Page 2 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 1

Lars

Seven Years Later

“Lasse, what the fuck did you do?”

Lars winced. When his agent had called, he’d answered automatically. He hadn’t really thought about why Max might be calling him in the offseason. Now he regretted picking up, because the last thing he needed right now was to be chewed out.

At least I’m alone. He looked around his condo, sparsely furnished since he never had anyone over. What was the point of extra seating if no one would ever use it? As usual.

“I don’t know what they told you?—”

“They said they caught you and a male trainer in the locker room. They were somewhat more graphic in relaying that information to me.”

Another wince. Or maybe a grimace. Lars was glad this wasn’t a video call, because he wasn’t sure he liked what his face was doing. “Okay, so that might’ve happened, but I swear it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“It doesn’t sound good,” Max said sternly. “This shouldn’t be a big deal, I get that, but you know how their management is. I warned you when you signed that first contract with them that you’d have to keep your private life private.”

Lars remembered that conversation all too well. He’d been so focused on hockey his rookie year, he hadn’t had time to fool around. When he’d been offered a longer, more lucrative deal, Max had warned him that while the city of Portland was very accepting, that was a different beast from the NHL and more specifically the Prowlers. The words “discreet” and “careful” were thrown around so many times that to this day they reminded him of Max’s warning.

“I know,” he said, feeling and no doubt sounding like a chastened child. “I’m sorry.”

“They’re pretty adamant that if this goes public, they’re going to spin the power imbalance angle and pin it all on you. A superstar player taking what he wants from someone in the organization who can’t say no to him. It won’t look good, Lasse.”

The blood drained from Lars’s face. He didn’t play into that particular “superstar” stereotype (at least he hoped he didn’t), but it was a tempting one for fans to buy into. The spoiled player with an ego who used his status to bully people. He heard that storyline all over the league, and the press loved to run with it.

Definitely lucky this wasn’t a video call; Lars wanted to punch someone. “It— I would never— Max, I swear?—”

A loud sigh came through, followed by Max’s placating, “I know, but that’s what they’ll do. It’s Portland. They know the fanbase would support a gay player, so they’re going to have to spin it in a way that makes you the bad guy. That’s of course if you’re willing to come out, which I assume is still a hard no.”

Lars suddenly felt dizzy and had to sit down. This was a lot to take in. He definitely didn’t want to be out. If they could keep this quiet…that was what everyone wanted, right? He could barely hear over the rushing sound in his ears, but he was aware that Max was still talking and tried to tune back in.

“The Prowlers were very clear they want zero to do with a gay or bi or anything else player right now. They don’t want it hitting the media and being a ‘distraction from hockey’.”

Max used the voice he always used when he was quoting Portland’s General Manager Rob Mackey, a no-nonsense man in his seventies who’d been in hockey probably a decade longer than he should’ve.

When his coach had stumbled in on Lars and that trainer half-naked and enthusiastically making out, he’d seen the grim set of his mouth and known he was in trouble. He’d been caught by coaches before when he was younger, and they’d excused it after warning him not to be so reckless. Apparently his fellow Swedes were a lot more forgiving than Rob Mackey’s staff, because he’d been told to go home and stay there until they’d “talked it over.”

“So what? I promise to keep my mouth shut and be more discreet and we pretend it never happened?” he asked hopefully. Not that it would be that easy. The coach would look at him differently, and Lars wouldn’t be able to respect him as much now that he’d gone running to Mackey. But he’d deal with that later.

Max didn’t answer immediately, and Lars had a sinking feeling in his gut. “They want to trade you.”

“What!?” Lars sputtered. “They can’t do that. I have another two years on my contract and a no trade clause. They can’t .”

Portland had drafted him seven years ago, and after a stellar rookie season where he won the Calder, he’d signed an eight year deal. He’d made sure that no trade clause was in there, because there was no fucking way he wanted to be moved to another team unless it was under on terms.

“I know,” Max said, “but they implied it would be very uncomfortable for you to remain in Portland and that you should agree to a trade. They’ll happily buy you out if that works better, but we still need to get you a team.”

“Very uncomfortable.” Belittling comments, reduced minutes, worse linemates, healthy scratches. Lars could easily picture the scenario in his head as the team did their best to drive him out all while tanking his value as a player. If he left now, after a 50-goal season, both he and Portland had leverage to make this a mutually beneficial send-off.

All he had to do was agree to leave the place he’d called home for the last seven years. The only place he’d called home since he left Sweden.

Fuck, did he mess up…

Though maybe this was for the best. There were no guarantees his new team, whatever it was, would be more supportive, but now he knew for sure Portland would never be. Long term, he'd always have to be in the closet, and as comfortable as he currently was hiding that part of himself from the world, eventually he might meet someone he didn’t want to hide.

“Fine,” he said through his teeth. He started pacing up and down the short hallway from his living room to his bedroom. All around him were mementos of his career so far, going back to youth hockey, then Team Sweden, and mostly with the Portland Prowlers. There were pictures of him and the Cup he’d helped them earn his second season after a drought of two decades, plus the second they’d gotten three years later. He’d helped them do that…and to them he wasn’t even worth the potential bad press of being gay. “Get me a new team.”

“Where?” Max asked, papers shuffling on the other end of the line. “Nevada and LA have been sniffing around for the last couple of years. Or Calgary, if you’re thinking Canada.”

“No,” Lars said immediately. He felt raw, only able to see what he’d lost. There was no way he could stay out west. If he was going to start over, he was going to do it properly. “Eastern Conference.”

“Oh.” Max briefly sounded thrown but went with it amicably enough. “I haven’t done as much scouting out that way, honestly. You and most of my guys are here, but I’ll be happy to look into it.” A pause before a very tentative, “You know, I could probably get you top dollar with Cincinnati.”

Lars stopped midstep. “Absolutely the fuck not,” he growled. Cincinnati was his older brother’s team, and if he wasn’t playing under the Tre Kronor , he sure as fuck wasn’t playing with Anders. If there were another team in Ohio, he’d refuse that, too. North America was too big of a continent for him to end up in the same state as Anders Nilsson.

“Okay, no problem.” Max sounded a little disappointed, but he knew better than to push. “I’ll work my magic and get back to you with some offers in a couple days. Maybe sooner, if there’s a juicy one.”

He wondered how many zeros on the end of his salary it would take for Max to consider it “juicy.”

“Great,” he said, then before Max could hang up, he quietly asked, “What about Andy?”

“Who?”

“The trainer. Did they…did they fire him?”

“I didn’t ask,” Max said with a carefully neutral tone. Lars knew that tone well. It’d gotten him a few extra mil from Portland and a great sponsorship deal with CCM.

Right. He should’ve thought about consequences before letting his hands wander. And if they were perfectly fine making Lars uncomfortable to force him out, they’d have no qualms about doing the same or worse to Andy.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Max said with a resigned sigh. “I could pull some strings and make sure he gets something lined up if he needs it.”

A huge weight lifted from his chest. One less thing to worry about, at least. “You’re the best, Max.”

“I know. Now sit tight and try not to cause any more trouble. And maybe start to pack.”

“Right,” Lars said, knowing Max had already hung up. He dropped his hand and stared in a daze. Shoulders slumped, he took in the condo he’d been so proud to buy when he was nineteen. He hadn’t expected to abandon it at twenty-five.

What a fantastic start to his seventh season.

* * *

Early the next morning—6 a.m. his time, painfully early for a Saturday during the off season—Lars put on some coffee, hyped himself up, then pulled up the contacts on his phone.

His grandma picked up after the second ring, sounding incredibly pleased. “Lasse?”

“Mormor.” He wasn’t happy about making this call, but he was always glad to hear her voice. “How are you?” he asked in Swedish. He hated being on a team without other Swedes, leaving his native language to go unused like a childhood relic.

You’re not on the Prowlers anymore, he reminded himself. Maybe your new team will have someone you can talk to.

He wasn’t going to hold his breath on that one.

She made a noise that conveyed both “very well, obviously” and “life is always a challenge at my age.” “My day is always better when I hear from you, Lillen.”

Lars rolled his eyes. He’d been lillen, “little one,” since he could remember, and the nickname hadn’t changed even when he hit six feet at fifteen. Of course, he secretly enjoyed the nickname, which only his grandma was allowed to call him. Or not so secretly, since she used it often.

“Good! Then I don’t have to share my news with you, since I’ve already made your day.” He could practically hear her scowl over the phone and laughed. “I’ll be moving closer to you.” Probably. She currently lived in Ohio with his brother’s family, and anywhere in the Eastern Conference was bound to be closer than Oregon was.

This was greeted with a silence he couldn’t decipher before she slowly asked, “You’re changing teams?”

Part of why he’d had to psych himself up was he wanted to frame this as completely positive to his grandma. She and his grandpa had raised him, and he didn’t want to worry her with the drama he was escaping. Even if he was pissed off about it, he would make it a Good Thing if it killed him.

“Yeah. I wanted to be closer to you. I only get to see you twice a year.”

“How much closer? This is a big continent. A few hours closer and you’re still too far to visit. I won’t go on a plane again, you know this, Lillen.”

He knew all too well how much his grandma hated flying. It’d been enough of an ordeal to get her to move to the States to begin with, since doing so had pretty much guaranteed she’d never return to Sweden. Having your daughter die in a plane crash did that to people.

“I don’t know where yet. My agent’s still working on it, but it’ll be somewhere out east.”

“So you’ll play your brother more.” Her tone was harder now, more parent than grandparent. “I don’t like it when you play him. Too rough. Too much fighting. It upsets the children.”

“The children” were Anders’s kids, who most definitely weren’t upset by it. They loved seeing their dad and uncle go at it and would happily text him with clips afterward. What she meant was “it upsets me,” and he felt a pang of guilt over it.

Not enough to be nice to his brother, but, well, no one was perfect.

“I’ll be nice,” he lied. “I’m always the nice one, anyway. You should tell Anders to lay off me. He’s bigger, he could really hurt me. He’s old and should retire soon. I’m young and need to stay healthy.”

“Lars,” she warned. His actual name. Yikes, he hadn’t heard that one since he gave his brother a black eye a few years ago in a pre-season game. He better stop teasing.

“Sorry, Mormor,” he said. He was sorry for upsetting her, at least.

She grunted in a way that said you better be , then asked, “Do we dislike the Prowlers now? Should I burn my jerseys?”

“They’re signed! You could at least sell them. One of them is game-worn, you could make a lot of money off of it.”

Especially if you did it now, before the news hits that I’ve left. I don’t think Portland fans will be very happy with me…

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said. “Are we happy about this or not?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, not giving a chance for hesitation to give away his decidedly mixed feelings. “We’re happy about it.”

A considering pause before she said, “Good. I will be happy to have you visit more. Your visit last month was too short. All you did was go on runs and play video games.”

“That’s not true. I read that book to you and helped you make dinner. I was a very good grandson, you said so yourself.”

She mumbled something unintelligible, which he took to mean she’d conceded. “You will visit for Christmas, then. You’ll be closer, so no excuses.”

He made a face. There was no way out now. “Fine, I’ll come for Christmas. But not Thanksgiving.” He’d already have to deal with playing Anders more often during the season; he didn’t want to see him more during his free time.

“Pssh,” she said dismissively. As a Swede, she’d never been big on Thanksgiving. Sometimes she’d used it as an excuse to get Lars to visit, but since the holiday meant little to her, she never pushed too hard. “Am I allowed to tell your brother yet?”

“No, I want it to be a surprise,” he said with a huge grin. In his head he was laughing like a cartoon villain as he imagined his brother’s reaction to the news. That was a definite silver lining in all this: getting to score on Anders more than twice a season. Even at the expense of pissing himself off, he’d take that trade-off.

“Lillen,” his grandma said with a long suffering sigh, “what will I do with you?”

“Wear my new jersey when I come to town?” Not once had she worn either his or Anders’s jerseys when they played each other, always opting for a nameless Team Sweden that helped him pick her out in the crowd.

“You are a troublemaker.”

“I try.” His coffee maker beeped at him. Time to start the day. “I have to go work out. Take care of yourself, Mormor. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. Good luck this year. Will you win the Rocket Richard again?” The Maurice “Rocket” Richard Trophy was awarded at the end of each season to the NHL player who’d scored the most goals. Lars had won it twice and been a contender for it every year, sometimes only losing by a single goal.

“Depends on the team, probably. I’ll call when I know more, okay?”

She hummed her approval. “ Hejd? , Lasse. Be good.”

“ Hejd? , Mormor.”