Page 28 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 19

Lars

Lars was fully aware that pursuing any sort of romantic or sexual relationship with Ryan was a bad idea. He had nothing but reasons to avoid it, first and foremost on the list being his disastrous end in Portland. Despite their less than stellar playoff potential, Lars liked being on the Crabs. He knew Ryan liked being on the Crabs. Why jeopardize that?

And up until that stupid dinner in Rangoons, Lars could’ve let things be. He would’ve had a crush on a teammate and tried to impress him and hang out with him and leave it at that. He could acknowledge that his attraction was a him-problem, and he’d deal with it because he was a grown-ass man who could handle his shit.

He’d been completely resigned to this…until he’d heard Ryan deem himself not good enough.

“I know I’m not worth the effort.”

Honestly, how dare he?

Lars acknowledged that yes, there was effort involved. The teammate thing made it complicated. He also acknowledged that in some ways, Ryan was right. Lars had looked at the same situation and decided that the risks weren’t worth it. It was Ryan’s phrasing, his internalizing that the problem was in some way him , that made Lars completely ready to rethink his priorities.

Ryan and him mutually agreeing that their careers weren’t worth risking: acceptable.

Ryan believing Lars (or anyone else, for that matter) didn’t think he was worth some awkwardness: completely un-fucking-acceptable.

So Lars started coming up with a plan. A plan where he’d…he wasn’t sure, exactly, but he would do his best to prove to Ryan that he was absolutely worth it. That he was awesome and deserved the good things he wanted for himself. That he was a valuable human being and incredible hockey player and fuck whoever thought otherwise (even if that person was Ryan himself).

Now, if Ryan decided later on that Lars was the one not worth it, Lars could accept that and take the rejection as gracefully as he could.

Step one of his plan: boost Ryan’s hockey confidence. Lars had already been working on this all season. He felt he’d made decent strides in getting the Blue Crabs to see Ryan’s talent, and it annoyed him just a smidge that the only one it hadn’t worked on was Ryan.

“This game is going to be dull,” Lars said in the tunnel. They were about to play the Manitoba Aviators who’d, gently put, “hadn’t been doing well.” They sucked, unfortunately, and were riddled with injuries. They were near the bottom of the league and on the backend of a road trip that no doubt had left them exhausted as they’d been beaten by the Terrors, the Militia, and the Riveters in quick succession.

“Don’t you jinx us,” Bergsy said. It was both joking and stern. He was clearly concerned about the bad luck Lars was calling down upon them, and either didn’t want to appear concerned or didn’t think he could actually scold Lars about it.

“No such things as jinxes,” Vorny said, causing a stir of incredulous laughs and looks. Like all goaltenders, Vorny was notoriously superstitious. But one of his superstitions appeared to be not acknowledging his superstitions. Go figure.

While the rest of the team erupted in a cacophony of examples for and against luck existing, Lars pulled Ryan aside. “Let’s play a game.”

Ryan’s face scrunched in confusion. “A hockey game? Because I don’t know how to tell you that one’s about to start?—”

“No. Well, yes, but I meant we should play a game while we play.”

“A game within a game,” Ryan deadpanned. “Gameception?”

Now it was Lars’s turn to make a bewildered face. “What?”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll watch that movie on the next road trip. What game do you have in mind?”

Lars perked up, pleased that Ryan was not only on board for Lars’s idea, but that he was already planning out their in-flight entertainment for the upcoming weekend. “Let’s play Follow the Leader. I’m out first, so I’ll do something during my shift that I want you to try and duplicate.”

“So if you drop the gloves and fight some random guy, I gotta try to do the same on my shift?”

“Yes, exactly. Though I probably won’t fight anyone.”

“Anders hasn’t been traded to the Aviators, so it does seem unlikely.” Ryan hesitated. “And what if I can’t do whatever you did?”

Lars shrugged. “Then it’ll be your turn to do something and then I’ll try to match it. Just try not to block too many shots, I’m not good at that.”

Ryan considered a moment. “Are we keeping score…?”

“If you want to. It’s just for fun.” He tapped Ryan’s skate with the blade of his stick. “Like I said, this’ll be an easy game. We’re just trying to keep ourselves entertained.” He took off his right glove and offered his hand to Ryan. “Loser buys dinner?”

“There are easier ways to get a free meal,” Ryan joked, but he shook Lars’s hand. “Loser buys dinner. Don’t pick any place too fancy.”

In the first shift, Lars didn't get a chance to do much. He did a completely unnecessary between-the-legs move that let him get around someone and get a shot off. Ryan’s attempt wasn’t as successful—the puck didn’t quite make it through his feet—but Lars could tell it was more because Ryan had never tried it than because he wouldn’t be good at it.

Over the first period, Lars tried a few other flashy moves that were regular parts of his repertoire but that he knew Ryan shied away from. Despite Ryan’s complaints, they were relatively even. Lars wasn’t always successful on his own attempts, and sometimes Ryan pulled off a move better than he had.

The last shift of the period, Lars never got the puck, so it was Ryan’s turn to set the stage. He ended his shift by launching a shot right off the face-off that almost took the goalie by surprise.

“You won it to yourself,” Lars said with an exaggerated pout.

“And shot it.”

“You’ve seen my numbers. You could’ve just won it and that’d’ve been hard enough for me to do.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “You’re not that bad. You won, like, two today.”

“Ha! Did you just chirp me? Besides, I’ll have you know, I’ve won three of the seven I’ve taken.”

“Wow, that’s not bad.”

“You’ve won all of yours, haven’t you?”

“One of them wasn’t clean,” Ryan offered with a shit-eating grin.

Good. He was having fun.

During the second, Lars entered the zone with both opposing defenseman already in position to block his path to the net. Needing to wait for backup, Lars took the free ice in front of him and went behind the net and circled back around. Everyone had caught up but no one was set up to do much more than he could, so he took another lap. There were some options that time and maybe he should’ve passed it or taken a shot. Instead, with his bet in mind, he took another pass behind the net. It seemed to confuse the other team’s defense and two guys broke off to pursue him, leaving Jake wide open in front. Lars sent a sneaky pass as he faked going behind the net again.

Jake didn’t score, but he ripped a shot right into the goaltender’s mask. The resulting whistle when the puck ricocheted out of play gave Lars the chance to skate leisurely back to the bench.

“Three laps, RJ,” he said as Ryan passed him. “I wanna see three laps.”

“Who in their right mind even does two?” Ryan grumbled. He was smiling, though, and had that determined look in his eyes that often resulted in a goal.

Ryan’s line didn’t score, but he pulled off an impressive four and a half laps before he was forced to do a drop pass to Jordy. While their earlier moves might go unnoticed by the casual observer, there was no mistaking that Ryan was deliberately copying Lars. They must’ve looked exactly the same skating in circles and refusing to pass, the only difference was Lars had to go counter-clockwise to keep the puck on his forehand while Ryan went clockwise.

“Look at RJ,” Jake said and bumped Ryan on the top of his helmet. “He’s out Nilsson-ing Nilsy.”

“We’re tied,” Lars protested in mock offense.

“I don’t know how y’all are keeping score,” Jordy said, “but you need to do a recount. RJ’s lighting it up.”

“I’m not—” Ryan caught Lars’s stern look, then sighed. “I’m holding my own,” he said.

“Fuck yeah, you are,” said Tomas, pulling Ryan into a side hug and shaking him wildly.

“Knock it off,” Thompkins said. “None of you have scored yet, so stay focused. We should be up by three right now.”

Late in the second, Lars was trying a wrap-around for no other reason than that they were relatively simple to attempt but nearly impossible to score with. It probably looked like he was coming in to do some more laps, and the already frustrated and embarrassed Aviators weren’t having it. They crowded too close as he tried to come around the net with the puck, and in the resulting collision, Lars’s stick came up and (allegedly) hit an opponent in the face.

He grumbled in Swedish the whole way to the penalty box. Sitting in the box, he watched the replay and wasn’t one hundred percent convinced it was his stick, plus it looked more like it got the opposing defenseman on the shoulder rather than the head, but there was no point arguing over it. Refs weren’t prone to changing their minds (and even less likely to change their calls).

His expectation was that the Crabs would kill the penalty and then Ryan would tease him for having taken the easy way out of their bet. Unfortunately, only thirty seconds into the Penalty Kill, Ryan also took an unlucky penalty.

“I know I said Follow the Leader,” Lars said when Ryan stepped into the box, “but I thought it went without saying to avoid the penalties.”

Ryan gave him a look. “I hate you.”

Lars scooted over to make room on the bench. “If you didn’t understand the rules?—”

As Ryan sat down, he elbowed Lars in the chest. He also did his best to take up as much room as possible as he took off his helmet and gloves.

“It’s unfortunate that I’m out first,” Lars grumbled a few moments later. The Crabs were nearly done killing Lars’s penalty, and he was ready to head back on the ice. “I hate killing penalties.”

“You have to do what I did before I got the penalty,” Ryan said. Ten seconds until the penalty was done. “You gotta do that or I’m up a point.”

Ryan had slid across the ice on his belly, collected the puck he’d intercepted, and just barely managed to get it out of the zone.

“Give yourself the point now,” Lars said and opened the door. One second left before he had to sprint into the zone to help out. “Never going to happen.”

He did make an effort, but the opportunity never presented itself. Even doing his best, they weren’t able to clear the zone long enough for him to scramble to the bench for a change. They did survive long enough for Ryan’s penalty to end, but made the mistake of icing it.

“I’m gassed,” Lars said, leaving room for Ryan to take the face-off. “Please win this so I can sit.”

“We’re rarely on the ice together, y’know,” Ryan teased. He didn’t go too close to the dot, buying them a few more seconds of rest before the ref lost his patience. “Sure you don’t wanna stay a bit longer?”

It was tempting. If he thought he could physically do it, he might try it, but it took all his effort not to bend over and gasp for air. “Maybe next time we take stupid penalties at the same time,” he managed, a little breathier than he’d have liked.

“It’s a date,” Ryan said, and Lars didn’t have enough time to process those words before he was forced to line up at the wing and sprint to the bench as soon as it was safe to abandon his team.

In the locker room between periods, Lars brainstormed his next moves. What could he try to get Ryan to do that would show off his awesomeness in a way that made it as obvious to everyone else as it was to him? He had a few ideas in mind but most were situational—he couldn’t step on the ice and guarantee he’d get a chance for a breakaway. He’d have to play it by ear.

In the third period, Ryan got a shift before him. On an entry into the zone, he made a beautiful shot through the defenseman’s legs. It went right on net, low and hard and forcing the goalie to decide whether to cover or clear it. He opted to cover it, but waited just long enough that he ended up getting snowed by Ryan.

“Snowing a goalie,” Jake said and let out a whistle. “Bold move. You gonna copy that one?”

Ryan was currently skating away from a defenseman who looked like he wanted nothing more than to knock Ryan on his ass.

“If someone else goes near that crease, it’ll be the goalie who tackles them. I’ll try shooting through someone’s legs. Seems safer, yeah?”

As it turned out, shooting between someone’s legs was harder than it looked. An opportunity would vanish before Lars could even decide if the resulting shot would go anywhere near the net. Luckily, when he was behind the net retrieving the puck, inspiration struck. The two defensemen were in position to block his path on both sides. Lars picked up the puck and chipped it over the net, aiming right for the goalie’s numbers. He hit his mark and the puck rolled down his back and stopped right on the goal line. Feeling something hit him, the goalie reached behind himself instinctively to try and cover the puck, instead knocking it right into the back of the net.

The cheers erupted just as Lars was crushed between Jake and Tomas in a celebratory hug. He hadn’t actually expected that to work (it never had when he was a small child trying it in practice), and he was delighted to see he’d pulled it off.

“Highlight reel goal right there, Nilsy,” Ryan said at the bench and offered Lars a fist bump. “Not sure I can do it.”

Lars’s heart sank. What had been an exciting moment of a childhood dream coming true now made him feel guilty. If Ryan couldn’t do it, would this whole thing backfire?

“That never works,” he said apologetically. “You don’t have to?—”

“Nah,” Ryan said. He didn’t seem disheartened at the prospect of repeating the move himself. If anything, he looked excited by the challenge. “I might as well try it.”

The game was rapidly drawing to a close. On Ryan’s next shift, he only got the puck once as the Aviators made a push to recover from the embarrassment of Lars’s goal. Lars didn’t fare much better, mostly spending the forty seconds dodging blatant attempts to smash him into the boards, even when the puck was clear across the rink. Though it did keep Lars on the edge of his seat when Ryan next took the ice.

The shift started boringly enough with what should’ve been an icing against the Crabs but a weird bounce slowed it down enough for Ryan to get there ahead of the Aviators and pick it up behind the net. He was briefly alone, uncontested and with no real pass options. It was a chance, albeit a rapidly disappearing one.

Lars watched with something akin to horror as he saw Ryan start to lift up the puck. The goalie was ready and a defenseman was coming from Ryan’s left to slam him into the boards. Ryan was going to get hurt because of their stupid bet and it would be Lars’s fault.

What ended up happening was much more glorious than a failed bounce off the goalie. Hell, it was better than Lars’s successful bounce. No doubt seeing his window vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, once Ryan had the puck on his stick, he took a few steps forward and slung it lacrosse-style into the open net.

There was a whole second of silence before the bench and stands erupted in chaos.

“HE DID A MICHIGAN, BOYS!” someone screamed. “RJ did a fucking Michigan!”

The goal didn’t save Ryan from getting knocked over from behind, but he was immediately helped to his feet by his linemates, who in turn almost knocked him over with their enthusiastic hugs and pats on the back. Lars had seen Ryan’s quiet, pleased smiles when he scored or did well; this was a million times better. He radiated pride as he accepted the cheers and applause. It was the type of jaw-aching smile that would hurt after, the soreness a reminder of the wonderful moment that had caused it.

Lars was barely able to give Ryan a fistbump as he skated by the bench before heading back to center ice to finish his shift, but Lars’s heart swelled with too many emotions for him to pin down and name. It was all he could do to concentrate enough to get through the game— a solid 4-1 win over the downtrodden Aviators—and keep his shit together until they were in the locker room.

“You lucky bastard!” He stomped over to Ryan, who’d only managed to take off his gloves, and threw his arms around him. He was briefly tempted to kiss him, knowing everyone would pass it off as excitement, but he ignored the impulse. Instead he squeezed him tightly as he lifted him in the air and shook him a few times, much to the delight of the team who whooped and hollered like Ryan was a conquering hero. Lars reluctantly stepped aside to let others offer their praise. It was hard not to hover, but he wanted to make sure Ryan got the full experience.

“Player of the Game,” Coach Thompkins announced as he came in. The man was friendly enough but rarely looked particularly happy. Tonight he wore the expression of a proud father, pleased with his son’s performance and how it reflected on him. He handed Ryan the comically large plastic crab that they passed around to the player who they deemed had the best game.

Ryan held up the crab as his spoils of war, the team saluting the honored crab and its owner. The team was riled up so much by the victory that after their obligatory media check-ins, most of them went to Rangoons to celebrate and toast the crab.

With the first part of his plan well under way, Lars started to figure out how to implement the next (and most important) phase.

Step two: flirt shamelessly.