Page 49 of Drop the Gloves

Practice was deemed acceptable by the coaches, and the team cheered at having curfew moved to midnight. If they played like shit tomorrow, it’d come back to bite them in the ass, as Lawson sternly reminded them.

“Best fucking behavior,” Lawson warned with one breath, then with the next asked, “Who wants to go do shots at that bar we hit up last year?”

Evan jerked off in the shower before his dinner date with Barczyk to ease the tension.

He laid out his travel clothes, glad that Riley had given him the warning before leaving (and doubly glad he had heeded it).

When they traveled, he typically packed a suit or two for game days, workout clothes, and maybe a henley or pair of jeans in the winter.

That’s all that hockey players wore most of the time: league-mandated fancy suits, and team-branded sports apparel.

He’d have been embarrassed as hell wearing a suit to dinner with Riley (nothing said date more than a fucking suit), and he was glad he’d brought a pair of khakis and a sweater.

Of course, he’d neglected a jacket besides the nice peacoat he wore when they traveled, and he didn’t have the confidence to pull that off without the accompanying formal attire.

Was his Riveters hoodie okay, or should he be a weirdo and use his suit jacket?

Could he borrow something? Who dressed nicely on the Riveters and might’ve brought a blazer?

How would he explain what he needed it for? Shit shit shit—

A knock on his door ended his internal spiral. He took one last look in the mirror, straightened out a wrinkle in the pants (crap! He should’ve ironed them), before opening the door.

“Hey, our Uber is almost here. Ready?”

Riley was wearing faded jeans that were tight around his thighs but loose everywhere else, a belt with a ridiculously big buckle, and a black polo with the collar popped and his gold chain peeking out from the low V where all three buttons were left undone.

Evan’s eyes locked in on that bare skin, the slight hint of chest hair, before dragging his attention back to Riley’s face. His very amused face.

“Ready. Just gotta grab my—“ Evan hesitated, looked to Riley for a clue and saw he had no coat or hoodie or anything with him, and flipped a coin in his head. “Hoodie,” he settled on, but Barczyk had slung an arm around Evan’s shoulders.

“It’s pretty warm out,” Riley said. “We’ll be in the car and the restaurant. I don’t think you need anything.” Without waiting for Evan to agree, he pulled him out of the hotel room and down the hallway, Evan’s door clicking shut behind them and echoing in the empty hall.

Whenever Evan worried things between him and Riley would get awkward (and there’d been a lot of opportunities for it), Riley rescued him.

He chatted up the Uber driver on the way, getting into an argument about the Rockies and the Red Sox that required nothing of Evan except his presence.

When they were led to a small table toward back of a fancy but tiny restaurant, Riley gushed about the place to the hostess and got them through the server’s spiel about the overly complicated menu, and then they were alone, and there was no one to rescue Evan from having to acknowledge he was maybe on a date with the guy he was having sex with.

...which honestly didn’t seem like a problem at all when he worded it like that.

“You want a beer?” Riley offered. “You look like you could use a beer.”

Evan nodded. “Just one.”

“That’s usually how they come. One at a time.” Riley went through the menu and ordered them a couple of beers and a plate of nachos, then appraised Evan with a thoroughness that made him squirm in his seat. “You like spicy food?”

The question came out of left field, having nothing to do with any of the thoughts buzzing through Evan’s head. He had to remind himself they were about to get dinner, so the question made perfect sense.

“Not really,” he said. “Didn’t have a lot of it growing up and never got a taste for it.”

“Guessing there aren’t many Mexican places in Peterborough.”

Evan shook his head grimly. “We don’t even have a Chipotle.” Riley’s chuckle shouldn’t have done things to him, but it did.

“They got some decent places in Pittsburgh, though. Chipotles galore. Some decent Tex-Mex places. You never branched out?”

“You make it sound like I’ve never eaten a taco before.”

“Have you?” Riley cackled when Evan tried to kick him under the table but missed. “I’m just trying to figure out what we should order at this Mexican restaurant in New fucking Mexico, or if you’re gonna be stuck with house salsa and plain chips.”

This time his foot connected, and he enjoyed Riley hissing in pain as the server dropped off their beers and nachos. Riley ordered for them, dishes Evan had never heard of like mole poblano and posole.

“I’m putting a lot of faith in you,” Evan said.

Riley clinked his beer bottle against Evan’s and took a long sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. Jackass.

“Have I ever steered you wrong before?” He winked and then said, “You were drafted by Pittsburgh, right?”

This was another non sequitur, and it hit him as hard as the question about spicy food. What was Riley doing?

“Yeah,” he said, suspicion leaking into his voice.

“You like the city? Seems like a good fit for you.”

“I like it,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek. On the one hand, this was a topic where he could actually contribute; on the other, the abrupt shift in conversation left him uneasy. “I never thought I’d end up there, but I’m really glad they drafted me.”

Riley nodded, digging into the plate of nachos. “Glad they’re treating you right. I know a lot of buddies who got drafted and never quite got their feet under them, and sometimes it was because the teams weren’t supportive.”

“You were drafted by the Kings, right? Were they good?” Evan cautiously picked up a chip, one devoid of jalapenos and sauce, just in case. He nibbled a corner, deemed it safe, and ate the rest in one mouthful. It was good.

“They were decent,” Riley said. “Gave me plenty of minutes, considering I was a small rookie with anger issues.”

“Anger issues?” Evan had never considered Riley to be particularly angry.

Aggressive, sure, but it didn’t seem malicious.

He was relatively level-headed, as far as hockey players went.

More than most, even. He lost his cool and yelled at the refs, which Evan wasn’t a huge fan of, but Riley didn’t smash his stick or throw tantrums.

Except he had in Quebec. Was that what he’d been like all the time as a rookie?

“Oh, for sure,” Riley said, chips in each hand as he poked around the plate to find the best ones.

“I was a fucking ball of rage that first season. Had something to prove and hated anyone telling me to calm the fuck down. Granted, I needed to, but I wasn’t ready to hear it.

Won a Cup that year, which maybe helped me mellow out a bit.

Like, hey, look at me, I did it. Only played three minutes in that final game because I was too much of a liability.

That, more than anything, calmed me down a bit.

I can play the way I play, so long as I’m in control of it.

If my emotions take over, I’m not helping anyone, least of all myself. ”

“Guess that makes sense,” Evan said. All he could picture was Riley’s snarl after he was pushed onto the Fleur-de-Lis bench and went looking for blood.

It was easy to picture a younger version of Riley, less in control of his emotions, going 110% every game.

Evan might not always care for that style of play, but he respected how much guts it took to do that game in, game out.

And it wasn’t like Evan was the only one who criticized Riley for it: every hockey news circuit complained about him. Riley just didn’t care.

Evan couldn’t relate at all, but he thought he could see the satisfaction of winning the Cup outweighing what others thought. Riley had already achieved The Big Thing, so he could let the criticism slide off of him.

“First season, eh?” Evan asked.

Riley’s eyes lit up. “Did I just get a wild ‘eh’? And yeah, very first season in the league. Part of me was relieved, and part of me was like, what the fuck? Where do I go from here? Turned out the answer was pretty straightforward.” He leaned across the table, so Evan did too.

“I do whatever the fuck I want, and as long as I score goals and draw penalties, teams’ll take me anyway.

Gotta say, hockey’s a lot more fun when you’re playing for yourself. ”

Evan let that settle in. “When is that?” he asked. “When do I get to play for myself? Do I have to win the Cup before people stop getting on my case for not being physical enough?”

“I mean, you don’t have to do that shit.

” When Evan gave him a dubious look, Riley held out his hands in a wide shrug.

“You don’t. People see how big you are and that you don’t hit, then they see tiny guys like me who do, and they want the best of both worlds.

Doesn’t mean you have to do anything. Hell, you play some fine fucking hockey as is.

Get some confidence, and no one’ll be able to tell you shit. ”

Evan didn’t believe a word of it. He couldn’t, not when all he’d heard this season from coaches was how he needed to improve his game. It wasn’t as though Riley hadn’t been agreeing with them.

“Then why were you giving me fighting lessons?” Evan said, more bite than he’d intended slipping in. He blushed, not just because of his tone, but because they’d done a very good job of pretending the lessons and the orgasms associated with it had never happened.

But as usual, Riley was unfazed. “A little ‘cause I was jealous. If I were as tall as you, I would fucking wreck people. Or maybe I wouldn’t, because I wouldn’t need to.

I dunno. And maybe I saw a teammate who could use my help, so I offered it.

I didn’t make you take the lessons, and I think we can both agree it’s helped, if only to get your head screwed on right about the whole thing.

But you ain’t playing much different than you were at the start of the season.

You’re just a little more open to using your size, and that’s made all the difference. ”

They were interrupted as the server dropped off their meals. Evan had no idea what he was looking at, but the server said it was the mole poblano. Hungry enough to be curious, he took a bite and hoped for the best. Spicier than he was used to, but not painfully so; he dug in.

“Good, right?” Riley said. “You plan on doing the long haul in Pittsburgh?”

“I hope so,” Evan said. He wanted to say that was the dream, playing out his career for one team, but given who he was talking to, it seemed rude. “I like playing for the Riveters. I like Coach Jack. I like my teammates. I like how close it is to home.”

“It's nice that they almost always make the playoffs,” Riley agreed. “More chances to win the Cup.” He sipped his beer and put it down carefully, with more care than he did anything. It made Evan nervous for a reason he couldn’t name.

“Teammates and coaches change all the time. Teams change, y’know?

A good vibe can die out when people retire or management changes or just because that’s life.

You’d still want to stay in Pittsburgh?”

“I mean...maybe not,” Evan said. The Riveters had been home for the past three years.

People had come and gone, but the team had felt more or less the same over that time.

The changes were so gradual, it was only looking back that Evan could notice things that were different from when he’d started.

But at its core, it had been a good organization to be a part of; that didn’t seem likely to change in one or five or ten years.

“I just know I’m happy where I am. If that changes.

..” He shrugged. “I guess I’ll reassess then.

But I’ve got a few more years on my contract and a limited trade clause—“

“A limited trade clause? Fuck, Abs, they must want you long haul. I’ve never gotten a limited trade clause.”

“Have you ever asked for one?”

Riley’s mouth snapped shut. “No,” he gritted out.

“I thought you liked the flexibility of moving around.” Evan could never deal with that level of uncertainty, but spontaneity was Riley’s thing. Where Evan saw security, Riley might feel trapped.

Evan’s stomach lurched. Stupid spicy food.

“I do,” Riley said. “It’s easier not being tied down when things go south.”

Evan sat there, bunching up his napkin on his lap. He wasn’t hungry anymore. In the back of his mind, he’d been trying to find the right time to ask if this was a date; now he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Either way might be disappointing.

Though as usual, Riley sensed Evan’s distress and bailed him out. They dropped the hockey talk and went into mini-golf, then a detour into pool, and ended the evening with judging what other sports the other would be good at if they’d never played hockey.

“Volleyball,” Riley said. “Tall people play that, right?”

“You’d be great at pickleball,” Evan countered. “Or maybe rugby.”

Riley snapped his fingers and pointed at Evan. “Cheerleading. You’d be a great cheerleader. The one who throws and catches people.”

When they got back to the hotel after being crammed together in a too-small Uber, they went their separate ways. It didn’t feel as much like a date when he ended up alone without so much as a kiss goodnight, but it also felt like the best first date he’d ever had.