Page 25 of Drop the Gloves

Evan stretched and groaned as some of the tension left his shoulders. His body was tense from all the things he’d kept bottled up, as though it took him physical effort to hold the words back.

“You okay, sweetheart?” his mom asked. The phone rattled with the sound of her chopping vegetables, but it did nothing to mask her concern. “You sound distracted.”

Evan tried to pull himself from his thoughts, but it wasn’t easy.

How exactly did one rescue themselves from a sexual identity crisis where you’d not only kissed a guy for the first time but also gotten off with one?

It was all that Evan had thought about for the last sixteen hours.

It was what had driven him to call his mom in the first place, hoping that the news of Penalty Kill practice would take his mind off of it.

It hadn’t.

All he could think about were the things he was avoiding saying, half-heartedly filling that void with what he could and hoping his mom wouldn’t notice his mind was elsewhere.

Because instead of being in his condo while he caught his mom up on the early part of the season, he was back at the rink gym.

Thankfully, they didn’t have practice today—a break that coincided not only with Halloween but with Evan’s need to escape Barczyk. But the clock was ticking on his time to figure his shit out before facing Barczyk again.

Did figuring it out mean I pretend it didn’t happen, he wondered, or acknowledging that it did?

If we acknowledge it, does that mean it might happen again?

…do I want it to?

The answers lurked just below the surface. He was pretty sure he knew what they were, but he didn’t want to think about the implications.

Compartmentalize. Focus on hockey. Don’t cause problems for yourself.

He could do this.

“You know how it is,” he said vaguely. “New season, same problems.” And a few new, very unexpected ones.

“Make sure you eat enough,” she said. “I don’t care what your dietitians or whatever say. You need a comfort meal every now and then. Cheat days are important! You've gotta take care of yourself, or you won’t play at your best.”

Taking care of himself used to mean sleeping and eating right, with the occasional mini-golf outing to refocus. It seemed there was another piece.

“I know, I know,” he said, then redirected her worry towards her upcoming ski trip. Luckily, there was no way thoughts of Riley Barczyk could derail that conversation.

* * *

Two days hadn’t helped Evan get his head on straight (har har), but with practice and then a game before traveling out west for a week, he didn’t have much choice: he had to show up at the rink and hope for the best.

A lot of the team participated in No-Shave November to raise awareness for men’s health, and Evan was no exception.

He took his razor out of his travel bag and prepared to look about ten years older within the next few days.

He might be one of the youngest on the team, but Evan had no trouble growing a beard.

He’d noticed a lot more stubble going into the end of October.

Barczyk, for example, hadn’t looked like he’d shaved in a few days (though Evan hadn’t noticed until that stubble was rubbing against his bare skin…) and he knew Lawson liked to grow out a proper long beard so he’d gotten a head start.

By the time they showed up to practice on November 1st, it was already apparent which of their teammates did have trouble.

“Dalty, your face is a crime against humanity,” Turner teased as Dalton came into the locker room. His beard was…well, patchy was a generous description.

Dalton went crimson. “Shut up,” he mumbled. “It just takes a couple of weeks to come in.”

“Fuck, seeing that almost makes me hope we don’t make the playoffs,” Moreau chirped. “Hate to see that eyesore all post-season.”

“You think he’s bad,” Antonov said with a conspiratorial grin. “You should see Barzy.”

Evan couldn’t help it; he perked up. Barczyk looked bad with a beard? That would be kinda great, actually. If he could see an unattractive version of Barczyk, it might solve some of his problems.

The truth was much worse. When Barczyk walked into the locker room moments later, he wasn’t sporting a pathetic or shaggy beard.

He had a mustache. And not a normal mustache.

It was curled up slightly at the ends, like some old-timey cartoon villain.

It wasn’t much now, but if he kept this up the whole month, it would be ridiculous.

“Oh my God.” Lawson cackled. “You look like such a douchebag, Barzy!”

“You look like you’re about to rob a train,” Doyle agreed.

“You ain’t getting laid this month with a mug like that,” Kates said, almost like he was trying to warn Barczyk.

“Wrong, wrong,” he pointed to Lawson, then Doyle, and then Kates, “and double wrong. I look fantastic, and you know it. Everyone digs a man who can pull off a mustache.”

Evan was inclined to disagree—he’d never gotten the appeal and would rather never grow a beard again than have a moustache—but Barczyk did not look as awful as Evan had hoped.

It was like his missing tooth or his mohawk or the gold chain: they were just so Barczyk that you knew what you were getting before he said anything.

It would’ve grated on Evan’s nerves back in the summer; now he thought it was endearing.

He gulped. He really was in trouble, wasn’t he?

“Keep dreaming, Barzy,” Lawson drawled. Then he nudged Doyle and stage-whispered, “At least he looks better than Dalty.”

The secondhand embarrassment was getting to Evan.

Poor Dalton, who didn’t have the confidence or swagger Barczyk did to pull off a bad beard (because while Barczyk looked ridiculous, the mustache suited him, and Evan was 95% sure it was because he’d convinced himself he looked good).

Not that Evan knew what to say or do to make up for the teasing—

“Don’t listen to them, Dalty,” Barczyk said. “You look awesome, and you’re hot enough you make it work. Not like this dipshit”—he jerked a thumb at Doyle—“who’s got a full beard and still can’t find a date.”

Doyle looked affronted as the whole locker room burst into laughter at his expense. His dating history corroborated Barczyk’s jab—he was one of those guys who was married to the game—so he couldn’t do more than weakly protest, “What the fuck?”

Dalton looked relieved to have the attention drawn away from his beard.

Evan watched Barczyk carefully. At the start of the season, he would’ve assumed Barczyk had done it because he was such an attention hog.

It came second nature to steal the spotlight away from others, whether they appreciated it or not; Dalton being relieved would’ve been a happy coincidence.

Except…except there had been a glint in Barczyk’s eyes. The same one that showed he was about to drop his gloves or get in someone’s face, that was how he’d looked defending Dalton. That warning that you were about to mess with the wrong person, and he’d make you pay for it.

Barczyk caught Evan staring, and before Evan could look away, he smiled and twirled the end of his moustache. “Whatcha think, Abs? Hot or not?”

Evan choked on air, his face burning all the way down to his neck. “Doyle’s right,” he said, his throat tight, but luckily his voice sounded normal. “You look like Boris from Rocky and Bullwinkle.”

“What is a Bullwinkle?” Vassiliev asked at the same time that Lawson and Doyle burst out laughing.

“He does!” Doyle said. “Spot on, Abs.”

Instead of being as flustered or off-kilter as Evan felt, Barczyk scoffed. “C’mon, Abs. I’m clearly more of a Natasha.”

That only made the locker room louder until some of the coaches poked their heads in. The ruckus died down after that, leaving them all pretending to mind their own business as they got dressed for practice.

A few minutes later, most of the team had filed out of the locker room to warm up.

Evan was one of the stragglers—flexing his feet in his skates before lacing up—when a shadow stood in front of him.

He knew exactly who it was from the messy tape job around the socks, and it wasn’t easy to ignore Barczyk watching him.

“You did me dirty with that one,” Barczyk said, voice low; goosebumps prickled along Evan’s arms. “I ain’t no Pottsylvania baddie.”

Evan looked up with an eyebrow raised. “Pottsylvania?”

“Yeah, that’s where Boris and Natasha are from, duh. The beautiful land of Pottsylvania.”

He stood up so that he could find his equilibrium; it was easier when he was the one looking down at Barczyk.

“I never watched the show,” he admitted.

“But sorry. I didn’t—” He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, since Barczyk wasn’t upset.

“You knew you’d get shit when you grew that mustache,” he said instead.

“You can’t be upset that people are making fun of you for it. ”

“You don’t like how I look, Abs?” There was heat beneath the teasing, and Evan felt like his skin was going to catch on fire.

“No!” he blurted out. It was his gut reaction, but it sounded too desperate to be the truth. Evan looked around to make sure no one was within earshot before he whispered. “I mean, maybe.”

It was barely a confession, given what had happened the other day, but Barczyk lit up. “Mmm, best maybe I’ve ever heard. Race you to the rink?” And then he was off before Evan could process what had happened.

Were they…flirting…?

Again, his instinct was to deny it. They weren’t flirting because they weren’t attracted to each other. Obviously.

But they maybe were flirting, because they had gotten each other off only two days ago. They’d kissed. Plausible deniability was looking less and less, well, plausible.

He followed Barczyk out to practice, his mind buzzing.

He overanalyzed every interaction they had, everything from when they made eye contact to how they worked together during drills.

There weren’t many opportunities to talk, but even after practice in the locker room, Evan still went through everything Barczyk said or did with a fine-toothed comb.

His conclusion? Nothing. If there was anyone else within fifteen feet of them, Barczyk was the same as ever.

He was loud and annoying and said dumb shit, but none of it was remotely sexual.

He was no different from when he first joined the team.

Evan appreciated that Barczyk could keep his mouth shut about what had happened and not make things weird, but it also unnerved him.

How was it so easy for him to pretend it hadn’t happened?

Was there something wrong with Evan for not being able to get the taste of Barczyk out of his mouth?

Had he hallucinated the whole thing?

He was half-convinced he’d imagined it. It could’ve been a vivid dream, for the way Barczyk was acting. It wasn’t until Barczyk was about to head out to his car for the day that Evan’s sanity got a little validation.

“Hey.” Barczyk licked his lips once he had Evan’s attention. “I know we said we wouldn’t have time to do any lessons on the road, but…” He gave Evan a once-over, lingering on his mouth before meeting his gaze again. “I’m sure we could find time.”

Yeah, Evan wasn’t imagining things. Shit, this was real.

And like every opportunity to shut this down before he got in too deep, Evan ignored the voice of reason in his head and said, “Yeah. Yeah, I think we should.”