Page 22 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 15

Lars

They won in Calgary, a good effort from the team that earned Vorny his first shutout of the season. After the game, Coach Thompkins pulled Lars aside.

“You’ve been doing well. I didn’t want you to think that I’m keeping you on the second because I'm not happy with your play.”

Lars was skating well and getting goals. He knew he had an ego about his play (and a well earned one, in his opinion), but he didn’t give a fuck about labels. First line, second line, third, fourth…as long as his minutes weren’t affected, they could make up a fifth line for all he cared. But he also appreciated his effort being acknowledged, so he nodded.

“Thanks. And I don’t mind, really. Starting to get chemistry going with Tomas and Laure.” A pause, then he couldn’t help adding, “Besides, RJ is handling the first line. Wouldn’t want to fix something that’s not broken.”

Thompkins had a great poker face but Lars saw something cross his eyes. “RJ’s been doing great,” he said begrudgingly, as though he couldn’t believe his experiment had worked (or more likely, that his attempt to punish Lars had backfired). “Obviously I’ll keep him on the first line in Montana for his family.”

“And because he’s earned it.” Lars’s smile probably had a dangerous glint to it, because Thompkins immediately conceded.

“Of course. But once we’re back in Baltimore, we’ll?—”

“It must be nice to have a team with basically two top lines,” Lars said, pushing his luck. “Especially when one centers the PK and the other the Power Play. Always a top line ready to follow a special teams situation.”

Thompkins narrowed his eyes. “You looking to coach this team?”

“No, sir. But I’ve been in the playoffs every year I’ve been in this league, and I’d like to keep that streak going, so I do plan to speak up when I see opportunities for us to improve our odds.”

“You do realize this looks like a demotion for you, right? That doesn’t bother you?”

Lars snorted. “My resume is built on medals, trophies, and Cups. I’m on pace for fifty goals this season on a team that hasn’t even gotten above a Wild Card spot since my brother was drafted. I’ll be fine.”

Thompkins gave him a once over, like he’d never really seen Lars before. Understandable, since most people only looked at said resume and assumed he and other “superstars” were interchangeable. A glimmer of appreciation shone through, and Lars was glad that Thompkins was starting to understand him.

“I’ll keep you updated on lines, then,” Thompkins said. “Good talk.”

Lars went back to his stall, wondering if Thompkins would seriously consider what Lars thought were very valid points, or if he’d fall back to the status quo. Unfortunately, Lars worried his opinion of Thompkins’s coaching might drop drastically if he ignored Lars and they didn’t make the playoffs. Of course, if he took Lars’s advice and they didn’t make it, Lars would lose all credibility.

He looked at Ryan, cheeks rosy and hair sweat-damp, and remembered his promise.

Guess we’ll just have to make it.

* * *

Lars took his now customary seat next to Ryan on the plane and watched with fascination as Ryan spent the whole flight to Billings working out names and tickets, coordinating different factions of the Russell clan so that the sister who didn’t want to get married didn’t have to sit next to the meddling aunt, and the nephew who hadn’t made the football team wouldn’t be near the nephew who had. Never having imagined a large family could be so complicated, Lars was impressed Ryan knew so much about them all despite living hundreds of miles away. That he was so accommodating was less surprising.

In the tunnel before warm-ups, Lars hopped from foot to foot with the same nervous anticipation he got when he knew Mormor was in the stands. He hadn’t figured out how, but he was going to make sure Ryan scored tonight. Not an easy task since they’d never be on the ice together, but he could at least do his part to assure a win. He got the impression from Ryan that his family was only casually interested in hockey and more invested in Ryan doing well than in the Mustangs.

As he stepped onto the ice, he scanned the crowd for Ryan’s family, not even sure he’d recognize them if he saw them. There must be a ton of dark-haired, dark-eyed people to choose from?—

He found them almost instantly, first by hearing the cacophony of cowbells and cheers that sounded as soon as Ryan hit the ice behind him and then seeing the signs. The front row was taken up by people holding up signs that together spelled “WE LOVE YOU RYAN ??.” It was adorable, especially the heart one held up by two women he assumed were Ryan’s grandmas.

Ryan skated over and fist bumped each and every one of his nieces and nephews through the glass, ranging from teenagers to a younger girl still in her mother’s arms. Because it was too dang cute to watch Ryan, Lars’s attention shifted to his family. There were a lot of Blue Crabs jerseys and a few from other teams, presumably from Ryan’s previous teams, and a few Team USA ones. Those caught his eye. Ryan was about his age, so no Olympic participation. That meant Juniors, and theoretically one of the years Lars also played. He worried briefly that they had in fact played against each other and he’d overlooked Ryan back then the way everyone else seemed to have since then. But then a worse realization dawned on him.

Some of the Crabs jerseys his family wore…had the number 14 on them. Most of them, actually. Ryan was #75, had always worn that number in Baltimore as far as Lars knew. Except clearly he had been #14, too. Players didn’t just randomly change numbers, which meant…

“ J?vla skit ,” he cursed. He’d felt like a jackass about the Brian incident. On top of forcing him to change numbers, this made it so much worse. No wonder Ryan had taken so long to warm up to him.

Lars could barely focus during warm-ups, going through the motions with less and less success. It was so bad a few of the guys shot him concerned looks and raised eyebrows. It only got worse once the game started.

“You feeling alright, Nilsson?” Thompkins asked after Lars had managed two bad turnovers in one shift.

“Huh?” Lars snapped his attention to the coach, tried to process the words, and finally managed an, “I’ve been better.” It didn’t seem to instill his teammates with much confidence.

“You’re kind of embarrassing me,” Ryan joked during the first intermission. He’d taken the spot next to Lars while Tomas did an interview. “My family wanted to see the great Lars Nilsson play, and instead you’re here playing like ass.”

Lars managed a weak smile. “Sorry.” He gulped. “You’re playing pretty good, though. Bet they’re proud of you.”

He blushed and looked away bashfully. “I’m doing okay,” he admitted. “It’d be nice to score one, though. Kinda promised my niece I would.”

“The small one?”

Ryan blinked at him. “Yeah. You saw them?”

“There are no less than one hundred Russells in the building. If I were blind, I would’ve noticed them.”

“They are kinda loud,” Ryan said, beaming. Lars wondered what that was like, having a family without the drama, the anger, the bitterness. “I’m kinda glad I don’t play for the Mustangs. It’s easy to get hyped when they only see me play in person once a year.”

“No,” Lars said. “They’d be excited every time, I can tell.”

Ryan didn’t argue, which was proof enough.

Lars did moderately better in the second and third periods, but it was hard to rally much effort when he still felt like an asshole. Even if his play was lackluster, he managed to not get scored on, which was the best he could’ve hoped for. Ryan’s line was doing considerably better, driving play and generating shots with very little defensive zone time. It was fitting that he got the nod when the game went to overtime. Ryan, Jake, and Pavel took the ice and scored a whole fifteen seconds in. Ryan didn’t get the goal, but it was Jake scoring off Ryan’s rebound that got them the win. Lars was fairly certain the only people cheering in the stands were Ryan’s family, but they were loud .

“Drinks on me, boys!” Ryan said as he reappeared in the locker room after doing a post-game interview, returning like a conquering hero.

The bar was a few blocks from the arena, still packed with patrons who’d come to watch the game and those stopping by to drown their misery before heading home. Ryan led the way to a room towards the back that was slightly less full but still teeming with people. As soon as they spotted him, a crowd of Russells (easily identified by their jerseys) raised their arms and cheered loudly. Ryan was taller than most of them, particularly his sisters, but his height offered him no protection as he was enveloped in a crowd of hugs, noogies, and bruising slaps on the back.

Lars ignored the brief impulse to insert himself among them and stay in Ryan’s orbit, and instead stuck with the Blue Crabs. He soon found himself with a beer in one hand as a shot was thrust into the other. Lars normally didn’t do hard liquor unless it was completely drowned in sugar, but he was feeling the right amount of lonely and sorry for himself that he gladly downed the awful drink (and then immediately chased it with half his beer). He let a teammate sling an arm around his shoulder and lead him to where they were drinking. He sipped his seemingly bottomless beer—magically replaced before he finished it—and let their conversation flow over him without hearing a single thing they said.

His insides were comfortably warm and his brain foggy when he next caught sight of Ryan. And the bastard looked fantastic.

Ryan was handsome. Lars wasn’t blind. He’d known that from day one. He radiated kindness and was polite to a fault, and Lars had seen first hand how easily Ryan charmed fans, teammates, reporters, refs, pretty much everyone. Tonight he was ten times better looking, his eyes clear and smile bright as he soaked in his family’s love and support. The confidence that he normally lacked, unable to assert himself, was finally shining through and it made him the center of the room.

Their gazes met—inevitable given how much Lars was staring—and he held out hope Ryan would make his way over. All he got was a smile and a wave before one of his brothers-in-law stole his attention back. It wasn’t a rejection, he knew that, but it stung like one. The hurt led him to the bar and a strawberry daiquiri so strong he could barely taste the strawberry over the booze.

When someone sat beside him, too close and warm in the crowded bar, he looked over with a scowl and the intention of shooing them away, only to be met with familiar coffee-colored eyes.

“You really like strawberry, huh?”

It took Lars a full thirty seconds to process what the words were and who had said them, then he broke into a grin and hugged Ryan. “I missed you!”

Ryan stiffened briefly, then relaxed into the hug. He might have even held on too long (though Lars didn’t trust his judgment on that) before he pulled back and frowned at him. “Are you drunk?”

Lars nodded grimly. “Probably.”

A moment’s hesitation. “Are you upset about the lines? I didn’t know it would last this long and?—”

“What?” Lars scrunched up his nose. Why did everyone think he’d care about that? “No, I don’t care.”

“Then what are you upset ab?—?”

“They didn’t tell me you were #14,” he said sorrowfully. “I asked for the number and they gave it to me. I didn’t know I was taking it from anybody.”

“Oh.” Ryan looked around awkwardly. “Don’t worry about it. They asked me first.”

Of course they did. Because they knew Ryan and knew he’d agree. He was too nice, too apologetic about taking up space on the roster that he’d never make waves. Asking had been performative at best, though at least they’d gone through the motions.

“I do worry,” Lars whined. “I could have been…what’s seven times three?”

“Twenty-one.”

Lars nodded. What an ugly number. “I could’ve been twenty-one. It’s a bit of a stretch to say I’m three times better than Anders since I haven’t won the Cup three times, but?—”

“Nilsy.” Ryan put a hand on his shoulder, licked his lips, then leaned in and said, “ Lasse. It’s fine. I’m over it. 75 is a perfectly adequate number.”

Lars pouted. “It’s a goalie number.”

Ryan made a face. “Yeah, kinda. But it’s fine. I don’t care about the number. I care about the jersey.”

“The jersey has the number on it,” Lars said slowly, not understanding what Ryan meant.

“I care that I’m on a team,” Ryan clarified. “I play for an NHL team and I get to put on that jersey every game day and play. That’s the important part.”

Lars couldn’t really disagree. He held much of the same attitude, which was why he couldn’t get worked up about the first versus second line nonsense. There was a difference, though. His blasé approach had nothing to do with the fear Ryan seemed to have, but Lars was about four drinks too far gone to be able to articulate any of that (even if he was just the right amount of drinks in to actually want to say it instead of keeping his mouth shut). Instead, he had to settle for something easier.

“You’re a really good hockey player,” Lars said earnestly. “I’m glad I get to play with you. Except not at the same time. But the same team. Yeah.”

Ryan stared blankly at him before shaking his head and laughing. “Me too. Look, let’s get you some water and then I’ll find someone to take you back to the hotel.”

“Nooo,” Lars whined. “I like it here. Everyone is nice to you.”

“Enjoy it while you drink your water, okay? You’ll thank me in the morning.”

And then with painful clarity, Lars pictured what a morning waking up next to Ryan might look like. The warmth beside him. Was Ryan a morning person or did he need a cup of coffee to be functional? Did he like the right or the left side of the bed? What type of toothpaste did he use? What?—?

Like swatting away a fly, he shook his head to dispel the thoughts. Right. Water and sleep. He needed to get back on track before he said or did anything stupid. Something he couldn’t undo.

“G’night, Ryan,” he hiccuped. “Enjoy your party. Your family seems awesome.”

“Night, Lars. Seriously, water.” He pointed sternly at him. “And don’t worry about the number. If I don’t care, you’re not allowed to care.”

Then he hopped off his bar stool and disappeared back into the crowd, taking Lars’s only hope of a good night with him.