Page 33 of Drop the Gloves

“You didn’t even fight someone,” Vassiliev grumbled in the locker room after the game. “We got our butts kicked and nothing to show for it.”

“I tried!” Barczyk protested. “I couldn’t get anyone to bite. Not even Nilsson! He’s been harder to piss off ever since he made up with his brother or got a boyfriend or left Portland or whatever the fuck it was that made him level-headed.”

He looked disgusted, though Evan suspected he was more frustrated that he couldn’t get under Lars Nilsson’s skin anymore as opposed to anything Nilsson had actually done.

“That team’s been locked in the past couple of years,” Evan offered. “They get some of the fewest penalties of any team.”

“Locked in,” Barczyk mocked. “They've got no fighters is what it is, so they've gotta avoid playing rough altogether. Look at their captain. Jake Campbell’s a pipsqueak—”

“Isn’t he taller than you?” Vassiliev asked. “Like everybody?”

“—and barely throws the body. No wonder they got clobbered in the Conference Finals. If you can’t play tough hockey, you ain’t bringing home the Cup.”

Evan said nothing. He’d come to appreciate the physicality Barczyk brought to the game, but he still didn’t think instigating fights had a place in hockey. Pushing and shoving in front of the net or along the boards, fine. Tricking someone into throwing a punch, kind of dumb.

“You know who will fight you?” Vassiliev said later after they’d had their turn with the media. “We go to Philly next, yes? They will not make things easy for you.”

The hair on the back of Evan’s neck bristled.

You didn’t just leave the Philadelphia Gliders and expect there to be no hard feelings among the fans.

Philly fans were passionate, to put it politely, and took every player’s departure as a personal offense.

The more beloved the player had been, the longer Philadelphia held their grudge and the more vocal they were for blood.

If it were someone like Evan, someone mild-mannered and flying under the radar, it would only be a few boos here and there when he got the puck, and their interest would wane at the end of the season.

Riley Barczyk had been one of the most popular players in Gliders’ recent history.

They’d eaten up his antics and relished every hit, every punch, every takedown.

It didn’t help that there was nothing quiet or subtle about Barczyk’s playing: the fans would know he was there, the Gliders would know, and both would do their best to show Barczyk that they didn’t appreciate him being on the wrong side of the ice.

Probably for the rest of Barczyk’s career.

“They didn’t make it easy when I played for them, either,” Barczyk quipped. “Ten years no playoffs, but the fans got the balls to tell us how to play. I ain’t playing for charity. I’d like another Cup, thank you very much.”

“And you think you could do that in Pittsburgh?” Evan asked.

He’d wanted so desperately to make the NHL, then to get his footing with his team, and then to get a solid contract.

It wasn’t that Evan didn’t want to win the Stanley Cup, it was more that it was so far down on the list that he hadn’t let himself think about it the past few years.

Sure, he’d indulged last season when they were in the playoffs, but he’d come so far and fought so hard.

He told himself he was satisfied with what he had.

He had to be. Chasing the Cup was The Dream, but it was so damn hard. Players way better than him worked their entire careers for it and never won. Evan could play his heart out, but if his team wasn’t up to it, it’d always be out of reach.

Barczyk shrugged. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “We get our foot in the door come April, we’ll see what happens.”

Vassiliev stood up and flicked Barczyk’s ear on his way out of the locker room. “Try not to get murdered in Philly,” he said. “Can’t win the Cup if you’re dead.”

* * *

In Evan’s hotel room, when his chest was covered in come and Barczyk was cleaning himself up with a washcloth, Evan asked, “You’re not worried about Philly at all?”

Barczyk froze for a split second, then chuckled. He tossed aside his washcloth and got another. Evan heard the faucet run before Barczyk hopped into the bed next to him and cleaned up his chest.

“No, I’m not worried about Philly,” he said while he worked. “They’ll go at me hard, but it’s not my first rodeo. I knew this was coming the moment I left, and I knew it’d be worse once I picked Pittsburgh.”

“You could get hurt,” Evan insisted. He wasn’t sure where the worry came from, but he wanted Barczyk to take this seriously.

“Abs, it’s hockey. I could get hurt literally at any time.

I once had a goalie take himself out for three weeks because he stepped on a puck while coming onto the ice.

I had a teammate in Squirts give himself a concussion because he smacked himself on the benches after retying his skates.

I even had a coach sneeze so hard once that he gave himself a hernia. ”

“Which is why most people don’t go looking for more danger. What happens if—?” Barczyk pinched his nipple, and Evan wiggled out of his grasp. “Hey, quit it.”

“You up for a friendly wager?” Barczyk asked.

“What is it?” Evan was instantly suspicious. He wasn’t sure he trusted what Barczyk’s idea of a ‘friendly wager’ might be, but he was too curious not to at least ask.

“Let’s see who gets more hits in Philly.”

Evan didn’t like that he was still lying down and had to look up at Barczyk, so he sat up. They were eye level, though it didn’t help him read what was going on in Barczyk’s head any better.

“But they’ll be after you,” Evan said. “All night.”

“Oh, 100%.” That toothless grin. “Scared of a challenge?”

What was he doing here? Was he trying to distract Evan, or was he trying to convince Evan that this was the right way to play?

...or was he worried about what Philly might do to him, so he was trying to get Evan’s help deflecting their attention?

A month ago, Evan would’ve scoffed at that. Riley Barczyk wasn’t scared of anything. Not old teams, not bigger players, not the hits or the fights, not his reputation. He didn’t need help and certainly wouldn’t ask for it.

It felt like he was asking for it now.

“What’s the wager?” he asked, trying to sound aggravated about it.

“Well, if you get more hits than me,” Barczyk said, pausing slightly before his big reveal, “I’ll let you fuck me.”

Evan’s brain short-circuited. He sat there, unable to process what he’d heard for so long that Barczyk felt the need to keep talking, which only made it worse.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Barczyk said. “If you lose, you don’t owe me anything. You’re new to laying the body. I’m not like trying to trick you into anything here. I know it’s a long shot and all that. And even if you win and change your mind, that’s cool.”

It was Barczyk’s babbling that did it. Evan shook loose the cobwebs in his head so his brain could boot back online. Before he could think it over, he interrupted: “Okay.” He held out his hand. “If I get more hits than you in Philly, I get to fuck you.”

Barczyk grabbed his hand and shook it a little too hard and a little too long. “Deal.”