Page 2 of Drop the Gloves

“Abs! Good to see you!” Lawson pulled him into a hug as soon as Evan entered the kitchen. Before he could say or do anything, there was a beer in his hand. Not only was Lawson a good captain, he was also a good host.

“Cheers,” Lawson said and clinked their IC Lights together. “How was your summer, kid?”

“I’m not a kid,” Evan said automatically.

Pittsburgh had gotten shit from the media for having one of the oldest teams in the league a few years ago.

That might’ve been why he and a few other younger players had gotten contracts this season as the team worked to add young blood to the lineup.

But it still meant most of the Riveters were a decade older than him, and Evan definitely felt like a kid half the time.

Hell, he’d had Lawson’s trading card in middle school.

But he was a real NHL player and could actually see over several people’s heads: he wasn’t a kid anymore, even in this crowd.

“It was good. Hung out at home for a bit. Played golf.”

Lawson made a face. He hated golf. “Cool. Hey, did you meet any of the new guys?”

Evan nodded. “I met a few of them last year at training camp. I know they’re pumped to be playing this pre-season—”

“Huh? No, not the kids.” He nodded toward the backyard, where a bunch of the guys were laughing by the pool. A backyard pool in Pittsburgh. What a waste. “I meant the trades.”

Evan followed Lawson’s gaze. They’d lost a few players during the off-season to trades and retirement, but while Evan was aware of the roster changes, it was too early for his brain to have really adjusted to the changes.

“Not yet,” Evan said and then froze as he spotted him. Riley fucking Barczyk, in the flesh.

Barczyk was a pest throughout the league.

Aside from his antics like slashing people’s sticks out of their hands at the face-off circle and allegedly licking someone during a scrum in front of the net, he had legendary fighting status.

He might only be 5’9 (and from this distance and without the benefit of skates, Evan thought that might be generous), but he’d beaten just about every heavyweight in the league.

And the bastard, annoying as he was, wasn’t some lowly enforcer: he could score.

Maybe not top-line or anything, but he put up a solid 20 goals every season.

Enough to make teams overlook his penalty minutes.

As of July 1st, he was a member of the Riveters. A solid pickup during free agency for sure. Reportedly very likable once you got to know him. The only problem was Evan did not want to know him or like him or have anything to do with him.

Riley Barczyk was a jerk.

“C’mon,” Lawson said. He’d grabbed Evan’s elbow and was leading him toward the back patio. “I’ll introduce you to them. Barzy does this great impression of Coach—”

“I’ve gotta piss.” Evan spun out of Lawson’s grasp, nearly spilling both their drinks. “I’ll catch up in a few, ‘kay?”

Lawson frowned and watched Evan flee in the opposite direction of the bathrooms, though thankfully he let Evan go.

Evan let his feet carry him to the quiet end of the house by the guest rooms—an area he knew well, since he’d lived in one of those rooms for six months after making the regular season roster but before he’d settled on a condo.

He went inside his old room, just as impersonal as he remembered it, and sat on the edge of the bed to collect himself.

Deep breath in through his nose, out through his mouth. In, out. In, out.

Fuck. He did not like Riley Barczyk.

Barczyk had been a thorn in the Riveters’ side the past two years while he played for the Philadelphia Gliders.

Pittsburgh and Philly never got along sports-wise.

Or anything-wise, he supposed. When it came to hockey, it was particularly vicious.

Just thinking about his last game in Philly gave Evan hives.

The Philly crowd always roared, whether the Gliders were winning or losing.

The only thing that changed was their tone.

Evan felt more like a performer than a hockey player whenever they played there.

And Barczyk had been the king of the whole spectacle.

The fans went wild whenever he pulled his shenanigans, which he did often.

It was impossible to concentrate when Barczyk was on the ice, and it only made Evan feel more like a rookie than he usually did.

If he couldn’t tune out one jerk, how could he be relied on during important games?

If they were in the Stanley Cup Finals and someone gave him a hard time, he couldn’t let that impact his performance.

He thought he’d done a pretty good job during their three Philly games last season.

He hadn’t even flinched when Barczyk had charged at him by the boards.

If only Barczyk hadn’t injured him during that play. If only he could think of anything else when he looked at Barczyk. If only they weren’t on the same damn team and he’d be thinking about it constantly.

Trust Barczyk to be a liability even when he was on the same team as you. Go fucking figure.

The first step to getting over it was to get his ass back out there and stop moping in the guest room. Face his fears or whatever. Not that he was scared of Barczyk. It was—

Okay, you’re stalling. Stop it. Just go out there. I guarantee you he doesn’t remember that game. He hurts people all the time and never cares. You don’t get that kind of reputation by caring.

Evan could actually learn a thing or two from that mentality.

Evan was big, strong, and fast, even among other NHL players.

In the couple of times Evan had dealt hard hits, he’d always felt so bad that when he saw those players again, he tended to go easier on them than he should, much to his coach’s annoyance.

He just didn’t want to hurt anyone, but that opinion hadn’t done him any favors.

One time, he’d checked a guy so hard, he’d fallen down and not gotten back up. Evan had abandoned the play to circle back and check on him, which had earned him a crosscheck from behind for his efforts. Apparently, it had looked like he was going back to finish the job.

Which actually sounded like something Barczyk might do.

Be more like Barczyk. What a joke.

Evan left his refuge and went out onto the back deck with the rest of the guys.

Not everyone had returned to town yet—most notably the Europeans and Russians were unaccounted for—but there was a decent number of Riveters in attendance.

Evan stood between Turner and Moreau, two of the other centers, and accepted a fistbump from Woodward while he tried to figure out what the hell everyone was talking about.

“Everett?” Moreau asked.

“Not a chance!” Barczyk said. “He’s all bark, no bite, anyway.”

“Gagnon!” Lawson said.

This time Barczyk frowned. “Didn’t he retire over a decade ago? I ain’t that old, sorry.”

“Nilsson!” Kates said.

“Which one?” Barczyk shot back.

“The bigger one. He’s got like two feet on you, Barzy.”

They all laughed, though Barczyk looked unbothered by the jab. You’d need thick skin to be under six feet in this league.

“I’ve fought Anders,” Barczyk said calmly.

As he took a long swig from his beer, he ran a hand through his curls.

Evan had never seen Barczyk up close without hockey gear on, and he hadn’t realized his hair was a mess of brown curls on top with an undercut along the sides to give him a combination of mohawk and mullet.

How…well, how Barczyk, to need even his hair to be a statement.

“Can’t reach his face but got him right in the gut before the refs rescued him. ”

More laughter. Barczyk smirked, clearly pleased to be the center of everyone’s attention; if Evan had been in his place, he’d have stuttered so much the joke would’ve been incomprehensible.

“Best fight you ever had!” Doyle challenged.

Barczyk shrugged. “I dunno, man. I’ve had too many to remember them all.

Maybe the best was the time Mattherson knocked out my tooth.

” He opened wide to show off his missing front tooth.

Everyone leaned in, like they didn’t know that was part of Barczyk’s trademark look.

“Otherwise they all kinda blend together.”

They continued to fawn over Barczyk’s fighting prowess.

Evan was pretty sure some of them had been on the receiving end of Barczyk’s fists—just another notch in his belt, apparently—and he definitely knew no one here had appreciated his antics last season.

There’d been a lot of colorful language after he’d taken down Evan, but hey, guess it was easier to join in on the laughs than carry a grudge.

Unfortunately, Evan hadn’t heard anything funny yet.

When the pizza arrived, everyone was too busy eating to continue the Barczyk party.

Evan grabbed himself a slice—he wasn’t that hungry, but he didn’t want to make a whole thing of it—and a spot as far away from Barczyk as possible.

That put him between their two biggest defensemen, Calhoun and Kates, who spent the next half hour arguing over whether Hawaiian pizza was “not that bad” (per Calhoun) or “an abomination and insult to tastebuds everywhere” (per Kates).

It was a completely stupid conversation that made Evan wonder how many times the two men had been concussed over the years, but it was definitely less annoying than pretending he could stand Riley Barczyk.

All Evan had to do was figure out how to survive the whole season like this, hiding from Barczyk and not making it obvious he hated the guy. Great.