Page 18 of Drop the Gloves
“Get over here.You’re third star.”
Evan stood there dumbly.“What?”
“You’re the third star of the game,” Coach repeated wryly.“You go on first.C’mon, kid.They’re about to call it.Don’t worry, they’ll give you a puck.Just throw it to the fans and smile.You’ll be fine.”
“Oh.”He’d never been one of the three stars of the game.And to think he got it forthatfight.He trudged back, wondering what his mom and his friends back home would say about all this.
He waved to the fans, threw the puck to a couple of kids by the penalty box, and disappeared off the ice as soon as he was allowed.
When he stepped into the locker room, the team erupted in cheers.
“I didn’t even score,” Evan muttered when he sat down at his stall.Not that he didn’t enjoy or want the praise—he really,reallydid—but he hadn’t earned it.He hadn’t done anything, except lose.
That didn’t seem to matter, though: he was the hero of the hour.As the team got undressed, showered, and went through their various post-game routines, Evan kept getting pats on the back, noogies, and whoops of encouragement from everyone, the coaches included.It was weirdly gratifying, like instead of completing fucking things up, he’d done something right.Surreal, since as far as he was concerned, it had been the least hockey-thing he’d ever done.
Fighting’s part of hockey,a voice that sounded suspiciously like Barczyk whispered.Can’t ignore it just because you don’t like it.
Evan mulled it over on his drive home, then dreamed of fighting a hundred Smiths while Barczyk coached him from the sidelines.Strangely, it wasn’t a nightmare.
10
Despite gettingthe Third Star against the Pythons, the achievement was short-lived.Evan had a mediocre game against the Tennessee Outlaws and was falling behind in practice.
He needed to get out of his own head.This checking and fighting garbage, the Barczyk stuff, it was throwing his game off.It was small enough right now for him to fix it.He just needed to make the effort and stop it from getting out of hand.
Pretty much everyone on the team had their coping mechanisms.For Moreau and Doyle, it was recreational drinking (with whiskey being their preferred drink); Kates, Antonov, and Farrell had established a video game club where they played Mario Kart religiously on road trips; a lot of them used exercise; Lawson had taken up knitting when his daughter was born and routinely made whole scarfs on plane rides.
For Evan?He had a very specific way of detoxing from hockey.
“Hey, Dalty,” Evan said after practice a couple days after the Outlaws game.“You feeling putt-y?”
Dalton’s eyes lit up.“Hell yeah, bro.”He offered a fistbump to Evan, which he gladly accepted.“Wanna grab dinner too?It’s my cheat day, and I could really go for a milkshake.”
“Sure.”He frowned.“Your dinner isn’t going to be just milkshakes, right?”
“No,” Dalton scoffed.“...maybe.”
Evan thought over their options.There was a new place he’d been meaning to check out, just to be thorough in his mini-golf of Pittsburgh knowledge, that was inside a bar/restaurant.
“You wanna go to that new fancy place in the Strip?”he asked.“They might have milkshakes.”
“Milkshakes?”
Both turned to see Barczyk walking behind them to the parking lot.“What’s this about milkshakes?And putty?Doesn’t sound healthy, guys.”
Dalton laughed, like a traitor.“Not putty, putty.Putt putt.Like, mini-golf.”He hooked a thumb at Evan.“Abs here loves it.We go a couple of times a season.Wanna come?”
Actually, traitor was too nice of a word for Edward Dalton.Maybe his middle name was Judas.
“Mini-golf?”Barczyk gave Evan a look like he was reevaluating everything he knew about him.“I don’t want to intrude.”
Good, Evan thought, but he would never in a million years be rude enough to say it out loud.
“Nah, bro,” Dalton said.“The more the merrier.And maybe if you come, I might not lose every round.”
Barczyk didn’t take his eyes off Evan.“Abs is that good, huh?”
“Real good.Understands the angles and how hard to hit and all that.I don’t think he’s ever done a course over par, even when he’s never been there before.”
