Page 20 of Drop the Gloves

His libido was more active than usual. He could count how many times he usually jerked off during the season on one hand; lately that hand was too busy doing other things. It was like he was a teenager again, masturbating every morning to the echoes of dreams he’d rather not try to chase down.

He avoided thinking about anything remotely sexy during the day because he was worried his dick would betray him.

The problem was, he wasn’t even sure what he thought was sexy anymore.

If fighting with Barczyk could set him off, then Evan didn’t have a good gauge of what was fueling his sudden surge in sexual desire.

Did he have a kink for sparring that he hadn’t known about?

Was he so touch-starved that he’d mistaken punching and tackling for sexual advances?

There were…other possibilities. Evan wasn’t an idiot. There was another common factor, and if he were actually curious, a few experimental fantasies would help him know for sure.

He didn’t want to know.

Plausible deniability was his excuse in the rare moments when he got too close to addressing it. As far as Evan knew, he wasn’t attracted to men, which meant he couldn’t be attracted to Barczyk. Done, case closed.

If any chinks appeared in that defense, well…

So despite being hornier than he’d been since puberty, he limited himself to drowsy masturbatory sessions and nothing else.

At first he worried that it might leave him feeling on edge all day, but the early release mellowed him out for the rest of the day and got him through his increasingly frequent encounters with Barczyk.

Barczyk, who really treated Evan no differently than he had before, seemed to have adopted Evan as his best friend on the team.

He sat next to Evan during travel and team meals.

He invited Evan to hang out (though thankfully to very public venues that included other team members, and he was never offended if Evan declined).

For better or worse, he also included Evan in his new pre-game routine.

“Abs!”

The whack to his ass took him by surprise.

Granted, through his hockey pants, it was about as annoying as if a gnat had landed on him, but it still made him look over his shoulder to see what the heck had hit him.

He’d assumed it was an errant puck—it wouldn’t be the first time a teammate had hit him by accident during warm-ups—but instead he found Barczyk standing behind him, winding up his stick like a baseball bat.

“What are you”—Barczyk swung and hit Evan on the ass again—“doing?”

“Well, last game I did it, and it was lucky, so I thought I should do it again.”

“Lucky? Didn’t we lose that game?”

“Yeah, in OT. We should’ve lost in regulation, but luckily we squeaked by with a point. So if it helped during a game when we sucked, imagine what it could do for us if we play well.”

Evan raised an eyebrow. That was absolutely stupid, and while he suspected Barczyk knew it was bullshit, his expression gave nothing away.

Plenty of guys had completely insane sounding superstitions that seemed to work for them—Evan’s only superstition was a shamrock keychain his grandma had gotten him when he was five; he’d won his first tournament shortly after, so he’d used it since—and he’d learned a long time ago never to question anyone’s mojo.

And it made sense that Barczyk, who was more off the rails than most, would have an equally off the rails idea of how to generate luck.

Deciding playing along would be his best bet, he asked, “So if we win, does that mean you’re going to do it again next game?”

“Oh, for sure. Except I’ll have to up it to three times to keep it going.”

“Doesn’t seem like much motivation for me to win,” Evan said. “The more we win, the more I get smacked.”

Barczyk considered him and didn’t sound like he was joking when he said, “I’m sure we can figure something out. Like maybe if it works, we can alternate who does the smacking.”

Evan pushed Barczyk in the chest. “Stop,” he groaned. “We’re not hitting each other before games. We’re not children.”

“Because everyone on this team is so mature,” Barczyk countered.

He hooked a thumb towards their goalie, Farrell.

“It’s totally normal to tap the posts 31 times during warmups and after each intermission.

” Then he nodded to Lawson. “And it’s definitely not childish to have to squirt water at everyone who scores as they come onto the bench.

And I’m tots not getting tired of Big Katie making us listen to Taylor Swift before overtime.

Everyone in hockey is a giant man-child, and we’re no exceptions.

Just gotta have fun with it while you can. ”

It was true. Evan was self-aware enough to recognize the bubble of adulthood he lived in where he was half independent adult, half coddled child who had the privilege to play a sport for a living.

If he wanted to, he could have the team manage everything for him, from catered meal plans to chauffeurs to his living arrangements.

The little ways he took care of himself were small in the scheme of things, remembering all too well how difficult adulting could be from his mom working three jobs.

He’d always been embarrassed about how easy he had it now.

Leave it to Barczyk to think of it as ‘fun.’

“Here.” Barczyk spun around and looked over his shoulder. “I’m a good sport. Go ahead, have your turn.”

“My turn?” And then when Barczyk leaned forward a little, ass sticking out, Evan understood and felt his cheeks burn.

He debated refusing but figured it would only prolong this debacle if he argued.

The fastest way out was in, so he lifted his stick, took aim for the area with the most pads, and swung.

Barczyk shot him an unimpressed look. “Jesus, I think that was so lame you gave the other team luck. C’mon, Abs. Like you mean it.”

The second time wasn’t much harder, but he put more into it. As soon as he made contact, Barczyk let out a dramatic yelp and fell onto his knees, sliding across the ice and acting like he was in agony.

Evan stood there dumbfounded. When he looked around, no one else on the team was paying them any mind…

but the fans pressed against the glass were watching with a keen interest Evan didn’t think had ever been turned on him before.

A few had their phones out and were giggling at Barczyk.

When this showed up on social media later, he had no doubt he’d be in the videos. Acting like a child.

“Much better.” Barczyk hopped up and skated over. “Let’s get that mojo rolling in the game, yeah?”

“You know what would help?” Evan said, desperate to have a normal, hockey-focused interaction. “If we, y’know, practiced some hockey.” He grabbed a nearby puck and started drifting backward with it. “Pass with me? Maybe you’ll remember how to do it when we play.”

Barczyk blinked at him, then barked out a laugh. “I think I can handle that, Abs. I’m good for the occasional apple every now and then.”

To be fair, Evan had scored three times so far this season, and he was pretty sure Barczyk had assisted on all three.

Since Barczyk had only put up two goals of his own, he had more ‘apples’ than Evan did.

He thought of that as they passed the puck back and forth through traffic.

For all his antics and trash talking, Barczyk was talented.

He got every pass to Evan, even when people skated through them for their own warm-up routine, all of them beautiful tape-to-tape passes that could go in a hockey textbook.

Instead of being intimidated by the casual display of competence, Evan took it as a challenge. If Barczyk, known more for his ability to trash talk and throw punches, could make crisp passes, then Evan had no excuses.

When it came to game time, Evan felt more centered than he had in a while. All the extra garbage that had been hanging out in his head, he finally locked it away and just played. Be-more-physical what? Learn-to-fight who? Random-boners where?

On their first shift in the third period, Barczyk sent him a beautiful saucer pass for a breakaway.

Evan normally freaked out on breakaways.

Sure, he was fast, but he’d never had a talent for faking out goalies.

Should he deke? Go for the wide open five hole?

Drag the goalie to the right side of the net and then try to go backhand into the left?

Panic and shoot it wide and look like an idiot?

Before he could choose between any of these options, he got barreled into from behind.

Evan didn’t know who’d caught up to him, but they were pushing him off course and away from the puck.

He nudged the puck into the slot before he lost it altogether.

Whoever was on him was dragging him down to the ice, so Evan jerked his arm loose as he tried to turn back around.

Someone crashed down at his feet, but Evan ignored the defender.

The puck was sitting in the high slot where Evan had put it. Barczyk was coming in at speed, picked it up, and shot it right above the goalie’s blocker.

It was a great shot, way better than whatever Evan might’ve done if he’d had the chance, and he skated over to congratulate Barczyk on the goal.

“Nice—”

“Fuck yeah, Abs!” Barczyk was jumping up and down, both hands clutching Evan’s jersey. “That was a beaut! You did fucking great!”

“Me?” Evan looked around, trying to remember if he’d done anything reasonable in that play. “When I let that guy catch up to me?”

“Wha—? No, when you threw him to the ice like a rag doll and embarrassed the fuck out of him so I could score.” Barczyk reached up to sling an arm around Evan’s neck and pull him down for a noogie. “Look at you, you fucking goon. Be-u-tee-full.”

Evan couldn’t help but preen at the praise.

His dick enjoyed it too, since it decided this was definitely the moment to remind Evan that, hey, his sudden horniness was almost certainly Barczyk-related.

He’d mostly gotten himself pulled together by the time they’d finished skating down the bench and fistbumping everyone.

“Great goal, Barczyk,” Coach Jack said. “Nice work on that breakaway, Abernathy. Would’ve liked to see you get a shot off, but you handled it perfectly. Way to use your body to make the smart play.”

“Really?” Evan croaked.

“That’s exactly what I wanted from you this season. That physicality. I don’t need you smashing people into the boards. You just gotta stand your ground and mean it. Fantastic, kid. Keep it up.” He knocked Evan on the back with his rolled-up game notes.

Evan got onto the bench and sat numbly between Barczyk and Vassiliev.

“You put the puck in the perfect spot for Barzy,” Vassiliev said with a definite note of approval.

“Thanks.”

Barczyk bumped his thigh into Evan’s. “Fucking be-u-tee-full,” he mumbled, chewing his mouthguard and watching the face-off at center ice.

Evan looked at Barczyk, hazel eyes bright and a brown curl poking out the side of his helmet, and couldn’t help but agree.