Page 61 of Drop the Gloves

The Motor City Racers were the only thing that stood between them and a flight back to Pittsburgh for the holidays.

The Riveters were restless in the locker room, too focused on their plans with family to have their heads in the game.

Never a good sign, in Evan’s experience, but he couldn’t exactly claim to be doing any better; he caught himself staring at Riley more often than he could reasonably claim was platonic.

On the ice before the game, Evan skated to his and Riley’s usual spot above the left circle.

Not that Riley had engaged in their pre-game ritual lately, but Evan stood vigil on the off chance he’d change his mind.

He stickhandled absentmindedly until there were only a few minutes left on the clock.

He sighed and passed away his puck...and inspiration struck.

He leaned forward a little, resting his hands on his thighs like he would when Riley was about to swing his stick at him.

Then he mimed being hit, staggering forward in the dramatic way Riley sometimes had before hitting the ice.

He twirled in a half-circle on his knees, too nostalgic to care about how ridiculous he must look doing the routine alone.

When he got up, he spotted Riley at the bench, watching him. He stood with one foot on the ice, the other on the bench, as if about to go back into the locker room but had stopped. Had he seen?

Evan skated over faster than he’d ever skated during a warm-up—he didn’t want to risk Riley disappearing down the tunnel—and stopped so hard he sprayed snow across the ice. His mom had sometimes compared him to an overgrown puppy; this was one of the rare times he kind of agreed with her.

“Hi,” he said cheerfully. “Ready to play?”

Riley appraised him, a slow crawl up his body from skates to helmet before he asked, “You doing solo whacks now?”

“Well, my good-luck partner left,” he said. “Guess all the good mojo’s mine tonight.”

Riley smiled, a split second of amusement before he smoothed it out. “We’ll see, Abs. We’ll see.”

The Racers seemed to be experiencing the same lethargy as the Riveters.

It was a dull game to watch, and that included when Evan was actively playing.

No one seemed to be trying, and both teams mustered up a combined and pitiful total of seven shots on goal in the first period.

It had the feel of an exhibition match or a pre-season game, and it wasn’t easy to break out of that mentality.

Coach Jack stood in the middle of the locker room, hands in his pockets as he chewed gum and considered what to say.

Evan expected to get chewed out for their lackluster performance, but he calmly said, “You think I want to be in Detroit today? My kids are at home, setting up the Christmas tree and baking cookies, and I’m stuck here watching this piss-poor attempt at a hockey game.

You wanna go home with a win, or do you want to end the year with a loss?

Figure it out, exploit the Racers’ laziness, and put some pucks in the net. ”

“The goalie has faced no shots,” Vassiliev said conspiratorially. Only mostly true: the Riveters had put up three so far. “He’s not warmed up anymore. We fire everything and something goes in, yes?”

“Were you not shooting the puck?” Riley asked in mock offense. “Some of us have been trying to score the whole time.”

“You don’t even look awake out there,” Vassiliev snapped back. “Not a single hit! Did you forget how to play hockey?”

“You want me to shoot, or you want me to hit?”

“You always do both!”

“And you haven’t been doing either!”

Well, Evan thought, at least they’re fired up.

Just wish it weren’t at each other.

In the second period, they got hemmed into the defensive zone for a good forty seconds.

Evan’s legs were burning, and all he wanted was to get off the ice.

When one of their defensemen managed to lob it through the air over everyone’s heads and out to center, that was what Evan planned to do.

..until he saw Riley sprinting out for the loose puck.

Sensing a chance, Evan and Vassiliev went with him. Riley knocked the puck away from one defender and went down ice one-on-one with the other.

“Hey!” Evan called, banging his stick on the ice to get Riley’s attention. “Drop!”

Without looking, Riley left the puck for Evan and drew the defenseman away.

Evan came in, ready to take a shot when the other defenseman came out of nowhere and did a diving slide in front of Evan as the goalie squared up.

Evan grabbed the puck, wondering if he should still shoot—there was no chance it was going in—and in that split second, he saw a white jersey out of the corner of his eye.

Taking a chance, he passed the puck over to what he hoped was a Riveter.

There was barely time to see it was Vassiliev before he shot into the wide open net.

Tic-Tac-Toe. Riley to Evan to Vassiliev. Perfect line chemistry at work.

“Oh thank fuck,” Evan said. If they’d messed this up, he had zero energy to regain possession of the puck or help on defense. He and Riley hit Vassiliev at the same time, followed by the defensemen.

“No kisses,” Vassiliev said with a laugh. He knocked Evan and then Riley on the heads. “But good work.”

“I know, I know,” Evan said. “Saving it for the Cup.”

They skated down the bench for fistbumps and finally, finally got to sit down.

“We were dead if you didn’t score that,” Riley said. “I was about to lie down there on the ice and take a nap.”

“You were the idiot who chased the puck when we should have changed,” Vassiliev said. “If you were tired, you should have gone to the bench.”

“You don’t sound very grateful for that goal I got you.”

“I said good work! You want a thank-you card?”

“Yeah, actually. I’ll give you my address.”

Evan hid his amusement behind his water bottle.

Their goal woke up both teams a bit, and it started to resemble an NHL game again.

Both goalies were putting on a masterclass of glove saves and toe kicks that would look great on their highlight reels.

Evan prayed the other team’s goalie would slip up, because a one-goal lead was an uncomfortable way to play.

It made him tense, like any mistake could be disastrous and cost them the game.

In a lot of ways it was harder than when they were down, because the coaches shortened the bench when they needed to score and put the third and fourth lines out less, meaning it was less likely Evan would be the reason they lost.

With a lead, everyone got shifts. Equal opportunity to fuck things up.

They lined up for a neutral zone face-off.

Evan was running through options—win it back and hope the defense got it but risk giving the other team the zone, or win it forward out of danger but limit the chances that they’d get possession, or tie it up and let someone else make the decision—when he felt a weight on his shoulder.

“Evan.”

His name went through him like a lightning bolt.

“Relax,” Riley said. “You’re gonna break your stick if you grip it any harder. It’s fine. We’re winning.” He patted Evan’s chest, right on the Riveters’ logo. “Chill. You’ve got this.”

As far as pep talks went, it wasn’t much, but it did the trick. Evan shook his head to clear the last of his doubts and squared up. He won the face-off to Pope, and the game was on.

It was two shifts later that they were able to break through again.

It was a partial line change, with Evan and Riley out with Woodward.

Vassiliev was a great winger, and Evan enjoyed playing with him, but Woodward’s ability to stay calm under pressure was next level.

He dangled repeatedly through the Racers’ defense, buying time for Riley and Evan to get open.

Riley, being Riley, started a shoving match with a defenseman just outside of the crease.

A loud shoving match, with Riley yelling all sorts of obscenities that would be a lot more enjoyable to listen to if Evan weren’t trying so damn hard to make space.

Eventually, Woodward’s slow crawl through the zone seemed to piss off the defender covering Evan, and he went to double-team Woodward to get the puck back.

Woodward must have eyes in the back of his head, because as soon as Evan had breathing room, he sent Evan a beautiful pass through everyone.

Wide open, Evan took a one-timer and hoped it was on net.

It was on net. The puck slid beneath the goalie’s arm on the blocker side and hit the inner post before lodging itself in the back of the net.

“Wow,” Evan mumbled.

“Abs!” Woodward grabbed him in a hug, tried to pick him up, and gave up when he remembered Evan was bigger than him. “Beautiful shot. Way to go, kid.”

Riley was next, colliding into his back. “I told you!” he said over and over again. “I told you! I fucking told you!”

Evan turned, mouth going dry when he saw how excited Riley looked.

He wanted to lean down and kiss his cheek, but he’d already been warned about kisses after Vassiliev’s goal.

Besides, Riley hadn’t been the one to pass to him; he’d have to kiss Woodward’s cheek too, and he didn’t think he could pull that off the same way Riley could.

Instead, he settled for fistbumping Riley and saying, “Your turn. Third line’s all scoring tonight.”

Vassiliev echoed the sentiment several times on the bench and then during the second intermission, outlining all the ways they were going to get Riley a goal.

Some of them were as simple as ‘pass Riley the puck’ and others were more outlandish, like getting him the puck behind the net so he could get a Michigan goal, or Riley scoring while lying on the ice.

But the details didn’t matter much: their only game plan for the third period was to get Riley Barczyk on the board and solidify their line’s success to end the calendar year.