Page 11 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 7

Lars

When his phone buzzed, Lars didn’t even look at the name as he picked up. It was 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning; only one person would be calling him.

“ God Morgan , Mormor.” He turned on speakerphone so he could continue mixing his oatmeal. Brown sugar or jam today? Both. Always both.

“Why haven’t you played yet? I want to see you play with this new team.”

“It’s the preseason,” he said patiently. “I haven’t played a full preseason since I was a rookie. I’ll play at the end, I promise.”

She grumbled unintelligibly while he scooped a spoonful of strawberry jam into his bowl. They both knew she knew this, but it was part of the ritual they went through each September. It was her way of leading into whatever she really wanted to say about the team or the league or his upcoming schedule.

“These Blue Crabs don’t have a good record. I don’t know why you picked them. Anders says ego but Amanda thinks it’s the money. Is it good money?”

“It is.” It was actually the same money, since the Crabs had merely absorbed his contract, but that wasn’t relevant. He stirred in two giant spoonfuls of brown sugar more aggressively than necessary as he imagined punching Anders’s stupid face. “It brings me closer to you,” he deflected.

“And your brother, so I know it’s not that.” Then mercifully, she returned to her earlier thoughts. “I watched them play Toronto. Your Crabs didn’t do so bad. They don’t score enough. They should play you.”

“They will.”

“The young players, they are too fancy. They need to settle down.”

“Most won’t be in the lineup in October. They’re being fancy on purpose. They’ll play better when it matters.”

“Every game matters,” she scoffed. “There are some good players, though. The goalie will steal you three games at least. Your defense is good but they will not help you score.”

“Not all defensemen like to play risky,” Lars muttered under his breath.

“Anders is not a bad defenseman because he gets goals. His team likes it. Not everyone plays defense like your father did. The Prowlers relied on the defense scoring, and I’m worried you’re used to that. You’ll have to be mindful of how your style fits into this team, Lillen.”

“I know, I know. It’s coming together in practice.”

She hummed in approval. “Good. I don’t want to see you struggle on a bad team just for more money. I know you, it would frustrate you.”

It probably would. He’d left teams as a kid because of it, though maybe now that he was older?—

The idea of never lifting the Cup again made him grind his teeth. No, he hadn’t grown out of it.

“That Russell,” his grandma said, “he’s a good one, too. He and the goalie are the best so far. Make sure they don’t get sick or injured.”

Lars’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, remembering how much of a jackass he’d been.

Of course Ryan hadn’t said anything about Lars getting his name wrong for two solid weeks. Ryan was a people-pleaser, compulsively nice to a fault. Lars had thought Ryan didn’t like him, that he was an exception to Ryan’s good cheer, but it was actually just Lars being an idiot, calling him the wrong name over and over, and Ryan was too damn nice to say anything and too uncomfortable to be his usual bubbly self.

But they’d cleared the air, had an actual conversation where Lars didn’t feel like Ryan was secretly judging him, and now he could put his strange fixation with Ryan behind him.

Except since Rangoons, he’d been no less drawn to Ryan that he’d been to Brian. Lars still spent too much effort trying to talk to him, especially now that Ryan would give him actual responses instead of one word answers.

“Yes, Ryan is pretty good.” A pause, questions and concerns bubbling up inside him that he’d been ignoring for nearly a month now. “ Is he one of the best on the team?”

“Of course,” his grandma said immediately. “Only you and the goalie are better. He’s not as fast as you, but he looks stronger. And he’s not as fancy, which suits him better. If they don’t make you play, why do they make him play?”

So it wasn’t Lars seeing something that wasn’t there. His grandma hadn’t grown up watching hockey, not even when her daughter had married star defenseman Mats Nilsson, but she’d taken to the sport like it was her job once he and Anders started playing. She kept up with the league and would often talk to Lars about his team and how she thought he was playing. Often she’d spotted some of his injuries before the press, like when he’d played through a sprain in the playoffs three years ago, because she had a good eye.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was her lillen . She probably noticed if he played with a cold.

But the fact that she’d spotted talent in Ryan when the rest of the Blue Crabs—Ryan included—seemed dismissive of his skill meant something, right?

“They don’t seem to think he’s very good,” Lars admitted. “I don’t understand it.”

His grandma was quiet as she considered. “I haven’t paid much attention to him before,” she admitted. “You both have played against him, so if he didn’t make an impression before…” She trailed off and he could imagine her shrugging. “Your team might know something you don’t about him.”

Or maybe they don’t see him clearly, he thought to himself. To his surprise, he actually voiced it and with more annoyance than he’d expected.

“Ha!” his grandma laughed. “You like him. Now I understand. You’re worried you don’t see him clearly.”

He didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know exactly what she meant. “I don’t like him, Mormor,” Lars protested. “He’s a teammate. I can’t like teammates.”

“You can like them, you just shouldn’t pursue them,” she corrected. “Even if he is very handsome.”

“Mormor…”

“You can be friends, though. It would be good for you.”

Lars rolled his eyes and took a big bite of his oatmeal, smacking his lips loudly, to buy himself some time to think. This was an old argument. Most of Lars’s friends were ones he’d made years ago in Sweden from playing together. They were still close, but the friendships were maintained through texts and summer visits. Each season he’d play against a few of them, and that might involve a dinner here and there, but his regular, in-person friendships were…lacking.

He’d had friends on the Prowlers, sort of. Guys he hung out with, like he had with the Blue Crabs at Rangoons, but often it had felt forced. Still, he would’ve gladly talked with any of his old teammates. He was confident they didn’t want to talk to him anymore. After news had gotten out about the trade—released by the media or maybe the coach had told them, Lars had no idea, except that he hadn’t said it—he’d gotten a string of calls he ignored and texts that amounted to variations of “what the fuck.” He’d offered generic apologies with no explanation, and soon the messages had grown sparse. He was unceremoniously removed from the group chat, and that was that.

Undeterred by his silence, she went on. “He would be a good friend. Good players who are underrated, they are hard workers.”

“So he’d be a good influence? I’m not twelve anymore.”

“Are you sure? I see how long your hair’s gotten over the summer. You wore it that way when you were a boy. You need a trim.”

He ran a hand through his hair self-consciously. It was getting a little long, admittedly, but more from neglect than style. “Get a friend. Get a haircut. You have any more advice for me?”

“Get another Cup.” When he laughed, she waited patiently until he’d stopped before she asked, “When do you come to Cincinnati? Amanda said you would come two times during the season instead of one.”

“Not until late October, then again in March, I think.” Lars always took a perverse sort of enjoyment in playing against his brother. He usually played well against Anders, and as a plus he got to see Mormor, Amanda, and the kids. It also left him emotionally and physically drained to put so much of himself into a single game, especially when it was an otherwise completely unremarkable, unimportant game. His teammates on the Prowlers often tried to rile him up more beforehand, which had helped fuel his competitive side…and led to him being way too upset if they lost.

“Hmm, still far away. I’m glad I won’t have to stay up late to watch your games anymore, though. I don’t know why this country needs so many time zones.”

“How are the Otters doing? Have you watched any of Anders’s practices?”

“I don’t tell him what you tell me about your team. I won’t share secrets,” she chided with amusement. “But Anders looks good. I was worried he would want to retire soon, and I don’t know what he’ll do with himself when he does.”

Seven years older, Anders was thirty-two and definitely nearing retirement age. His contract went through the rest of this season and then another two, though Lars suspected he wouldn’t look elsewhere if the Otters didn’t re-sign him; the family was too well settled in Ohio. He also agreed with his grandma: what were the Nilsson men without hockey? Their dad had worried about it, he knew; he just hadn’t gotten far enough to need to figure it out.

“Maybe he’ll coach,” Lars said without much interest. He didn’t much care what Anders did, except that he secretly did, if only because he’d miss their rivalry games.

“The children don’t want to play. He doesn’t want to commentate.”

“He’s boring, anyway.”

She heaved a loud, long suffering sigh. “I feel sorry for you, Lasse. When you realize how mean you have been to your poor brother, you’ll feel terrible.”

Like he hadn’t heard that before. He was pretty sure he was immune to feeling bad for Anders and always would be, but he understood why it upset her so he changed topics. “Did you enter any fantasy hockey leagues this season?”

“Yes, with my cousins. They’ve made some terrible picks,” she said with pure delight, and then explained in detail which of his distant relatives had chosen which of his distant colleagues and how his grandma had contrived to have both Anders and Lars on her team. “ And I got that Russell,” she said conspiratorially. “They won’t see him coming.”