Page 34 of Drop the Gloves

The problem was that he still wasn’t sure Abs was into him like that.

Not that he was opposed to experimenting. That was how he’d ended up where he was, after all, but he tried to be upfront with his hook-ups. And back when he was young and dumb (er…younger and dumber), those hook-ups had never lasted long enough for feelings to get involved.

Feelings were starting to get involved here.

It was on him for getting himself into this mess. It was a bad idea to fool around with teammates, and a worse idea to fall for someone who wasn’t emotionally available for a relationship with another man.

Was Riley emotionally available for a relationship? Hmm, he might need to figure out an answer to that one before he got carried away. Pretty shitty of him to judge Abs when he didn’t have his own shit figured out.

Dalty won another round of UNO. Riley tossed over his stack of cards in disgust. He had to draw twenty friggin’ cards because he didn’t have a blue! He didn’t even get a wild or a +2 or anything from that stack. What a stupid game.

“You playing again?” Dalty asked as he shuffled the deck.

“Sure,” Riley grumbled. What the fuck else was there to do?

They arrived in Philadelphia just before noon, and everyone was given an hour to settle in before they had to head out for practice. An hour wasn’t much time, but maybe he could figure out which was Abs’ room and they could—

“Barczyk. A moment, please.”

Riley froze. Uh oh. He turned on his heel and walked back to Coach Jack with his hands buried in the pockets of his suit jacket, wondering if he should apologize in advance or play dumb.

Play dumb? Bro, you have no idea what you did. You are dumb.

“Yes, sir?” Riley asked. He might be a jackass on the ice, but his very Catholic mother had instilled in him a healthy respect for authority. Especially when said authority controlled your career.

“How are you doing, Barczyk?” Coach Jack asked, his expression maddenly unreadable. “You settling in with the team all right?”

Riley shrugged. “I’m doing fine. Can’t complain.

The boys took me in, no problem.” Most usually did.

He could only remember one time a guy never warmed up to him—they’d fought before, and Riley had broken his nose or something, he couldn’t remember—so he’d just kept his distance.

They were adults and professionals. If people on the Riveters didn’t like him, they kept it to themselves, and he did the same.

Coach Jack nodded. His blue eyes were laser-sharp as he assessed Riley. “You ready to face the Gliders tomorrow night?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he huffed. “I ain’t injured.”

“It can be hard to face former teams. Lots of emotions. Lots of pressure.” He trailed off, giving Riley a chance to weigh in.

“We already played the Nor’easters,” he hedged. “You didn’t seem concerned then.”

“Because I wasn’t, and I’m not now. But you and I both know there’s a world of difference between Vermont and Philadelphia.”

Riley opened his mouth to say something asinine, remembered who he was talking to, and thought better of it. When did anyone give him credit for all the times he didn’t open his big fat mouth?

“Yes, sir,” he said instead.

“I’m tired of the media asking me about this game,” Coach Jack continued. “I hate this kind of storyline. Makes the game all about one player when we’re trying to build a team that can go all the way. Granted, the fans eat this up.”

“They sure do.” He’d gotten used to the theatrical side of professional sports when he joined the league, and he’d taken advantage of the spectacle that went along with it. It was how people knew his name, after all: Riley Barczyk, league pest. He was proud of that notoriety.

Abs doesn’t approve.

The thought came out of nowhere, and he reeled a little. Why did it matter if Evan Abernathy did or didn’t approve of how Riley played hockey? He didn’t play for anyone but himself. Besides, if he played by everyone else’s rules, he wouldn’t even have been drafted.

“If I were a Gliders fan”—Riley struggled to tune back in as Coach Jack kept talking—“I’d be happy if my team won and showed the league they don’t need you.

But if I were a Riley Barczyk fan, which I am, I’d want to see his triumphant return to a city that was dumb enough not to lock him down for another season.

So, which storyline are they going to be running? ”

On the one hand, he appreciated Coach Jack taking time to talk to him one-on-one, period. That wasn’t a courtesy every coach gave, especially not for an experienced bottom-six player who was doing his job. On the other hand, he fucking hated this babying bullshit.

“No storyline needed,” Riley said. “They’re just another team. Same as the last game. Same as the one after. They’re not in my head.”

“Let’s hope you’re in theirs,” Coach Jack said. “Feel free to play rough. I hate losing the Battle of Pennsylvania. Nothing makes Pittsburgh more ornery than losing to fucking Philadelphia.”

“Yes, sir.” Then Riley made his escape before Coach Jack could extend their heart-to-heart.

He bypassed the elevator, taking the steps two at a time up to the fourth floor to forget the conversation. He meant it. He didn’t give a shit that he was playing the Gliders. They’d come at him hard to make a point, and he assumed he’d match their intensity without even thinking about it.

That didn’t mean that this game was meaningless, though. He had a lot riding on it.

If you get more hits than me, I’ll let you fuck me.

His foot caught on a step, and he almost stumbled into a wall. Instead, he only jammed his toe, and he cursed under his breath all the way to his room.

* * *

Riley had, in his opinion, done a very admirable job of ignoring the crowd.

Not completely, obviously, because where was the fun in that?

The fans still trying to get his autograph, he gave it to them.

The ones with more creative signs during warm-ups (whether positive or negative), he posed for them.

For the little girl wearing a Barczyk jersey, he gave her a stick.

And the group of teenagers who gave him the finger, he pretended he was going to toss them a puck over the glass, then dropped it back on the ice and skated off.

“And now to honor Riley Barczyk and his three seasons on the Gliders, please turn your attention to the Jumbotron!” the announcer boomed over the crowd. Riley leaned over the bench to stare up as the screen showed nothing but him. His favorite kind of entertainment.

He’d expected a tribute video before the game.

This one was nicer than the previous ones the Kings and Nor’easters had done for him.

Way better than the one from the Rough Riders.

That one had looked like an intern had made it an hour before the game and had included a clip that hadn’t been him at all. Dicks.

The Gliders, for all their faults, did him right.

There were interviews from the coaches and other players, and the highlights were legit.

Great goals, pristine passes, and of course the hits.

Chef’s kiss to them on the selection there.

They even got his fight two seasons ago with Dustin Crowne when he’d knocked out the poor bastard.

“ ‘s a good punch,” he said and turned to joke with Abs about it. “Maybe one of these days you’ll—” He stopped short at how pale Abs looked. “Hey, you okay?”

“They going to show every hit you ever made?” Abs’ voice was shaky, but not like he was angry or annoyed. More like he was worried.

“Nah,” he said and nudged Abs’ shoulder. “We’d be here all night. We got a hockey game to play.” He’d hoped that would be enough to get a smile or maybe an eye roll, but Abs’ eyes stayed fixed on the screen like he could turn it off by sheer force of will.

And then it clicked.

Shit.

Riley had to wait for the applause as the video ended. He waved at the crowd, boo-cheering him, and winked for the cameras. It was a nice moment, but he was happy to see it done: he was officially no longer a Philadelphia Glider, and so didn’t have to feel bad for what came next.

As things settled down for the start of the game, he leaned in close to Abs who jumped at the sudden proximity.

“Look, Abs,” he said, as low as he could over the noise of the arena. “I’m sorry if I stressed you out with our deal. I don’t give a shit if you don’t get a single hit.”

“Are you trying to back out?” Evan asked. He didn’t look sick anymore. Rosy-cheeked and with lips pressed into a thin line, Abs looked about ready to shove Riley over the boards onto the ice.

Riley raised an eyebrow and took a moment to admire what an angry Evan Abernathy looked like.

The verdict: kinda hot.

He made a mental note to rile Abs up more often. This wasn’t the time or the place, though. Not about this.

“I’m not,” he said gently, though he thought most of it was lost in the roar of the crowd as the game started.

“It’s just a lot of pressure, and I didn’t want to…

.” There was a lot he could say here, but the honest answer was he didn’t want to ruin things.

He couldn’t say that, because that would mean there was a thing and it could be ruined.

Luckily, Abs didn’t push. “It’s fine.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple fucking delicious as it bobbed. “I’m looking forward to it.”

The universe decided that was the time for them to prove it: Moreau dumped the puck and rushed over for a line change.

Riley had been one of the resident Tough Guys? on the Gliders.

With him gone, that only left Brock Warner, a large defenseman who never went out of his way to deliver hits but could send guys flying if he wanted to, and James Marsh, their fourth line center who’d learned from Riley that throwing his body could earn him minutes.

He had none of Riley’s finesse with the puck or with drawing penalties, so Riley figured Marsh would be his biggest problem tonight.

As expected, the Gliders didn’t play nice.

They were definitely targeting him. Not always physically, but with tight coverage and challenging him way more than they did Abs or Vassy.

Their mission was clearly to keep Riley off the score sheet; giving him a few bruises was just a bonus.

He’d been a target before and didn’t mind it.

Facing an old team gave him the advantage of knowing how all of them played…

and knowing exactly how to piss them off.

At the next face-off when the ref’s back was to him, he knocked Fernsteiger’s stick out of his hand.

There was no payoff on that one for a couple of shifts, but it drew a slashing call when Fernsteiger tried to do the same stunt to Riley but wasn’t smart about his timing and did it right in front of the ref.

When Pope iced the puck, Riley knew he wouldn’t be able to get to it fast enough, but he still skated in hard specifically so he could snow the goalie.

He knew Mackintosh was pretty chill for a goalie and wouldn’t mind too much, but he also knew Warner was on the ice.

He oversold the crosscheck a touch, going limp right as Warner hit him so he’d flop spectacularly.

“Not smart. You made him mad,” Mackintosh said just before Warner landed on top of him.

“Barzy, you little shit!” Warner yelled and pushed Riley’s face against the ice. He hadn’t liked Riley’s bullshit much when they were teammates, no surprise he liked it less now. “Give me an excuse to pummel you! I dare you!”

Before Riley could answer him, the weight pressing onto his back lifted.

When Riley pushed himself off the ice, he turned and saw Abs dragging Warner away.

Warner, for his part, seemed surprised that someone could drag him anywhere.

Using Warner’s confusion to his advantage, Riley pushed to his feet and went to intervene on Abs’ behalf.

Warner wasn’t much of a fighter, but he was still way more skilled than most guys.

He’d give Riley a run for his money—no way Riley could let Abs get his ass handed to him.

“Hey, no harm done.” Riley grabbed a fistful of Abs’ jersey and yanked. Abs didn’t move at first—if anything, he tightened his grip on Warner—but another hard tug, and he let Riley pull him away. “See, we’re all friends.”

Warner glared at them both. “Friends,” he scoffed. “Barzy, we weren’t friends when you lived here.”

“Aww, Warner, you’re breaking my heart.” Riley skated backwards with Abs in tow. They had a lot of ice to cover for that icing call. “I’ve missed you so much. I thought we could have a movie night and paint each other’s nails.”

Warner only rolled his eyes and went to his bench, muttering what sounded a lot like, “Fuck off.”

A whistle blew. “Riveters! Let’s go!” the far ref called. “Stop dicking around! It was an icing, not a timeout!”

Riley shot a thumbs-up to the ref that hopefully wasn’t too patronizing. “Don’t get in a fight,” he told Abs. “We’re counting hits, not punches.”

“What’s the difference?” Abs mumbled. Riley couldn’t tell if it was a joke. He chose to think it was.

“We’ll check the stats after the game,” Riley said. “I’ve only got two so far, I think. Officially.”

“No bonus points for snowing the goalie?” That one was definitely a joke.

“Nah. It’ll get me some comments on the fan blogs, though.” He grinned, happy to have things the way they belonged.

Him and Abs, playing hockey. Who gave a shit about the other team?