Page 1 of The Trade Deadline

Ryan

Ryan should’ve gone home when his team was eliminated.

It’d been an honor to participate as a member of Team USA in the World Junior Championship and represent his country. He’d secretly hoped to be selected and worried he wouldn’t make the cut—there was a lot of young American talent and he knew the coaches tended to favor some of his compatriots more than him—and he’d been very openly stoked to get the call. He’d gotten to center the second line, play on the Penalty Kill, and even gotten a shift on the second Power Play unit (not his forte at all, but he enjoyed the opportunity). It’d been amazing, a real dream come true to play hockey at this level.

Except that they’d sucked.

Hard.

Despite a team of undeniably skilled players, Team USA had barely managed to cobble together two whole wins. On paper they were fantastic; on the ice they were a mess. No line chemistry, a new system to learn, coaches who didn’t make adjustments when things weren’t working, unnecessary favoritism, and stacked competition that didn’t have any of their internal issues. Ryan would take his two goals, three assists, and perfect PK record and go home happy.

Most of his teammates hadn’t had the same attitude. They’d seen only the failures and been too frustrated to stay. They’d packed their bags, maybe said goodbyes, and hightailed it back to the States.

On some level, he got it. A lot of them would probably get invites to Olympic teams later in their careers. This was just a disappointment they’d rather put behind them; they were already looking ahead to the next big thing. Ryan wouldn’t get those future invites. He’d made this team because of the age restriction, period. On a team open to all American-born players, old and young, he would never make the list. So he’d stayed in Switzerland to prolong the experience for a few more days. He’d watched the other teams compete for medals, enjoyed the excellent fitness facility, and basically just soaked it all in.

And now, as he stood awkwardly in the corner of a hotel lobby where Team Sweden was celebrating their gold medal victory over Team Canada, he almost wished he’d left.

It was just embarrassing to have to constantly a.) explain who he was (big bruise to his ego to realize only a handful of people remembered him) and b.) justify his continued existence as an American.

“Who are you again?”

“Didn’t you guys get knocked out, like, a week ago?”

“Oh! We played you guys. Don’t remember you.”

And a series of similar comments in Russian and Swedish that were likely just as disparaging as the ones from the Canadians. The only people who vaguely remembered him were ones he’d seen at clinics and exhibition games back home, which would be fine except he knew just about everyone here. Their names and their backgrounds, their position, and, for the centers at least, he knew if they were a righty or lefty. He knew them…and he was invisible.

As he stewed in self-pity and nursed an awful-tasting beer (why did adults drink this stuff? gross), he watched the easy camaraderie between the other players with an envy that almost hurt.

“You’re American, right?”

Ryan jumped at the sound of a deep voice to his left. He managed not to drop his beer as he turned to find himself face to face with none other than Lars Nilsson, star center for Team Sweden. Ryan hadn’t seen him up close—their teams didn’t face each other in the round robin and luckily they hadn’t been stomped by Team Sweden on their path to gold—but he recognized the long blond hair and intense blue eyes.

“Uh, yeah,” he finally said. “I’m American.”

Lars nodded, cheeks rosy and gaze a little glassy. He had a plastic cup in his hand filled with an alarmingly pink drink. “I love Americans,” he purred as he stepped closer. “Very hot, and not as stuck up as people say they are.”

“Uhm…” Ryan instinctively tried to back up, hit the wall, and then just about short-circuited when he realized his and Lars’s chests were brushing together. In the middle of a lobby of other hockey players. Most of them were as drunk as Lars, but there would be enough sober and, more importantly, enough bigoted ones that their proximity could make things…uncomfortable. “Thanks?” he managed, then tried to step away from Lars crowding him into the corner. “You guys played really well that last game. I was a little worried for you after you went down in the first but?—”

Lars cut him off. “It was a very good game,” he agreed dismissively. “Why are you hiding over here? Come meet my teammates and have some fun. We can find you a better drink than” —he reached out and took the lukewarm bottle from his hand, his face wrinkling at the German name— “whatever this is.”

Ryan had finally put a foot of space between them. “Look, I don’t?—”

“I’m Lars, by the way.” He shuffled both their drinks to his left hand so he could offer his right.

“I know who you are,” Ryan muttered but shook his hand. “I’m Ryan.”

“Well, Ryan. Let me get you a better drink.” He never gave Ryan a chance to refuse, taking their joined hands and leading him to the bar. They weaved easily through the crowd, mostly because everyone recognized Lars and stepped out of his way. Oh sure, there were plenty of congratulations and pats on the back, but they must’ve seen Lars was on a mission because no one stopped them until they’d reached the bar.

“Two strawberry daiquiris,” Lars said with a wide, pleased smile that made Ryan think he must’ve garbled the word “daiquiri” on earlier orders. “Extra rum.”

Ryan didn’t remember how to talk until the drink was placed in his hand, a plastic cup with a bright orange straw, and Lars grinning stupidly at him.

“Thanks, but I don’t, uh…” He blushed, fully aware there was no way to say he was too young to drink back home so he'd never had rum without completely embarrassing himself. “Cheers,” he mumbled instead and held up the cup. He was already feeling the half a beer he’d drunk, too; this was such a bad idea.

“Sk?l!” Lars knocked their cups together so roughly Ryan almost lost his grip, then the Swede very happily threw back the cup and drank half of it in one go.

Belatedly, Ryan took a sip of his own drink and winced at the too-sweet flavor.

“Good, right?” There was a dimple on one side when he smiled, giving him a mischievous, boyish look.

“Mmm,” Ryan said noncommittally. It was definitely a drink. With alcohol. Given the state of the other players and their growing entourage of fans, that seemed to be enough. Maybe he should go to his room before things got too rowdy. Ryan wasn’t a partier and he didn’t really have anything to celebrate. The last thing he needed was a hangover right before going home and getting jetlagged. “Look, thanks but?—”

“You’re very handsome.”

Ryan’s brain momentarily shut off. He didn’t just hear that, right?

“This whole place is full of handsome guys.” Lars gestured with a sweeping hand across the lobby, almost smacking a painting off the wall. “And you’re still the handsomest here.”

Okay, so he’d definitely heard correctly. He gulped and stared at Lars with wide eyes.

For the first time since Lars had rescued him from the corner, he frowned. “Oh,” he said sheepishly. “Are you not gay? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. I got ahead of myself and?—”

“You aren’t wrong,” Ryan interrupted and holy shit , where did that come from? How strong was the rum if he was openly admitting this to a stranger in the middle of a crowded lobby like it wasn’t a piece of himself he completely ignored most of the time? “I mean,” he said in a rush, “I’m not, like, completely gay. Mostly gay. Kinda gay. Gay enough?”

God he was an idiot.

Lars looked relieved. “Phew! It wouldn’t be the first time I made an ass of myself, but honestly I don’t think I’d ever be more disappointed than if I found out you were straight.” He gave Ryan an appreciative once over. “What a waste if you were.”

This was surreal. One of the top NHL prospects, a World Juniors gold medalist, a complete charmer (apparently) and hottie (confirmed), was hitting on him of all people. A nobody from a losing team who hoped to get drafted before the last round. Weird that this would be the highlight of his time in Switzerland, but he’d take it.

“Yeah?” Ryan tried a shy smile. He wasn’t good at flirting. Hell, his few one night stands had been from women (and one memorable guy) aggressively taking the lead after meeting him at a rink. Puck bunnies who didn’t care if Ryan was an awkward, uncharismatic, sweaty mess.

The point was, he had no fucking clue what he was doing.

Lars didn’t seem to mind. He slung his free arm over Ryan’s shoulders. “Definitely. I have a nice room. No roommate. Good bed, very comfortable. Very big. Room for one more.”

He could smell strawberry on Lars’s breath, strangely inviting. With him pressed against his side, Ryan wondered if he’d taste like daiquiris too. He licked his lips. This was probably a bad idea, long term. Aside from getting off tonight and having some fun to bookend his trip, he didn’t see any good coming from this hookup.

“I— I don’t— Uhm, maybe—” he stuttered. Why did he have to be such a dork?

“If you don’t want to,” Lars said seriously (if not quite soberly), “then we can stay down here and enjoy the festivities.” He leaned impossibly closer, his lips brushing Ryan’s ear as he whispered, “But I promise to make it worth your while. I’m very good.”

Ryan whimpered. He hoped the music and chatter were too loud for Lars to hear him, but then he chuckled, a low rumble Ryan felt more than heard, and he knew there was no point in denying it. “I want to,” he managed. “To go upstairs. With you.”

Lars winked at him and pulled him towards the elevator. Ryan looked around, saw no one was paying them any attention, and figured to hell with it. He wanted to find out what Lars Nilsson tasted like, consequences be damned.