Page 38 of Drop the Gloves

Beep beep beep!

Evan woke up groggy and disoriented. That wasn’t unusual, given how much he traveled and found himself in different but almost identical places. The hotel rooms blurred together, and it made it jarring when his alarm jerked him awake.

This morning was worse than usual, and his brain wasn’t helpful in piecing together why.

He reached out blindly, trying to find his phone and turn it the fuck off, but he found he couldn’t move.

His body tensed under the warm, heavy weight pinning him to the bed.

And then the weight moved, elbowing him in the ribs before climbing over him to turn off the alarm.

“Snooze,” Barczyk grumbled before collapsing right on top of Evan. He was draped across Evan’s chest, their bare skin clammy in the places where the sheets offered no protection, and Evan remembered in perfect clarity where he was and how he’d ended up there.

He was in Barczyk’s hotel room. They’d had sex. And then, in a fit of madness that he blamed on exhaustion, Evan had stayed the night. They never stayed the night.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit SHIT—

Evan took a deep breath, held it in, and then let it out until there was no air left in his lungs. Right. Not the time to freak out.

Very carefully, he wiggled out from underneath Barczyk.

(Riley, some stupidly fond voice corrected, but he ignored it.) Barczyk didn’t seem to notice.

He stayed where he was, sprawled across the bed at a ridiculous angle with a tangle of sheets and pillows around him.

That mess hadn’t been from having sex, Evan was sure of that.

Barczyk must be a restless sleeper, because there was no way that was Evan’s doing.

Maybe it’d make it easier to pretend he hadn’t spent the night in bed with Barczyk, since Barczyk was unlikely to notice amongst the mess that someone else had been there.

As quickly as he could, Evan gathered his clothes and cursed himself for not having changed out of his suit beforehand.

How the fuck was he supposed to sneak back to his room in his fucking game day suit?

If anyone, anyone saw him, they’d know he hadn’t slept in his room.

Granted, they wouldn’t guess he’d been balls deep in Barczyk, but he didn’t want that kind of attention.

He was tempted to grab some of Barczyk’s clothes, but that made him feel shitty.

He already felt like an ass for running away; he didn’t need to add stealing into the mix.

So he put on his undershirt and briefs, bundled up his suit in a towel to hopefully limit the chances of someone spotting it, and slipped out of the room just as Barczyk’s alarm went off again.

The hallway was empty—it seemed pretty early, thankfully—and he got to his room without any trouble.

Except the trouble had followed him, because as soon as he locked the door behind him, his head exploded in a mess of what the fuck did I do last night am I gay do I have feelings for Barczyk what the actual fuck?

A hot shower could soothe him out of this sort of anxiety spiral.

How could the world be bad when you had a nice, relaxing shower to help you forget your troubles?

Except every inch of skin he touched, he remembered that Barczyk had touched those same places.

And then he had to deal with his dick being extremely interested in those memories, the same dick that had come inside Barczyk a few hours ago.

Arguably the only reason he was in this mess was because his dick had no chill around Barczyk for some God-forsaken reason, and it had the audacity to get hard during his nice shower?

If he’d had the willpower to ignore it, Evan might’ve felt better. He didn’t, and after jerking off to images of Barczyk riding him like a fucking pro, Evan was more miserable than he’d started the day.

How had he let things get so out of control?

He did not like Riley Barczyk! He didn’t like his stupid curly mohawk or his ridiculous missing tooth or the sound of his annoying voice or how he had to go on tiptoes to kiss Evan or how his hazel eyes looked more green after he came or how he could be teasing and patient at the same time or—

Evan pinched himself, because the list forming in his head didn’t seem to have an end. Whether it was things he liked or disliked about Barczyk, it wasn’t a good sign that he could rattle them off so quickly. Or that none of them were hockey-related.

“I’m so fucking fucked,” he grumbled. He pulled on some clothes and headed downstairs for breakfast, determined to get some time away from Barczyk. Maybe food and caffeine would help him sort this out.

It did, but only a little. Piling a plate high with eggs and bacon, he grabbed a cup of coffee (and filled it with cream because as desperate as he was to get his mind off Barczyk, he didn’t actually want to taste coffee), and found a seat at a crowded table between Dalton and Winchester.

“Fucking beast over here,” Dalton said as he mussed Evan’s hair. “That hit last night?” He did a chef’s kiss, saw some ketchup on his fingers and licked it off, and then went back for more hash browns. “Fantastic, bro.”

“I see Barzy’s rubbing off on you,” Winchester said.

Evan choked on his coffee. “What?”

“Barzy. Seems like he’s rubbing off on you,” Winchester repeated. “Like you learned how to deal a hit through osmosis or some shit.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I guess.” Evan kept his head down and poked at his food, no longer hungry.

He needed to get himself together. If he didn’t want people finding out that he and Barczyk were fooling around, he needed to not lose his shit every time Barczyk’s name was mentioned.

They were linemates, for fuck’s sake! It was unavoidable.

Barczyk was unavoidable. Why had Evan let himself think this was okay? His questionable sexuality aside, the last thing Evan needed was the scandal of sleeping with another player, period. And how was he ever going to get space to figure things out when they saw each other basically every day?

“You all right?” Dalton asked as the table cleared out. “You barely ate.”

“I've just got a lot on my mind.” He forced a giant bite of eggs into his mouth, hoping Dalton would take a hint and not talk to him. Evan wasn’t in the mood.

Dalton did not take the hint.

“What’s up? Normally you only freak out about hockey stuff, and the season’s been going pretty well for you. Your line’s doing great.”

Evan chewed and grunted.

“And I know the coaches are happy with your play lately. You’ve stepped it up this season with the physicality.

I know S’more’s got a couple seasons left on his contract, but JT’s out after this season.

If he signs somewhere else, they’ll probably be ready to move you up to second-line center. The way you’ve been playing...”

Dalton continued to babble, and Evan let him. Hockey had always been the center of Evan’s world. Maybe it could ground him now before he drifted too far off course.

* * *

Evan didn’t see Barczyk until the plane ride back to Pittsburgh. He held his breath as Barczyk got on the plane. They made eye contact, and Barczyk headed toward him—

“Barzy! You in for some Mario Kart?”

Barczyk kept his eyes locked on Evan a few heartbeats longer before turning away and smiling. “Sure, bro. But I only play as Princess Peach.”

With a Barczyk-free hour and a half ahead of him, Evan should’ve relaxed. Instead, his throat tightened uncomfortably, and his chest ached.

* * *

Abernathy

Minigolf ASAP.

Dalton

It’s fucking November bro it’s freezing out

Abernathy

The place in the strip is indoors

And they have milkshakes

Dalton

K but you’re buying

Abernathy

Deal

“This is like a record, right?” Dalton asked as Evan scored another hole in one. It was his third in a row. “You’re locked in.”

He was. He needed to be. He took way too long at each hole, breathing in mini-golf and breathing out everything else while he lined up his shots. It’d been working so far: he’d only thought of Barczyk fifty times instead of a thousand.

Fifty-one, he corrected.

“So what’s the issue, bro?” Dalton asked. “Mini-golf is for when you’re stressed. What are you stressed about? You’re having a good season.”

Evan bent over to collect his golf ball and buy time to think it through.

He liked Dalton. They were nearly the same age and had gone through the same development on the Riveters, and Dalton had been a great roommate and friend.

Maybe he could confide in him a little, just enough to take some of the pressure off.

“I’m uh...” He stood back up and fidgeted with the ball. How much exactly should he say? “I’ve been hooking up with someone lately,” he settled on, because it was true but didn’t reveal much. No genders, no names, no locations.

“Oh, wow.” Dalton seemed genuinely surprised. “That’s a first. Congrats?” A pause. “Or maybe not, if it’s leading to mini-golf levels of stress?”

They moved on to the next hole. “It is kind of stressing me out,” he admitted. “I’m not good with this kind of...stuff.”

Dalton nodded. “So end it?”

Evan stopped short. End it? Yeah, that was probably the most logical thing to do, but his knee-jerk reaction was absolutely the fuck not.

“Sorry,” Dalton said. “Hit a nerve?” He dropped his golf ball and kicked it into place, not even looking at the course before hitting it down the purple turf. Evan made a face at the terrible form and the surprisingly terrible bounce that landed him at least three strokes away from the hole.

“Fuck, Dalty. Don’t worry about hitting nerves. Worry about hitting the ball. How many times we gone putting, and you still suck?”

Dalton stared at him, blinking like Evan had just spoken French to him.

“What?”