Page 16 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 11

Lars

Beer with Ryan was a bad idea.

Not because anything happened or Lars did anything stupid, but because Ryan was really cute when he was relaxed. Clearly a lightweight, he’d been happily chatty after only a few sips. If Lars was looking to overcome a crush on him, seeing him waving his hands animatedly talking about his volunteer work with children was not the way to do it.

But he was trying to be friends with him, so the outing had been a success on that front. Now they had their own text chat.

thanks for the beer.

anytime you need another player to help, let me know

but my price might go up to two beers

as long as I don't have to drink any of them

lassie

Lasse

Lasse??

so not like the dog

no.

He’d left it at that, satisfied that he’d opened things up and even gotten Ryan to call him Lasse. Granted, he would’ve preferred to hear it in Ryan’s alcohol-warmed voice, but he wasn’t complaining.

When the Mites team posted pictures of the practice and tagged them, Lars saved the one of him and Ryan talking at center ice. Ryan looked confident and content; Lars looked completely smitten.

* * *

His shoulder hurt. It wasn’t an actual injury (he hoped). Some bruising from an awkward fall after a hit. He’d have to sleep on his left side for a bit. The real trouble was that it made it harder to shoot. He winced on every follow through, the pain enough that he hesitated with every shot, opting to pass even when it was the worse play.

Lars’s struggles weren’t isolated: the whole team was struggling tonight. A few mistakes early in the game quickly spiraled into sloppy play after sloppy play. The game was a disaster, already a 1-5 loss that hopefully wouldn’t get worse.

It did get worse. With less than a minute left in the game, Pavel the defenseman lost an edge when he dove to keep the puck in the zone. It led to a 2-on-0 that, despite an inhuman effort from Vorny, resulted in another goal. It didn’t help that they were playing New York, a divisional matchup that they’d probably regret come April. There were a lot of slumped shoulders and downcast gazes as they marched back to the locker room, Lars included.

“ Tja, det s?g ,” he muttered under his breath. By the time he finished changing and got home, he was sure the loss wouldn’t sting, but he hadn’t much enjoyed it.

“What’s that?” Jake asked as he took a seat next to him.

“That sucked,” Lars clarified.

“I thought New York was at the bottom of the league,” someone muttered. Bad timing, because that was when Coach Thompkins stormed in, looking like he wanted to murder someone. Possibly all of them.

“They are bottom of the league,” Coach Thompkins gritted out. He wasn’t yelling, his tone perfectly controlled yet sharp as a knife; no, there wouldn’t be any yelling, but he wasn’t going to be gentle as he dressed them down, either. “So what does that make us, huh?”

Everyone awkwardly looked anywhere but at Thompkins. Lars personally hated when coaches did this. They all knew they fucked up, and no doubt each of them could name at least one way they personally had contributed to the loss. Shaming them all after the game was over wouldn’t help rally them and help them get a win next time. In his experience, it only served to let the coach vent his frustrations. To actually help the team, talking to them one-on-one or drafting drills to work on their weaknesses was more effective.

Not that Lars would ever say that out loud. He wasn’t willing to get reamed for his opinion in addition to his poor play.

“A loss I can handle,” Thompkins continued. “Losses are part of the game. But I expect us to at least be in the games we lose. We haven’t been in this game since halfway through the first. That loss was a collective effort. This team absolutely stank out there tonight. Not a single one of you?—”

“Vorny only let in six on what must’ve been forty shots,” Lars blurted out. Oh. Shit. So he was willing to get reamed for his opinion. He silently cursed himself but made eye contact with Vorny before turning back to Thompkins. “We let him down.”

Thompkins looked surprised by the interruption. “Well,” he said awkwardly, eyes darting to Vorny before fixing back on Lars. Goalies were a special case, and coaches didn’t like to put too much blame on them. You could praise them for a win, but not crucify them for a loss; it got in their heads way more than other players. Put on the spot, Thompkins didn’t seem eager to draw attention to his goaltender’s play. “Vorny I can talk to later about his play. Still, not a single one of the rest of you?—”

“RJ’s line pretty much single-handedly killed five penalties for us,” Lars said. A hush fell over the locker room, everyone’s expression shocked that Lars a) had managed to interrupt once and go unscathed and b) was dumb enough to push his luck a second time. No one said anything. No one moved. Even Coach Thompkins stood there speechless as he processed what was happening. So Lars, seeing as he was in trouble anyway, went on. “RJ even shut down that 5-on-3 in the second with a broken stick and five blocked shots, then kicked it clear. Highlight reel penalty killing. And he probably led the team in shots. Definitely led centers in face-off wins. He got our only goal, and?—”

“I got it,” Coach Thompkins snapped; Lars obediently shut his mouth, but he didn’t look away. He was right and he knew it. The team undervalued Ryan’s efforts, and Lars was, quite frankly, sick of it. Maybe they needed Lars saying it a bunch of times before they could actually see it for themselves. “Anything else you wanna add, Nilsson?”

“No,” he said. “The rest of us were terrible.”

There was a tense moment of silence as Thompkins glared at Lars, hands on his hips and expression calculating. “Vorny, good game,” he said. “RJ, good game. You two can take tomorrow off. The rest of you I’m skating so damn hard you’ll wish we were doing suicides.” Then he turned and stormed out of the room, the other coaches on his heels.

As soon as the door swung shut behind him, the tension broke.

“Holy fuck ,” Bergsy said. “Is that what being a superstar lets you do? Tell off your coach?”

“The balls on this guy,” Jake said, nudging him with his elbow. “If I give you fifty bucks, will you stick up for me next time we’re getting told off?”

Lars raised an eyebrow. “I’ll do it for free when your play warrants it.”

Jake made a dramatic face. “Fair. I was not having a good night out there.” There was a moment of hesitation, and then Jake seemed to remember the C on his sweater; he turned to Ryan. “You did pretty good out there, RJ,” he acknowledged. “Nice job.”

Ryan looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor as he mumbled, “Sorry we left you out to dry, Vorny.”

Vorny made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Not your fault. Nilsy is right, you were the only one being useful on those kills.”

“Excuse you?” said Rupert Swanson, one of the defensemen. “I cleared it like ten times.”

“After RJ won it right to you. And don’t think I forgot that screen on their third goal.” Rupert put up his hands in surrender. Vorny turned back to Ryan. “It’d have been a ten-goal loss if you weren’t there,” he said, “so I appreciate you helping make sure my numbers didn’t tank.”

“I got you,” RJ said. Apparently Vorny’s was the only praise he could handle, and even that he took too seriously. “I don’t know that it’s as bad as it looked on the scoreboard.”

“It was,” Lars said. He’d finally gotten his shoulder pads off and he winced. Maybe he should ice it before he went home. “It wasn’t the first time and won’t be the last time we’ve sucked, but we definitely sucked.”

“Welcome to the Blue Crabs.” Tomas, his left wing, stood and patted Lars on the shoulder, right where it hurt. “This is what a non-playoff bound team looks like.”

“That’s what a non-playoff bound attitude sounds like,” Jake shot back with a scowl. “We’re just as good as anybody else out there.”

“Except New York, apparently,” someone mumbled.

“Just tonight. We come back from this, and we beat ‘em next time,” Jake insisted. Lars could see why he was captain and not Tomas; a team’s mentality and morale were fickle, and good leadership could keep them solid even in the face of bad losses.

The team grumbled some more as they cleared out, mostly deflated but not seeming to let the setback settle in. By the time Lars had showered and seen the medical staff, there wasn’t anyone left puttering about. He found himself disappointed that he couldn’t follow up with Ryan, because he wasn’t sure that he’d believed Lars’s honest praise, but he wasn’t surprised. There was no reason to linger, especially if Lars hadn’t asked him to wait for him.

Ask him to wait for me. He scoffed at himself. What possible excuse could he even give to make that request reasonable?

Because he was expecting nothing except leftovers and watching Netflix until he fell asleep, he didn’t check his phone until his dinner was in the microwave. He was unsurprised to find a emoji from his sister-in-law (he responded with ?♂?) and was delighted to see there were messages from Ryan waiting for him.

thanks for what you said in the locker room

you didn’t have to and i appreciate it

hope the shoulder’s okay looked like a bad hit

my shoulder will be fine

and i did have to say it.

it’s true and they need to hear it

you’re a great center.

unfortunate, because if you were a winger we’d be leading the league in points rn

He put his phone aside so he could relocate to his sofa with his dinner, seltzer water, and Advil. All of his things had arrived safely, and over the last month or so he’d slowly unpacked and gotten everything in a semblance of order. There weren’t any boxes anymore, anyway, except for the Prowlers mementos he refused to look at. Maybe after a few years when he’d finished processing what had happened (and wasn’t pissed off about it), he’d hang some of them up next to his Fr?lunda and Team Sweden memorabilia. Maybe being the key word.

As he settled in and waited for Netflix to load, he unlocked his phone to set an alarm—he fully expected to fall asleep on his sofa—when he saw Ryan had responded.

feel free to change positions whenever.

you’d probably make a great left wing

better than Tomas what was that attitude

To his delight, he saw Ryan immediately respond.

lots of snark. always quick to whine

but doesn’t like to own his mistakes.

glad I’m not centering him this year

sorry not sorry

and thanks again, if only because I don’t

have to skate at practice tomorrow

The Netflix music played. Lars didn’t even glance up.

you’re still going to skate at practice tomorrow aren’t you

He couldn’t imagine Ryan skipping an optional skate unless he was sick or injured. That was probably why he was the capable player he was and others…well, others weren’t as capable.

probably but I don’t *have* to

just be ready to call a medic for me after Coach skates me into cardiac arrest

I’m rooting for you

Get some sleep, it’s your only hope

Bruises and bad game aside, Lars was pretty happy with how the night had gone.

* * *

Lars skated aimlessly around the ice before warm-ups, mentally bracing for a rough practice when he was already tired and hurting. He knew from experience that long-term, it would make him a better player; short-term, he was going to need a nap.

Coach Thompkins blew a whistle as he stepped onto the ice, the shrill sound shattering the fragile calm. Everyone winced and followed him to the benches. Lars took a knee up front—no point in hiding, and it might be the last time he got to sit for the next two hours—and met Thompkins’ hard expression. Thompkins didn’t look angry like he had the previous night, but there was a determination there that meant he had by no means forgotten how the Crabs had performed…or that Lars had challenged him in front of the team. Before he could open his mouth to speak, though, the door to the rink opened and two late arrivals joined them.

First came Vorny, skating lazily towards them with an air of a man gracing them with his presence; next came Ryan, dutifully closing the door behind them and quietly blending in with the back of the team.

Thompkins eyebrows rose as he watched them, and he almost smiled. “Well, that actually works out well,” he said. “We’re trying some new lines today. Given how badly we did last night, I looked over our performance so far this season to see if we can get better line chemistry going. New first line for today: RJ centering Soups and Jordy. Second line: Nilsy centering Laurie and Novs. Third line…” When he was done, he looked over the team. “Any problems?” They shook their heads. Apparently not getting the answer he wanted, Thompkins turned to Lars. “You good with those lines?”

Lars shrugged. He’d very rarely been demoted a line during his professional career, and it had always been warranted. It’d also never lasted long: he knew he was better than he’d played last night, Thompkins knew it, the whole team knew it. Once he showed it, he’d be back up. Or not. Ryan was good, too. He was happy Ryan would get the chance to show it, both to the team and (perhaps more importantly) to himself.

“Whatever you say, Coach,” he said nonchalantly. He wasn’t thrilled with the change (Tomas? really? after Ryan’s warning, he wasn’t sure he’d like that matchup), but he was a big boy. He’d deal.

“Good,” Thompkins snapped, though he looked relieved that they wouldn’t have to hash things out. “Line ‘em up. We’ve got work to do.”