Page 21 of Drop the Gloves

Evan’s dick had behaved itself since the training mat incident.

The Riveters were halfway through a five-game homestand—a decent chunk of time where they got to stay in the greater Pittsburgh area and Evan got used to his own bed again—without any issues during practices or games.

It helped that he worked himself hard at the training facility (on the ice and the treadmills; he avoided the mats) that he’d pass out before his head hit the pillow.

He was kind of in the best shape of his life.

But while his head and body were under control while he was awake, he had zero control over his dreams. And like it or not, Riley Barczyk featured prominently in all of them.

“I think,” Evan mumbled to himself one morning, “I have a thing for Barczyk.”

He was still in bed, panting slightly. Once again, he’d woken up hard and aching, so he’d taken himself in hand and…maybe let his dreams solidify more than usual. As he jerked himself off hard and fast, it was definitely while picturing Barczyk.

Come soaking his hand, he lay there in the uncomfortable admission.

Am I gay? he wondered as he got out of bed to clean up.

Didn’t seem like he was very straight. But he’d never had any sexual feelings toward a man before.

He barely had any sexual feelings ever, which made it harder to sort through whatever was going through his system.

Maybe…maybe Barczyk was just an exception.

A really random exception, but maybe that meant it would go away as quickly as it’d appeared.

After he’d showered, Evan looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t look any different. He didn’t feel any different. Shouldn’t he, like, know if he were a different person than he thought he was?

“Because you’re not different,” he assured his reflection.

His reflection didn’t seem to buy it.

Evan tried to shake off the lingering thoughts about Barczyk as he went about his morning routine.

He’d accepted his attraction to another man, but what did that mean?

It didn’t have to mean anything if he didn’t act on it.

What he’d done this morning when he woke up, that didn’t count as acting on it.

If he never said anything to Barczyk, never did anything more than be friends and teammates, then this could just be a bizarre blip where Evan had gotten his wires crossed.

There was no reason to make things weird.

Barczyk had been more than generous after the…

incident…and Evan didn’t want to disrupt things.

And aside from unwanted fantasies, Evan didn’t plan on doing anything about them.

It was the idea of Barczyk that turned Evan on (for reasons he couldn’t fathom—if he was going to be attracted to men, why the most obnoxious one he’d ever met?), not the prospect of engaging in any actual physical acts with the man himself.

Satisfied he’d figured out his situation, Evan left his condo for practice, optimistic that he could face Barczyk and the rest of the team without embarrassing himself.

* * *

“Abernathy.”

Evan jumped and tried not to look panicked when he saw Coach Mel walking towards him.

They had two rinks at the team practice facility, though they usually only used one of them.

Today, half the team was scheduled for special teams practice, and the rest (aka Evan, the rookies, and everyone else deemed a liability on the Power Play) were due for work with the skating coaches.

Evan was looking forward to a day of edgework, crossovers, sprints, and generally just hating his life.

The last thing he expected was to see any of the main coaching staff approach him, and certainly not Coach Mel.

“Uh,” was his super smart response.

“Change of plans. You’re with my group today.”

Evan stared blankly at her. “What do you mean?”

“Special teams, Abernathy,” she said with an astounding amount of patience.

Evan appreciated it because his brain was not keeping up.

“You’re with me today for work on the PK unit.

We’ve liked what we’ve been seeing from you lately, and we want to try you on the second Penalty Kill line.

Don’t get too excited,” she said when Evan lit up.

“This is a trial to see how you do. If you impress us today, we’ll keep pulling you into practices and maybe get you some looks during a game. ”

“I understand. That’s still—I really—” He took a deep breath and tried again. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

“Don’t blow it,” she warned as she headed out towards the rink.

“I won’t!” Evan called after her. This was awesome! He’d wanted more responsibility on the team, more chances to prove himself and maybe work his way into the top six. Granted, the pressure of being on the PK was terrifying, but still!

“You all right there, Abs?” Barczyk asked.

He had his newly-sharpened skates in hand, otherwise dressed for practice.

He sat down in his stall to put them on.

“Never seen someone look so excited for skating practice. Like, why? I’ve been skating longer than I’ve been doing anything except, like, eating and breathing. I don’t need practice.”

“Everyone needs practice,” Evan said. He’d never been the absolute best at anything, but his ability to practice and work on improving that had gotten him to the NHL over former teammates who had hoped natural talent would carry them all the way.

Just because they’d ‘arrived’ didn’t mean the work stopped.

“And Coach Mel said I’m working with the PK unit today. ”

“Hell yeah, Abs!” Barczyk abandoned his half-tied skate to offer his fist. Evan dutifully bumped it, knowing Barczyk wouldn’t finish lacing up until he did. “You’d be great at penalty killing. Kinda jealous you don’t have to do suicides with us peasants, though.”

The last time they’d ended a practice with suicides, Barczyk had dramatically flopped to the ground and wouldn’t budge, as if the drill had indeed killed him.

It was probably because Coach Jack hadn’t been running that practice: even Barczyk had a healthy respect for their head coach, and he saved the theatrics for the skating coaches.

“You ever get PK time?” Evan suddenly felt bad, like he was abandoning Barczyk. And Vassiliev, he added belatedly. You’re leaving your linemates, not just one person.

“No sirree bob.” Barczyk moved on to his other skate.

“It’s too much fun to try to score a shorty.

I haven’t had a coach risk me on a PK since I was in Squirts and scored a hat trick just from shorthanded goals.

” He finished tying his skate and looked up at Evan with a proud smile. “In a playoff game.”

Evan laughed. He had no idea if Barczyk’s story was true, but it was easy to picture a 9- or 10-year-old Barczyk ignoring his frustrated coaches and heading down the ice not once, not twice, but three times while shorthanded. Knowing Barczyk, Evan didn’t doubt he’d try for a repeat performance.

Barczyk bounced to his feet. “Knock ‘em dead. Gotta represent Line Three for me and Vassy. Just don’t block too many shots. It’s a practice, and Lawsy’s got a mean slapper.”

When they parted ways, Barczyk going left out of the locker rooms and Evan right, he was surprised to realize he’d miss having Barczyk around during practice. What a turn his life had taken in the past month: he’d almost rather give up PK time to skate himself dizzy with Barczyk.

Almost.

* * *

“And where were you?” Vassiliev asked accusingly a couple of hours later. He was freshly showered and leaning forward against his knees, like he couldn’t sit up under his own power if he had to. “How did you get out of skating with us?”

“I was working with special teams,” Evan said with just a hint of pride as he took off his helmet. “Coach Mel had me with the PK unit.”

“Penalty Kill?” Vassiliev looked impressed. “You will do a good job, I think. Easy to block shots when you are so big.”

“Thanks. I think I did pretty well today,” Evan said, so excited he couldn’t keep it in. “My group only got scored on twice, and we went through a dozen rounds.”

“Hells yeah, Abs.” Barczyk strutted in from the showers, pulling a too-big shirt on over his glistening skin. Evan caught sight of a gold chain before it disappeared under yellow cotton. “Star in the making, right here,” he said and sat on the other side of Vassiliev. Then he winked at Evan.

“I dunno about that—” Evan stuttered.

“You’re good,” Vassiliev said firmly. “Just young. This is a good chance for you to prove yourself. Take it.”

“He will,” Barczyk said dismissively, like he didn’t doubt it for a second. Evan appreciated the vote of confidence. “I’ll try to draw some penalties for you. Give you a chance to show off.”

“Don’t,” Vassiliev said.

Barczyk sighed dramatically. “Fiiine, but I can’t promise I won’t take any.”

“I know you can’t,” Vassiliev said. “You know, there’s no award for most penalties.”

“The boos and cheers from the crowd are the only reward I need.”

“Pretty shitty reward. I want to play! The more penalties you get, the less our line is out.”

As Vassiliev and Barczyk continued to rag on each other, Evan sat back and enjoyed it.

He realized he was smiling fondly. He wiped the smile off his face and scowled.

He didn’t want it to look like he was encouraging Barczyk’s recklessness.

Or that he liked Barczyk. Or that he was finding Barczyk’s enthusiasm infectious.

Vassiliev disappeared a few minutes later, his shoulders hunched and feet dragging as he left the locker room. Evan expected Barczyk to leave with him, but he lingered while Evan finished changing out of his gear.

“I know you’re probably not as exhausted as us peons who skated until our feet were bleeding,” Barczyk said.

Evan made the mistake of looking down and saw Barczyk’s bare toes in a pair of flip-flops.

He wasn’t sure why the image made him gulp.

“But if you’re looking for more fighting practice, we should figure it out before this homestand ends and we've gotta fly out to Cali.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “Look, I don’t know—”

“I got time next week. We can do it after practice any day.” Barczyk pushed up and stretched, the bottom of his shirt pulling up to reveal a few inches of skin. It seemed more scandalous than if he had had no shirt at all. “Just lemme know when you’re up for it.”

Then he walked away twirling his keys on his finger and whistling Barbie Girl. Not once did he look back at Evan, like he didn’t care what Evan’s answer was.

Or like he knew Evan would give in.

“I won’t,” he told himself as he grabbed his stuff and headed for the showers. “I don’t need Barczyk’s help.”

Maybe if he said it enough, he’d convince himself.