Page 4 of Drop the Gloves

Evan didn’t get an answer about lines until the pre-season started a few weeks later.

After training camp, the rest of the team started official practices.

Evan knew the lines in practice didn’t necessarily mean anything—especially when there were ten players there competing for four spots—so he tried not to read too much into things.

Yeah, he had to play on a line with Barczyk, but he also played on lines with younger guys like Dalton, Winchester, and Maxwell, as well as experienced players like Antonov, Woodward, and Vassiliev.

Too much was up in the air, so he didn’t worry about what it all ‘meant.’

The worst part was the mini-games and scrimmages, where he had to go against Barczyk.

He tried not to cringe whenever they were fighting for the puck or if Barczyk was barreling down towards him.

He shouldn’t have to worry; this was a practice.

No one went that hard, and Barczyk was more than half a foot shorter than him.

It was already a fluke he’d hurt Evan in the first place.

“Get over it,” Evan muttered under his breath.

He was standing on the goal line to the right of the net, with Barczyk on the left.

Once Coach Jack blew the whistle, they’d be racing down the ice for a puck to bring in and shoot on their backup goalie, Reese.

“Get over it. You skate fast enough, and it won’t even matter. ”

He was right.

The whistle blew, and he was off. He’d learned a long time ago never to go 100% during practices—that was how players got injured or you burnt yourself out too early in the season—but he always liked to be able to.

He liked to pull out that little bit of extra hustle or muscle as necessary, in case he needed to prove a point or impress the coaches.

He did that now, sprinting faster than he had outside a game since the last time scouts were looking at him.

He got to the puck first, going so fast he nearly lost his balance on the sharp turn to head back to the net.

He passed Barczyk, who hadn’t even reached the pylon where he could turn around, and now focused on coming in on Reese.

Reese pushed out of the crease, blocker and glove up.

Evan hated one-on-ones with goalies. They were all so talented and could read him like an open book.

It’s why he usually just shot and got it over with, because they always made the save, anyway.

But he had some time with Barczyk so far behind, so he faked left before pulling back to the right and trying for the back door.

He just barely stuffed it in before Reese got back over.

“Nice hustle, Abernathy!” Coach Jack said, and there was some applause from the rest of the team. “Try that in a game, why don’t you?” Then he blew the whistle for the next pair.

Evan preened at the praise as he got back in line. A few of the guys patted his shoulder and said things like, “Nice one, kid” or “Heckuva move there at the end, kid.”

Kid. Always kid. He supposed as nicknames went, it wasn’t terrible, but he really wanted to be seen as one of the guys.

Not one of the ‘young’ guys they always felt the need to babysit when they went out as a team.

Hopefully, being old enough to drink now would help him look like an actual adult this season.

He’d completely forgotten about Barczyk until he skated up behind Evan.

“You've got wheels on you,” he said. He was looking straight up to meet Evan’s eye, but he exuded so much confidence Evan felt like he was the shorter one. “Not everyone as big as you can move that fast.”

Evan noted both the praise and the lack of ‘kid.’ He wasn’t so sure he liked the way his heart fluttered in response. Didn’t he hate this guy? He didn’t want Barczyk to like him.

Though it was kind of satisfying.

It’s about the respect, he decided. That counted.

“Thanks,” he eventually said. Then, because he was too stupidly polite to stop there, he added, “You’ve been looking pretty good out there, too.”

A roguish smile spread across Barczyk’s face. It made him look young, like a teenager up to no good. “I have been looking pretty.”

Evan flushed, his shoulders tensing up almost all the way to his ears in embarrassment. “I didn’t—that’s not—”

“I’m just fucking with you.” Barczyk slapped his stick against Evan’s shinguard. “I am pretty, but I wasn’t fishing for compliments. How come I never noticed you before? I feel like a big guy who can move like that would’ve been someone I was forced to fight.”

And instantly, the small gains Barczyk had made in Evan’s good opinion were lost.

“I don’t know,” he said coldly. “I played you plenty of times when you were on the Gliders.” Then he turned away before he could see Barczyk’s reaction.

* * *

The Riveters’ first pre-season game was less than a week away, and the coaches had finally seen enough that they were put out lines.

When his phone pinged with the email—complete with preliminary roster, practice schedule, and travel info—Evan’s eyes immediately went to the third and fourth lines.

He dreaded it a little, mostly because he wondered which of his friends still had a shot of making the team this season and who would be sent down to the AHL.

There was a lot of young talent on the farm team, but not all of them were ready to make the leap to the NHL.

Evan felt for them—he’d been in the same position only a few years ago, starting his first season in the AHL after getting some chances in the pre-season, and only moving up to the NHL after the trade deadline had made room for him—but he wasn’t surprised when he saw the names.

Walker, Stevens, and Maxwell were still in the mix for the forwards, and O’Brien, Leonard, and Pope for defense.

There were other names, guys Evan didn’t know as well, and he was so distracted trying to place them that he only glanced at the second line by chance.

Woodward - Abernathy - Barczyk.

Son of a bitch.

It made sense, unfortunately. The top line wouldn’t see play for a while, which gave him and some other guys the opportunity to push up.

Evan’s old linemates had both retired, so of course he’d see some new faces.

And there was one very competent fresh face that would work well in that right wing spot.

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but still Evan felt like his hopes had been crushed.

How was he going to concentrate on playing if he was so stressed out about his own winger?

And what could he possibly say or do? Barczyk was a perfectly reasonable player.

Evan had seen that during practice. He had great hands and good hockey sense.

Yeah, he ran his mouth, but everyone chirped each other.

There was no way Evan could complain about him without sounding like an asshole or exposing his own weakness.

Besides, everyone else liked the guy. Even Doyle, who had four career fights against Barczyk, laughed along with everyone else when Barczyk told stories and did impressions of other players.

…had Barczyk entertained the Gliders with an impression of Evan hitting the boards and hobbling to the bench?

Unable to keep any sort of chill about it, Evan switched from his message app to his phone and hit the first number listed under Favorites.

“Mom,” Evan whined on the phone as soon as the call connected. “I don’t like my linemate.”

“Hello, Evan,” his mom deadpanned. “Miss you too.”

“Sorry. Miss you, love you, should’ve called sooner. Better?”

“Hmmm,” she hummed. “A little. So what’s this about your linemate?”

“Remember last season when I got hurt—?”

“You mean when that rat from the Gliders laid a dirty hit on you, and you missed the rest of the game and a few days of practice to make sure your shoulder was okay? That time?”

“Yeah, that time.” He smiled fondly. He was pretty sure his mom would’ve been standing on the couch, screaming at her TV when it happened.

He’d had a dozen texts from her by the time the trainers had finished looking him over, and the last few had been mostly expletives about Barczyk and the refs missing that obvious call.

“What about it?”

“Well, I’m sure you saw that the guy who hit me is on the team”—there was zero chance his mom hadn’t taken down his name and number after the hit, and even less likely she wouldn’t have noticed the Riveters had acquired him—“and he’s going to be my linemate to start the pre-season.”

Silence.

“Mom?” He looked at his phone to make sure the call was still going.

“Riley Barczyk will be on a line with you,” she repeated slowly, like she was speaking some foreign language and wasn’t quite sure the words she’d put together meant what she thought they did. “Oh, sweetie. Well, it’s hockey. You don’t have to like your teammates, just play with them.”

“Liking helps,” he grumbled. “I flinch every time I have the puck and he comes near me. If he’s on a line with me, he’s supposed to do that.”

His mom sighed sympathetically. “Yeah, you’ll have to work on that. I’m sorry, baby, but looks like you’ll have to deal with Barczyk for the foreseeable future. I doubt Coach Jack would appreciate a call from your mom about it. Didn’t work in Pee Wee, certainly won’t work in the NHL.”

“Ugh,” he grumbled. It wasn’t like he thought his mom could magically fix things, but he was a teensy bit disappointed she couldn’t.

“How’s practice going? I assume you’ve already had to work with him there? He can’t be a total disaster if the team picked him up.”

He knew his mom was dying for details. Usually, he talked hockey with her all the time, but he’d been so stressed he’d redirected all of their text exchanges to be about her work or their family. For the past few days, it’d been nothing but cat videos and memes.

“Practice is fine. I’ve been doing well, I think.

Coach seems happy, anyway. And no, Barczyk isn’t a total disaster,” Evan admitted.

It’d be so easy to brush off Barczyk as a pest if he weren’t so damn good.

He wasn’t like those players who only got contracts to be obnoxious and draw penalties.

Whatever else he might say about Barczyk, the guy was a decent player.

“So use him to your advantage. Get as many points as you can and let him do the dirty work. You can make this work, sweetie, I promise.”

That was true. Despite his size, Evan was terrible at fighting.

He also hated it. As a bottom-six player, it was expected for him to be in some scrums. But if Barczyk was out with him, maybe he could take care of the heavy lifting.

The guy seemed to enjoy fighting. It was kind of perfect.

Eventually, if Evan could make it to the second line, he wouldn’t have those expectations on him.

He could get away with stepping away from fights.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said with genuine relief. He could totally make this work. Granted, he wasn’t over wanting to stay the hell away from Barczyk on the ice. A game plan would help, though. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” she teased. “Glad I could make you feel better. Lunch in a few weeks when you’re in town?”

The Riveters played the Toronto Terrors in Toronto for their last pre-season game.

He’d already sent tickets to his mom. One of his cousins was on the Terrors, even though his family lived out in Alberta.

The three of them would grab lunch, then Evan would try not to injure his cousin during the game.

Weird that the only time they saw each other was during hockey season, but that was pro-hockey life.

“Sure. I’ll text you when I’ve got my flight info.”

“Thanks, sweetie. Good luck. And not just in the games. Hope you survive having Barczyk on your line. He’ll get you your goals, but he’ll probably cost you a few with his shenanigans.”

“Probably. Love you.”

“Love you too, Evan.”