Page 21 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 14

Lars

They were flying directly from Ohio to Calgary, not even getting a break between the game and being shuttled to the airport. This time they were mercifully in a secluded area where fans and reporters couldn’t find them, giving Lars time to decompress. Lars enjoyed playing against his brother in a perverse sort of way. They were both competitive and not sentimental, and it let Lars get out some of his years-old frustrations with Anders for leaving. He also hated what it did to him, the inevitable crash into an awful, all consuming headspace that felt like it chipped away pieces of his soul. He didn’t like himself when he was around Anders, and he hated that it wasn’t even really Anders’s fault. His brother, for all his faults, was rarely the instigator when they went at it. Of course the worst part of a game against Anders was?—

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Shit.

“Mormor,” he answered cheerfully. “How are you feeling? I missed seeing you at the game.”

“I’m better,” she said, though her scratchy voice hinted otherwise. “Just because I’m not at your game doesn’t mean I’m not watching. Or that you can be mean to your brother.”

Lars looked around sheepishly, remembered no one on the team was Swedish, and said, “It wasn't so bad. I didn’t even punch him this time. And just one penalty! I thought you’d be proud of how well-behaved I was.”

She clicked her tongue. “I know what you called him. What if the children hear you say such things?”

Lars finched, vividly remembering when he called his brother a cunt. It was a word he’d heard in locker rooms as a young boy, a word treated with harsh reverence among the other boys as they used it to tear each other down. He’d used it as casually as his teammates…until the day his grandparents heard him and made it extremely clear they wouldn’t tolerate their grandson speaking that way.

“But Morfar, everyone says it.”

“You will not,” his grandfather had said sternly. “And if this environment encourages this type of language and behavior, we can remove you from it if you can’t control yourself.”

Every time the memory hit him, he felt the blood drain from his face anew. One cuss word wasn’t worth losing hockey, so he’d obediently refrained, even when his peers made fun of him for it.

…but it had slipped out during the game. He hadn’t meant it to. He literally only said it because he knew it would piss off Anders (and that no one else would even know what he was saying). But there were cameras everywhere, especially on Lars, and he should’ve expected his grandma to be watching.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You did. And you’ll apologize to your brother.”

Lars made a face but didn’t argue. He’d add it to their sparsely used text message chain, mostly filled with bare bones updates on upcoming visits and family events. At best, Anders would acknowledge the comment with a ; more likely he’d leave it on read.

“I will,” he promised. “How was the game? Did I look spectacular and way faster than Anders?”

“You are faster, Lillen. He’s still stronger, though. You played well. That goal after the penalty!” She crooned happily. “Too bad you can’t be on a line with Russell, you two would have all the points.”

“That’s what I told him!” Lars realized how wide he was grinning and how excitedly he was talking, and reined himself in. “What do you think Baltimore’s chances are?” he said more seriously, hoping she’d take the bait.

“Too early to say, but they’re having a better start than last year. As long as you and Russell keep producing?—”

“We will.”

“—and Voronin does his job, you stand a chance. Start by winning your next game." She coughed and then grumbled indistinctly.

“You should be resting,” he chided. “I’ll call you in Calgary, okay?”

They said their goodbyes and Lars texted his brother before he could claim to forget. That left him with…he checked the airport display for their flight info, and saw their flight was delayed another hour. Great.

He wandered from his seat down the empty concourse, searching for a distraction. He wasn’t allowed to go far—they were in a section reserved for private charters—but he needed to do something, get out of his head. He found a line of TVs, each with a different channel but no sound. Towards the end, several showed sports highlights. After a cursory glance at football, baseball, and basketball, he finally found one with hockey. Nothing from their game yet—it appeared to be league highlights from yesterday—but he stood there watching with a detached sort of interest. They cycled through teams, and soon it was the Prowlers on screen.

Losing. Badly, it seemed. Again and again. Without the commentary, it was hard to know the specifics, but the clips showed sloppy plays and lots of goals against.

“The Prowlers aren’t doing good, huh?”

Lars jumped at the interruption, then shrugged as Ryan settled in next to him, so close their shoulders almost touched. “Guess not.”

“You seem happy about it.”

Lars didn’t even realize he was smiling until Ryan mentioned it. He frowned instead. “I wouldn’t say that.”

He wouldn’t deny it, either.

“Former teams can be…complicated. Like old hookups or exes.” Ryan gave him a sideways glance. Lars said nothing. “Why’d you leave the Prowlers? And don’t give me that bullshit about competition or shaking things up or whatever. You wouldn’t be happy they just got shut out if nothing had happened.”

Lars chewed the inside of his lip. He knew he could double down on the bullshit, he could tell Ryan to mind his own business, he could say just about anything and Ryan wouldn’t hold it against him. He didn’t want to give the real answer, the wound too raw and personal, but he didn’t want to lie and completely dismiss Ryan’s interest.

“Politics,” he settled on. It was vague enough he didn’t have to out himself or call out anyone, but it was admitting Ryan was right to suspect there was more to his move across the country.

Ryan nodded in acceptance. “Sucks.”

The broadcast changed to another team, then another, and they stood there watching. Eventually it got to the Austin Rangers, and it tickled an old memory.

“Didn’t they draft you?” He waited until Ryan grunted. “How many teams have you been on?”

Ryan shoved his hands into the pockets of his joggers, fists obviously clenched. “Five, plus an AHL team.”

“Wow.” Lars had no idea if that was a good thing or not, or if it’d even been his choice for any of it. “Do you miss any of them?”

“No. I mean, I would’ve stayed at any of them if they’d kept me, but once they traded me…” He made a noise, one that Lars couldn’t easily interpret but that held a bitter edge.

“And you enjoy when they lose?”

“I wouldn’t say enjoy, but I don’t shed any tears when they get knocked out of the playoffs.”

Lars nudged him with his shoulder. “Bet you enjoy it when they can’t kill a penalty and they realize what they lost.”

Ryan blushed ever so slightly but rolled his eyes. “I get scored on plenty.”

“You really don’t. And what about that pass you sent me up the boards? Perfect angle, perfect speed. If I have to corral that puck, I don’t score. I promise, only an idiot would think you weren’t one of the best players on the Crabs. Or in the league,” he added. “You’re top tier in face-offs and PK.”

The real problem was that Ryan wasn’t flashy and he was given the hard minutes: the defensive zone starts, the penalty kills, the batten-down-the-hatches situations that were 100% necessary and easily overlooked. Those contributions didn’t make the highlight reels, and if they did, they didn’t resonate with viewers as much as a goal or spectacular save. Defensemen tended to have the same issues getting recognition, with only their goalie appreciating their work.

It didn’t help that Ryan would never own his own successes. Maybe Lars could help him work on that.

“You don’t have to say that,” Ryan said after a long pause, “but I appreciate it.”

“Anytime. And I’ll keep saying it until everyone believes me.”

“It might take a while. I’m pretty forgettable.” More than just his complete belief that it was true, there was something icy in the way he said it.

Before Lars could figure out how he might thaw Ryan’s self image, a few of the guys from the team came by.

“Look what we sniped from Jake’s bag,” Bergsy said he waggled his eyebrows and waved a deck of cards at them. “Wanna play?”

“Poker?” Lars asked while bracing himself for disappointment. He hated poker.

“Nah, man,” Johnny said. “No fun without chips. We’re gonna play Go Fish. You guys in?”

“Sure.” Ryan clapped a hand on Lars’s shoulder and started steering him back to the waiting area and away from the wall of TVs. “I call dealer.”

* * *

In the locker room after practice in Calgary, Lars was plotting how to ask Ryan out for drinks again. Was it better to suggest the hotel lobby? Or get a group of them to go out together and then just monopolize his time? They’d sat next to each other on the plane again, and on every bus ride, and Lars enjoyed knowing who he’d be with. They didn’t watch anything or share music, but they’d talked or enjoyed each other’s silence. Lars hadn’t realized he’d missed that kind of easy friendship; it was so satisfying, he could ignore his other feelings.

As he was about to work up the nerve to ask, Ryan rudely spoke first.

“We’ll be in Montana in a few days.” He stood at the entry to the locker room, facing the whole team. “You know what that means,” he said, a declaration that was greeted with cheers that Lars didn’t understand. “Let me know if you can get tickets. I really appreciate it, so thanks in advance.”

Then he started canvassing the benches asking who would be getting tickets and then coordinating what sounded like a bar excursion with those who said yes. By the time Ryan made it over to him, Lars gathered that Ryan wanted other players on the team to acquire tickets to their upcoming game versus the Montana Mustangs, and in exchange Ryan would buy the tickets and take the team out for drinks in Billings after the game. What Lars didn’t understand was why.

All NHL teams allowed players from visiting teams to purchase tickets, but the limit was two per player. Lars could imagine needing a couple more, but the sheer number boggled his mind.

“You wouldn’t be willing to help me get tickets, would you?” he asked Lars. “I think I’ve got…” (He did some math on his fingers.) “...fourteen so far.”

“Fourteen?” he blurted out. “Why do you need so many?”

“My family lives there.” He said it almost apologetically, like it was inconvenient to have family or to try to get tickets for them.

“How big is your family that you need more?” For Lars, even at its biggest, his family would’ve included his brother, his parents, and his grandparents. Their father’s parents had died before Lars was born, and both his parents were only children, leaving them with only distant second cousins Lars had only ever met a handful of times. Of course with Amanda and the kids, they’d gained a few, but nowhere near enough to need more than fourteen tickets.

“Well, I have five sisters, and three of them are married with kids. I’ve got my mom and dad, my grandma and grandpa, plus my grams and pap, and if I can wrangle some for my cousins?—”

“Okay.” Lars puts up his hands. “You can have mine.”

The beatific smile that lit up his face made Lars’s heart do an uncomfortable somersault. “Thanks!” Ryan pulled out his phone. “What’s your Venmo?”

“I said you could have them.”

“Yeah, thanks, but I always buy them. I’ll buy them off you, no worries.”

Lars was painfully aware that he made significantly more than Ryan. And yes, the tickets were prorated— and the Mustangs were in a five year slump, so the tickets probably weren’t very expensive—but the sheer number Ryan was going for couldn’t be cheap.

But he also knew he’d want to pay if their positions were reversed. “Lnilsson14,” he said instead of protesting.

Ryan’s face made an aborted shift, like he was going to roll his eyes or grimace when he heard the “fourteen” but he stopped himself. “Got it. Send them when you can. We’ll also go out to drink after the game as a thank you. An old buddy owns a place near the arena.”

“Will your family be there?” The prospect of seeing Ryan’s family at the game piqued his interest; meeting them in person made him weirdly nervous for reasons he chose to ignore. “At the bar?”

Ryan shrugged with one shoulder. “Some of my sisters and brothers-in-law might. Thursday night makes it kinda inconvenient, so I know my parents and all them won’t be able to make it out. Long drive back to the ranch.”

Lars, who had already more than doubled what he knew about Ryan’s family, was startled that there was still more coming. “Ranch?”

Ryan gave him an unreadable look before answering, “I grew up on a horse ranch. It’s over an hour outside Billings.”

“Oh.” Lars had no idea what to do with this information except to commit it to memory for later examination. “Cool.”

After an awkward few seconds where Ryan seemed to be waiting expectantly, he patted Lars’s shoulder and moved on down the line to ask Jake about tickets. Lars sat there, both pleased to have helped and disappointed he’d forgotten to ask about going out tonight.