Page 6 of Drop the Gloves
The pre-season came and went in a whirlwind.
It felt great to get back on the ice with his team, to hear the fans cheering them on again.
He wasn’t as much in shape as he’d like, and he was thankful for that because while he was struggling through the burn in his legs, he couldn’t focus on the fact that Riley Barczyk was his right wing.
When he did make the mistake of thinking about it, well, then he made sloppy plays.
Like a bad pass to Barczyk against the Brooklyn Bootleggers that led to a turnover and a goal the other way.
Or the flubbed shot after Barczyk set him up beautifully in front of the net. Evan had looked up, recognized it was Barczyk curling out from behind the net because he was chewing on his stupid mouthguard, and messed up what should’ve been an easy backdoor goal.
Or the time he lost a face-off because all he could hear was Barczyk to his right, chirping the winger on the Buffalo Bears about a stain on his jersey.
Worst was the time he skated directly into Barczyk in the neutral zone because he’d been too busy thinking that he forgot to just play.
“Jesus, Abs,” Barczyk grumbled on the bench after the collision. “You like 250 pounds? Like running into a brick wall.”
“220 pounds,” Evan said self-consciously, more embarrassed about his mistake than his weight.
“What are you, Barzy?” Woodward teased. “A buck thirty?”
Barczyk threw his head back and cackled. “Look at this guy,” he said, jabbing Woodward with his elbow. “Fucking clown. I’ll have you know I’m 175 pounds, thank you.”
This got all the guys laughing. If true, that would put Barczyk a good ten pounds under their next smallest player, one of the rookies who was at least taller than Barczyk though not leaner.
“You’re like a chihuahua,” Pope said. “Small, mean, and loud as fuck.”
Evan thought the comparison was pretty on the nose, but Barczyk scoffed. “I ain’t mean. I’m a nice guy, honest. Just not to anyone wearing something other than green and yellow.”
By the time they reached Toronto, Evan had locked in enough that he was playing actual hockey with only the occasional Barczyk-related hiccup.
He still made poor plays that the coaches chewed him out for, but they were infrequent enough that they didn’t connect them with Barczyk.
It was a blessing and a curse that they hadn’t.
He secretly hoped they’d notice the bad line chemistry and make a change, but that would require there to actually be a problem: they had a decent number of goals for and few against. It might not be ideal for Evan, but he couldn’t deny it was working.
Or at least…working well enough.
“You hesitate a lot,” Barczyk said in the locker room after their game against the Toronto Terrors.
They’d lost 3-2 in a shootout. Evan hadn’t scored, but his cousin had in the shootout; he’d have to remember to text him about it.
They’d made a bet at lunch earlier about who’d get the most points, and he now owed his cousin a pack of beer that he’d have to pay up on when the Terrors came to town in November.
Evan tensed. “What do you mean?” He knew exactly what Barczyk meant.
“On the ice.” He still had his gear on from the waist down; from the waist up he was naked, a gold necklace of large interlocking chains dangling around his neck highlighting the smooth planes of his chest. His hair, normally a wild mess of curls, was sweat-damp and clung to his forehead. “You hesitate.”
Fuck. It was true, and while a lot of it currently was Barczyk-related, Evan couldn’t blame all of it on him.
He did hesitate whenever he got the chance to check.
When he was in the zone, he played hard and didn’t try to avoid big hits…
but then he’d hit someone, and it would look like it hurt.
Evan knew he was a big guy—his mom often said watching him play was like watching a tiger cub trying to play with house cats, unaware of his size and strength—and he didn’t want to injure anyone, a sentiment that had crystalized even more after his injury last season.
After those bigger hits, he would find himself slowing down before making contact, never quite following through and going too easy on opponents, especially if he’d already made contact with them that game.
It had on a couple of unfortunate occasions resulted in the other team scoring.
But that was a can of worms Evan didn’t want to get into, period.
He 100% didn’t want to get into it with Barczyk, the last guy on the planet who’d understand.
Barczyk didn’t play easy on anyone ever, as evidenced by how rough he’d played this pre-season.
It was the fucking pre-season, and they were both players with rostered spots (read: absolutely nothing to prove), and he’d gotten into three fights so far.
Three! That was more than Evan had in his whole career!
(Easy enough, since Evan had exactly zero career fights.)
So instead, he pulled the one thread that would look the least bad and might seem the most relatable.
“My cousin’s on the Terrors,” he said apologetically.
Barczyk considered this. “So you were going easy on him?” he asked skeptically.
“Probably?” Evan admitted. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt, but I really don’t want to hurt him.”
“You’re so Canadian.” Barczyk said it like an accusation. He bent over to untie his skates, exposing his back and a purple bruise on his ribs.
“Thank you?”
“If I had family in the league, I’d be more like the Nilssons.
Those boys know you can’t give family an inch or they’ll take a mile.
My sis plays hockey, but I always played with her.
Always got pissy when I wouldn’t pass to her, though.
My other siblings play lacrosse, and my cousins all play rugby and soccer.
If they played hockey, we’d fucking murder each other on the ice.
” Barczyk said this with a kind of manic delight that implied he in fact wished it were true because he’d like nothing more.
“Oh,” Evan said, because he really didn’t know how to respond to that. It was probably in the league’s best interest that the rest of the Barczyk clan had gravitated to other sports.
“Who’s your cousin?” Barczyk asked. “Auchter? He’s big too. Canadian, I think. Played against him in Juniors. Helluva shot.”
“Yeah.” He was surprised Barczyk had guessed.
It wasn’t something that Evan hid or anything, but he didn’t typically talk about his family within the league.
There were four of them currently, all spread across North America.
It was a little surreal that he was talking about this with Barczyk of all people when he hadn’t discussed it with the guys on the team he considered friends. “He does have a good shot.”
“And like I said, he’s big. He can take you hitting him, promise. But it’s not just tonight. You hesitate all the time. This a new thing or…?”
Evan’s cheeks burned. “I—”
Barczyk leaned forward and smacked Evan’s thigh.
It kinda hurt. “Here’s a secret for ya. It’s hockey.
You’re gonna hit people, and they’re gonna hit you back.
If you walk away from a game without a few bruises, did you even really play?
” He paused as if he expected Evan to answer, but then kept going.
“If someone can’t handle it when you knock ‘em over or rough ‘em up, then that’s a them-problem. We’re all adults.
You gotta learn to shake that shit off.”
Aaaand it was over, that brief moment of camaraderie between them.
As friendly as Barczyk was with his teammates, he really didn’t give a shit about anyone else.
And apparently Evan’s inability to let go of his injury was a poor reflection on him instead of a sign that Barczyk played a dangerous game and didn’t care about collateral damage.
“Right,” Evan said stiffly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He really would, though not for any of the reasons Barczyk might assume.
Barczyk nodded approvingly and stood up. He shimmied out of his hockey pants, and Evan took that as a cue the conversation was over; he looked away so he wouldn’t get an eyeful of Barczyk’s jock.
It wasn’t over.
“I can do some checking drills with you, if you want,” Barczyk offered. “When we get back home. Some easy ones just to get you to follow through with your hits. We can use some of those big pylon dummy-things if you don’t wanna hit a person.”
Evan’s head snapped back. Barczyk’s crotch was unfortunately eye level, and he had to quickly look up. He was so flustered he stuttered, “Uhm, I guess…maybe…it’s not a big deal—”
“Cool,” Barczyk said, thankfully not looking at Evan as he then pulled off his hockey shorts and tossed them into his bag.
“I’ll set it up when we’re back home. See you on the bus.
” Then he grabbed a towel and walked his naked ass toward the showers.
Evan was so stunned that he couldn’t help it…
he looked, realized he was staring at Riley Barczyk’s ass, and quietly turned away.
What the fuck just happened?