Page 35 of Drop the Gloves

Evan hadn’t seen much of Barczyk since they’d landed in Philly.

From the second they got off the plane to the moment they could safely escape into the hotel, the media had hounded Barczyk.

Their closed practice had been the only respite, keeping out the reporters who’d crowded around the arena entrance and begged for locker room access.

During a friggin’ practice! It would’ve driven Evan crazy, especially when fans spotted them and added to the chaos, but attention had never seemed to bother Barczyk.

He thrived on it.

Evan hadn’t bothered trying to see Barczyk after practice—Barczyk had stayed after the rest of the team had cleared out of the locker room, slowly working through everyone with media clearance as they waited for their sound bites—and took his dinner to his room for some peace.

He took some melatonin in the hope of knocking himself out.

The more time he had to think, the more he’d freak himself out.

Because if he started thinking, sooner than later he’d have to think about the deal he’d made.

Tomorrow night, he might be having sex with Riley Barczyk.

Which was absurd! He’d gone into the season hating Barczyk! Also, straight! None of this made any sense!

It was also ridiculous to think this meant any more or less than what they’d already been doing. They’d been having sex for weeks. The only difference between that stuff and this was whatever baggage he wanted to put on it.

Unfortunately, his brain wanted to put a lot of baggage. Like he could still say he wasn’t gay, but that was the point where he’d have to acknowledge he maybe was a tiny bit.

But this whole situation was easy to avoid! He could lay a few hits to appease Barczyk without giving it his all, then he would lose their deal and nothing would happen. There was no reason this had to be a thing at all.

Of course, every time Evan considered it, he found himself grinding his teeth.

Baggage or not, he really wanted to win.

He’d never allowed himself to imagine fucking Barczyk; as soon as Barczyk had offered, it was all Evan could think about.

Evan was helpless, too weak to refuse what Barczyk was so willing to offer, which meant he’d be as physical as possible against Philly.

More physical than he’d ever been. Barczyk got hits as easily as he took shots.

It was like breathing or skating for him, barely a consideration.

In some strange alternate reality where Barczyk didn’t want to play physical tomorrow night, it wouldn’t matter: the Gliders wouldn’t let him walk out of this one without a few bumps and bruises to show for it.

Whatever. It at least gave him an excuse if someone asked Evan why he’d suddenly tried to bully his way through a game. He could say he was looking out for his linemate, which was true. That he might get rewarded for it later was nobody’s business.

“Stop thinking,” he grumbled to himself. He rolled over, took another melatonin, and this time blissfully drifted off into oblivion.

* * *

Game day was more of the same: it was Riley Barczyk versus all of Philadelphia, per every sports news outlet.

Admittedly, it felt like that. A lot of obscene gestures and rude comments were directed their way as they went from the hotel to the arena, all of them met with Barczyk’s wide grin.

He looked a little tired, though; Evan wondered if Barczyk had slept well, and if he hadn’t, what had kept him up.

Not that Evan got a chance to ask. Evan might as well not have been there for how little Barczyk said to him in the locker room.

There were a lot of cameras, so he got it.

There was rarely such a thing as a private conversation in the locker room, and this was almost as bad as playoffs.

Vassiliev and Evan both had to scooch down the bench to make room and stay out of the limelight.

On the ice, it should’ve been business as usual, but still no. Evan watched Barczyk from a distance as he worked the crowd during warm-ups. Just like when he’d first arrived in Pittsburgh, the fans sure loved to hate him.

“This will all go to his head,” Vassiliev said. He sounded amused. “I don’t know how we’ll survive if his ego gets any bigger.”

Evan laughed because he was supposed to, but he didn’t have the heart to say anything.

Instead he waited by the bench in their usual spot, stickhandling and trying not to notice how quickly the time was disappearing.

With only two minutes left and most of the team already back in the locker room, Evan decided to join them.

He spared one last glance at Barczyk, rocking back against the boards so that they shook as fans banged on the other side, before disappearing down the tunnel.

Instead of being ready to play, Evan felt more off-kilter than before.

He hated to admit it, but he was a little hurt that Barczyk was too busy for him.

They hadn’t done their butt-tap ritual. It was stupid to miss something so childish.

He’d never wanted to do it in the first place. It was just to humor Barczyk.

Excuses were easy to find. None of them made him feel any better.

* * *

“Smart hockey, people!” Coach Jack reminded them again and again, whenever they got on or off the ice.

He was hammering it into their heads because the Gliders had come out hard.

They had a chip on their shoulder about Barczyk, no doubt about it, and kept taking potshots at them.

Even the veteran players needed the reminder, because they looked about ready to pick a fight.

“Smart. Hockey!”

Normally, Evan would be all on board for that.

Smart, non-physical hockey was what he’d always aspired towards.

But tonight, there was more on the line than accolades and standings points.

For the first time in his entire hockey career, from when he first laced up as a kid until now, Evan wasn’t trying to play disciplined.

He was there to hit anyone who got too close to Barczyk, and hopefully reap the rewards for it.

It wasn’t just about the bet with Barczyk.

Sure, Evan wanted to fuck Barczyk, but he saw the way the Gliders were targeting him.

After Brock Warner all but tackled him to the ice, a protective instinct had ignited in Evan.

These jerks had encouraged Barczyk to play the roughest style of hockey possible, their fans had cheered when Evan had hurt his shoulder, and now that he wore a different jersey, they were pissed at him.

Barczyk, though? He was always defying Evan’s expectations.

A rough player going against his former team—especially a team like the Gliders—seemed like the perfect opportunity for him to run wild.

He didn’t. Barczyk played the same as always, physical and aggressive, but no worse than usual.

If anything, he was more reserved. Not because he wasn’t trying to get under people’s skin, because he definitely was, but he was more strategic about it.

Like instead of throwing stuff at a wall to see what stuck, he was a laser-guided missile going for a precision strike.

So far, the refs had let it all go. Everyone, Evan included, got rougher and rougher.

There wasn’t a thirty-second stretch of game without someone getting hit.

What had started as everyone-targeting-Barczyk had spilled over so that every line was doing their best to retaliate for something dumb someone had done earlier.

By the end of the second, Evan didn’t think anyone knew what offenses anyone was upset about anymore.

They were fired up, and no amount of pleas from the coaches could do much about it.

“This is kinda fun,” Barczyk said as they got ready to start the third period. “It’s like a playoff game, except with no stakes.”

“So I’m getting my ass kicked for nothing?” Vassiliev scoffed. There were murmurs of agreement down the bench.

“You know it’s bad when even Abs is roughing guys up,” Woodward said. “You see the way he threw Warner around like a rag doll? Somebody find a photo of that later and send it to me. I’m gonna make it my lock screen.”

Evan raised his shoulders as if he could disappear into his jersey. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“It was fucking fantastic,” Barczyk said. He was chewing his mouthguard, holding it right next to his missing tooth. “I’m gonna give him so much shit for that after the game.”

“Let’s focus on getting out of Philadelphia in one piece,” Coach Jack said.

“We’re up a goal. I want smart fucking hockey.

I’m gonna brand it on all of your foreheads.

This is not a playoff game, and I want the intensity saved for later in the season.

We are a playoff-bound team, and the Gliders aren’t.

We are not letting them dictate the play here. Clean checks, then you skate away.”

“I’ll play as clean as they do,” Woodward said once Coach Jack’s attention was elsewhere. Evan was inclined to agree.

“Five minutes to go,” Barczyk whispered to him as they skated out for a face-off deep in the Gliders’ zone. “Think we’re about tied in hits.”

Evan shivered. He had no idea if it was true. He’d only been able to keep track of his own hits for the first two shifts, then he’d been too distracted trying to play this weird version of hockey that felt more like football. All he knew for sure is that both of them had been active.

Evan won the face-off, and he had to wrench his head back into the game.

They spent most of the shift in the offensive zone, though they had garbage chances. When the Gliders regained the puck, Evan prepared to go for a line change because he was gassed.

Except the Gliders defenseman with the puck, instead of making the smart play and passing the puck up or clearing the zone, took aim and shot it point blank at Barczyk.

He hit low on Barczyk’s chest, right below the shoulder pads.

It was too well-aimed to have been an accident, and even from fifty feet away, Evan could see Barczyk wince in pain and then snarl.

He could see it happening, the way Barczyk was about to lose it on his former teammate.

Usually, he’d stay out of it. Finish his line change and let things sort themselves out.

Evan turned on his heel and raced back. He hadn’t planned on doing anything other than keeping Barczyk out of trouble, but the defenseman lifted his stick like he was about to swing it at Barczyk, and Evan’s aim shifted.

He no longer cared about stopping Barczyk from doing something stupid; he was too busy being the stupid one.

Bam!

Because the guy had no idea Evan was coming, he never braced for the hit.

He stumbled as he tried to catch his balance, feet swinging wildly as he hit the ground and got his left leg tangled under him, and couldn’t get his arms out to move to protect himself.

His chest hit the ice first, then his head.

It was an awkward fall, and Evan instantly regretted causing it.

“Sorry,” he choked out. “Shit, I didn’t mean—”

He was drowned out by a series of whistles. “Twenty-one, in the box! Two minutes for charging.”

“I—” His jaw snapped shut. He couldn’t argue the call. He’d done it, no question. In the moment, he hadn’t thought twice about it. But part of him wanted to protest. Look at how they’ve been acting all game! It’s not my fault! I’m not a goon!

Barczyk skated over and tapped the defenseman (who seemed fine, thank fuck, just shaken up) with the blade of his stick. “FAFO, amirite?”

“Get to your bench, Barczyk.” The ref sighed in exasperation. “I’ve got enough to deal with. I don’t need you causing more ruckus.”

“I would never.” He sent Evan a loaded look but did as he was told, leaving Evan to face the consequences of his actions.

“I appreciate it when you guys don’t argue,” the ref said as he led Evan to the penalty box. “Makes my job easier.”

“Probably be easier if we didn’t commit any penalties.” Evan waited patiently for the attendant in the box to open the door for him.

The ref laughed. “That’d be nice, but I won’t hold my breath. The day hockey players stop doing dumb shit on the ice, I’ll hang up my skates and retire. You guys’ll keep me plenty busy until then.”

Evan settled into the box and looked up at the Jumbotron.

They showed his very blatant charge from several angles, each one earning hysterical boos from the crowd.

When Evan looked at the Gliders’ bench, he was relieved to see the player joking around with his buddies.

He looked happy to have been the one to draw the first penalty and waved off a trainer who leaned over to talk to him.

No harm done, Evan supposed. But he wasn’t proud of himself.

He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, but Evan had meant to knock him over.

Maybe that was how Barczyk did it. He’d found a way to harness that part of himself where he could focus on the check and separate it from the possible consequences.

It had been freeing (and a little gratifying) in those seconds between deciding to teach that guy a lesson and realizing what he’d done.

“Don’t sweat it, kid.”

Evan turned to look at the penalty box attendant. The guy was in his late sixties and probably called every player a kid, so Evan let it go. “Sweat what?”

“You look upset about the penalty. Don’t sweat it.

You’ve been having a good game, and this team, they do a good job of getting under people’s skin.

” He paused, giving Evan a chance to take in the screams of the arena and the sound of someone hitting the boards not far from them.

“You accept you did a little too much, you sit your two minutes, and then you forget about it. You’ve gotta learn to let it go, son. ”

“Sure,” he said. Then, “Thanks.” He turned back to watch the game, because what else was there to do?

I accept that I did too much, he thought. I went too far, and it’s fine. I’m going to let it go and not let it change how I play this game.

He repeated it like a mantra as the penalty timer ticked down. When the attendant opened the door for him, Evan jumped onto the ice, and the impossible seemed to happen.

He let it go and played some really good hockey.