. He’d bend down and tease Evan with a kiss, then bite his lip.

He’d run his own hardening cock against Evan’s abs, those stupid shorts doing nothing to stop pre-come from soaking through.

“Bet I can make you come first,” Barczyk would whisper right in Evan’s ear before rolling his hips back.

“Fuuuuck,” Evan hissed as he came. He hadn’t come that hard in…maybe ever. He was dazed by it, with spots in front of his eyes and legs completely jelly. Too weak to stand, he slid down the tiles to the ground and let the water roll off his chest as he caught his breath.

What the actual fuck?

Evan wasn’t gay. He’d never been attracted to another guy.

He still wasn’t convinced he was attracted to Barczyk.

Okay, yes, Barczyk was objectively hot, but he was also loud and abrasive and had hurt Evan last season.

Hurt people this season, for that matter.

No, it must be something about the fake fighting that got Evan all riled up.

He finished his shower as quickly as possible, giving his spent dick only a perfunctory clean because why did it have to make things weird? Hopefully, it’d be satisfied and leave him alone for a while. The last thing he needed this season (or any season) was inconvenient boners around teammates.

* * *

The guys were already a few beers in when Evan got to the bar, hair still damp but his body more relaxed than it’d been in weeks.

Until he spotted Barczyk.

As soon as Evan saw him, goosebumps rose along his arms and the back of his neck prickled.

His entire body became hyper-alert, aware of Barczyk’s presence at the end of the bar.

Even as Dalton ordered Evan a drink and started yapping away about the woman who owned the bar (or ran it?

Maybe designed it? He wasn’t paying enough attention to know), he kept an eye on Barczyk.

“She’s just so talented,” Dalton sighed. “Think I’ve got a shot?”

“For sure,” Evan said. Barczyk said something that made Moreau laugh so hard beer was coming out his nose. “Miss all the shots you don’t take.”

Barczyk was drinking his own beer, Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. Evan’s fist tightened around his glass.

“Whoa,” Dalton said. “I didn’t know that applied to non-hockey stuff.”

“Yeah. Course.” Evan licked his lips. Barczyk was using the condensation from his glass to style his hair into his signature mohawk. His hair looked a grabbable length—

“You’re right!” Dalton clapped him on the back. Evan jerked in surprise, the spell broken and his attention back on Dalton. “I’m gonna go ask her out. Thanks, bro.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, trying not to make it sound like a question. He had no idea what the heck he’d said, but he was glad to help. “Good luck.”

But then he was alone at the bar. He fisted his joggers in both hands, determined not to look over at Barczyk again and definitely not to get up. Nope. Evan had self-restraint, which was easy anyway because he had nothing to say to Riley Barczyk.

Luckily, he was rescued by Vassiliev and Winchester, who begged him to eat some of the appetizers they ordered.

“It said sampler,” Winchester whined. “They didn’t say it would be a fucking mountain of fried food.”

“It’s very good,” Vassiliev said. “But it’s too much.”

Evan dutifully took a few mozzarella sticks and made small talk about the MLB playoffs.

He didn’t know anything about baseball, but he found he could get away with cheering for Toronto or Pittsburgh.

Just mentioning either team satisfied people.

Obviously, local support was preferable, but he could claim hometown loyalty (even if Toronto wasn’t technically his hometown).

It also helped to be able to name specific teams to feign interest; if he admitted he hadn’t been to a Blue Jays game since he was three months old, it didn’t go over well.

But then someone yelled there were pool tables, and most of the guys flocked over to the back room. As Evan flagged down the bartender to order one last beer, he found Barczyk taking the empty seat next to him and leaning over the bar.

“So I know I’m a great teacher,” he said, the slightest of slurs in his voice giving away that he was two beers deeper than Evan.

“But?” Evan rasped, mouth dry.

“But I can’t say you’ve, like, graduated from the Riley Barczyk School of Hockey Fighting.” He held up his hands, one still curled around a bottle of light beer. “If you think you’ve learned enough, I respect it and would agree you’d do a million times better in a fight thanks to me.”

This time, Evan knew where he was going. When had he learned to follow Barczyk’s line of thought? “But you think I could use some more lessons.”

“There’s still a thing or two I could show you, yeah.”

As always, the smart thing to do would be to say thanks but no thanks. Barczyk had done way more than enough and shown Evan a few things he wished he could unsee (and unfeel and unthink).

But on the other hand, he wasn’t throwing the random boner in Evan’s face. Barczyk, despite being a total jackass on the ice, was pretty chill off it.

“Uhm.” Evan fidgeted on his bar stool. The bartender dropped off his beer, and he used it as a shield. He drank two large gulps while he processed what was going on. When he set it down and wiped his lips with the back of his arm, he saw Barczyk watching the gesture. “Sorry, that was gross—”

“Abs. I spend most of my time with a bunch of grown men who act like teenagers. I’m not going to hold it against you that you don’t know how to use a fucking napkin, you heathen.”

Evan laughed in spite of himself. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“You should be, and it better not.” Barczyk feigned disgust, but his hazel eyes shone with amusement. “Offer stands for more lessons.” He pushed away from the bar and started walking backwards. “If you think you need ‘em.”

“Okay.” It was the safest answer, acknowledging the offer without committing to it. Without exposing how he felt about it or how strung up he’d been only a few hours ago. “Where are you going?” he asked, realizing he was disappointed to see Barczyk go.

He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I've gotta show these bozos how to play pool.”

“You know how to play pool?”

“Oh please,” Barczyk scoffed. “I grew up playing pool in my church’s basement during youth group.

Assuming this place keeps a nicer table than Father Matthew’s did, I’m gonna clean up.

If I can run a rack on a crooked table with a bent cue, the sky’s the limit on a decent table.

” He walked backward a few more steps before giving Evan a half-wave, half-salute, then he was gone.

And Evan wasn’t just lonely, but alone.