Page 3 of The Trade Deadline
Chapter 2
Ryan
“RJ?”
Ryan looked up. He’d been in the middle of getting the barbell ready for some deadlifts when Coach Thompkins had interrupted. That usually wasn’t the best sign, getting singled out to talk to the coach. Especially not during optional pre-season training and conditioning.
“What’s up?” he asked as casually as he could.
Thompkins nodded towards the doors that led to the offices a floor above, not to the player meeting rooms and locker rooms Ryan was used to. “Got a minute? Charlie wants a word with you.”
Shit. Charlie Monroe was the General Manager of the Baltimore Blue Crabs. If Ryan had been nervous about a one-on-one with Coach, it was nothing to how much he dreaded a talk with the GM.
“Sure.”
The two-minute walk was excruciating. Ryan filled it with useless chatter because that was the easiest way to avoid actual thinking. He asked Coach about his summer, how the wife and kids were doing, if he’d gotten any new suits for this year, if he was looking forward to starting the season with a homestand instead of travel. Every question was focused on Thompkins, his jokes aimed to make him smile or laugh and hopefully leave the impression that Ryan was a Good Guy, definitely worth keeping on the team and in the lineup.
Ryan really, really wanted to stay with Baltimore.
Not because of Baltimore itself, per se. He liked the city well enough, even if it didn’t snow much in the winter and was too humid in the summer. It was his longest stint with a single team, though, and he wanted to stay. He’d been drafted by the Austin Rangers, played a year with their AHL team before being unceremoniously moved from team to team as they tried to clear up cap space for star players or a more robust defensive line. He’d landed in Baltimore two and a half seasons ago, and his contract was up at the end of this season. He was really hoping to make a case to stay.
If they were meeting with him now, though, maybe he should’ve been making that case already.
They stepped into the office and Ryan was immediately assaulted with the Maryland-ness of it: a long window with a clear view of the harbor, a Maryland flag in the corner, a retro Crabs jersey made to look like Old Bay, and of course more Blue Crabs memorabilia than should feasibly fit in such a confined space. There was so much going on, his eyes couldn’t help from jumping from one thing to the next, never settling long before something else caught his attention.
“RJ!” Monroe greeted him warmly, snapping Ryan out of sensory overload. He stood up from his desk and came to shake his hand, motioning for both him and Thompkins to take a seat while he leaned against the front of his desk and crossed his arms. “How was your summer?”
“Good.” A pause. Normally, he’d butter Monroe up the way he’d tried with Thompkins, but he was starting to worry it was too late. Was he about to hear he needed to pack his bags and start looking for a new apartment? Anxiety made him shift his focus elsewhere. “I actually spent a month doing some clinics up in Vancouver to work on my face-offs.”
Monroe beamed at him. “Atta boy. You’re my best face-off guy. Keep it up.”
“I’ll try, sir.”
Monroe nodded, then his brow furrowed and he grew serious. “So I don’t know if you’ve heard the news yet” —Ryan’s heart sank— “but we’ve been in talks to get Lars Nilsson. We just signed him this morning, actually. Real exciting stuff.”
“Oh.” That was…literally the last way he’d expected Monroe to finish that sentence. Nilsson was a great center, definitely star caliber. Getting him on the Blue Crabs would be great for the team. And while Ryan had his own personal baggage associated with Lars Nilsson, no one knew about it except him and Lars, so he had absolutely no clue why Monroe and Thompkins had singled him out for a meeting. “That’s great.”
“It is great,” Thompkins agreed. Ryan turned his attention to him, wondering when this would start to make sense. “The thing is…he’s pretty adamant about keeping the number 14.”
Oh. Oh . Was that what this was about?
Ryan had a 14 on the corner of his team branded t-shirt, his last name RUSSELL on the collar. If Nilsson wanted to be 14 here, that would mean Ryan had to give it up.
“So…you want to give me a new number and give mine to Nilsson?”
Ryan hadn’t gotten to choose his own number since he entered the NHL and had worn a different one for each club he’d played for. He’d been assigned 14 when he got here and wasn’t particularly attached to the number so much as the jersey it was on.
“Would you mind?” Monroe asked with a pinched expression. Ryan wasn’t super clear on the protocol here, but he got the impression he could actually say no and they’d let him keep the number.
…aaand possibly alienate his GM, his coach, and his new teammate/former hookup in the process. All for a number he didn’t care about.
I kinda care about the principle of it. If it were someone else, would they be asking? Do they assume I'll say yes?
He pushed the thoughts aside. It didn’t matter, because he was going to say yes.
“It’s fine,” Ryan said with an almost genuine smile.
“We’ll get you squared away with a new number ASAP,” Thompkins promised.
I don’t get to pick? He almost said it out loud but bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself. What number would he even pick? He’d have to think about it, and that was about as embarrassing as them picking for him.
After he’d been drafted and they hadn’t given him the option, he’d pretty quickly learned his place. He wasn’t the type of player who had room to be attached to a number. He was lucky they made a show of asking him, and he should be relieved they were talking about people joining the team instead of him inevitably leaving it. Small win in the grand scheme of things, right?
“Awesome,” Ryan said half-heartedly. “Hey, when do you think La— Nilsson will be arriving?”
Thompkins looked to Monroe, who shrugged.
“He’s on the way,” Thompkins said. “I expect he’ll show up within the week, but since we haven’t spoken yet, I don’t know when he plans on officially coming in for training and promos.”
“Promos?” Ryan dramatically made a face and the other men laughed. The social media team was friendly enough, but they were incredibly dedicated to their jobs, which usually meant a lot of pictures and interviews. Before Baltimore, Ryan hadn’t been used to having a camera on him at all times. Hell, he wasn’t really used to it now, but at least he’d grown to expect it. They’d already snapped a few pics of him and some of the rookies in the gym, happily posting about each returning player’s appearance to fuel the fanbase’s excitement for the upcoming season.
“It’s not that bad,” Monroe said with a chuckle.
“It definitely is,” Thompkins countered. As GM, Monroe could escape most of the fanfare by hiding in his office. Thompkins had it almost as bad as the players. Since he had to show his face at games and practices, his every coaching decision was praised when the team did well and under intense scrutiny when they didn’t. Sometimes Ryan felt bad for him, since Ryan could usually get away with a smile and an apology that conveyed some degree of lol I’m just a dumb hockey player, don’t blame me .
Of course, Thompkins was also the one responsible for Ryan’s shift lengths, so he couldn’t feel too bad.
“I don’t know what RJ’s complaining about, though,” Thompkins continued. “The camera loves him. He gets more requests than anybody to participate in events, just for having a pretty face.”
Certainly not for his playing! seemed to be implied. Ryan laughed anyway. He could be offended when he had a new contract signed.
They chatted a little longer, Ryan’s heart not in it, before they let him go back to the gym. He felt he’d done a pretty admirable job of not freaking out as he finished an abbreviated version of his workout. He even managed not to sound constipated when he chatted with some of the other players who were there and told a joke to the training staff on his way out that got a few laughs. In all the ways that mattered, he resembled a fully functioning human being.
It was only once he locked himself in his car that the cracks started to show.
Lars Nilsson was going to be his teammate.
Lars Nilsson, NHL All Star and darling of Team Sweden would be playing with him. Here. In Baltimore.
Lars Nilsson, whose dick he’d had his hands on and whose lips he’d kissed and whose accent could still get him half hard if he listened to his interviews, was someone he would have to interact with on a daily basis in less than two weeks.
“Okay,” he said as he finally turned the car on. “I can do this. I can so do this.”
Who was he kidding? He couldn’t do this.
This was going to be so awkward, right? They’d have to dance around the fact that they’d hooked up and seen each other naked. Then they’d have to have that painful talk where they both agreed it was way in the past and not a big deal, except it would be weird as fuck in the locker room. And on plane rides or bus rides if they had to sit next to each other. Oh god, or when the team went out to drink together. Ryan would have to stay away from strawberry daiquiris (a guilty pleasure since Juniors) and hope Lars did the same, or?—
Or what, Ryan? he scolded himself. Or nothing. You’re making a big deal out of this when it doesn’t have to be. It really is ancient history, even if he is still painfully hot. You can be professional. You have to be professional. You want to stay on this team, remember? Don’t be a dummy.
“Don’t be a dummy,” he repeated out loud. He backed out of his spot and repeated the mantra over and over under his breath as he drove home. Maybe it’d sink in.
* * *
Spoiler: It didn’t sink in.
He was even more freaked out by the time he got home, the car ride doing nothing but giving him zero distractions from worst case scenarios. After he abandoned his car in the parking garage, instead of heading up to his fifth floor apartment, he made a beeline for the fourth floor and knocked on the door directly beneath his.
The door opened a crack, then swung open. Before he could get a word in, Ryan was enveloped in a bone crushing hug.
“Bro, what’s up?” Tanner let him go and pulled him into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind them. “How you been?”
“Good,” Ryan said automatically, then dropped his head. “Ugh, no, bad.”
Tanner nodded sagely, his shoulder length sandy hair bobbing with the movement. “Should’ve figured, if you were visiting me. Want some weed?”
“No, thanks.” He plopped down on the large leather sofa that took up half the living room, well away from the nest of blankets and the abandoned game controller in the middle.
Tanner gave him a disappointed look, as if Ryan had ever taken him up on that offer. “Beer, then?”
“Can’t. It’s preseason. I gotta get back into shape.”
Tanner eyed him skeptically. “You have a six-pack.”
“Right now it’s more of a two-pack.”
“That’s still way more pack than most people. Besides, I thought preseason wasn’t until August,” he said with a pout.
“It is August.”
“Is it? Shit. Time flies.” As lucky as Ryan had it playing in the NHL and making a decent salary, Tanner had it better. He’d created some app while he was still in high school, sold it to the highest bidder, and had retired to a life of video games and weed at the ripe old age of nineteen. He was twenty-three now, well set in his ways. Which included being chronically unaware of the passage of time. “Hey, you’re usually too busy to come chill when you're training. What’s up?”
“So remember how I mentioned that time in Switzerland?”
“With the hot blond guy?” Tanner tumbled back into his blankets and reached under the couch to grab a bong. “ ‘course I remember.”
“Well, turns out we’re going to be teammates.”
Tanner had just taken a hit and immediately started coughing. “Shit,” he managed between gasps. “For real?”
“For real,” he confirmed and let his head fall back against the couch. He stared up at the ceiling.
“You think it’s gonna be weird? Like, what if he’s still into you? Or you find out you’re still into him?”
Among other worries. “We work together. It could get really awkward, and I don’t want one night from seven or whatever years ago to jeopardize my job here.”
“That stinks. What are you gonna do about it?”
Ryan turned to Tanner, looking incredibly sympathetic but also ridiculous in his Captain Crunch t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Unfortunately for Ryan, there was no one more put together or adult to talk to about this.
“Nothing. What’s there to do? I don’t want to talk to him about it, because that’ll make it weird for sure.”
“For sure,” Tanner agreed. He took another hit from his bong as he considered Ryan’s predicament, then he lit up. “I know! You should get laid preemptively so you’re not all wound up when he gets here.”
Not a bad idea, except?—
“I don’t do hookups in town.” He’d learned years ago that while he was attracted to women, he preferred men. Sleeping with men was…challenging. There wouldn’t be any issues with the Blue Crabs—there never had been before—but he wouldn’t be in Baltimore forever and some clubs were weird about that. Even if he stuck to women, it got messy too close to home. The anonymity of being out of town was the only way he felt comfortable approaching anyone.
Tanner wilted. “Shit, I forgot. Unless you wanna take a road trip up to Philly or?—?”
“No. Bad timing.” The only thing worse than being there when Lars showed up was not being there. Plus he had to train; he’d let himself get too lazy over the summer. “Sorry, but thanks for trying.”
“Well…” Tanner floundered for a moment. “You’ve seen him since then, right? It shouldn’t be too bad.”
Ryan grimaced. “Sort of. We’ve crossed paths a few times during games. We’re both centers so sometimes I go against him in the face-off.”
Lars had never spoken to him, so locked into the game that he seemed to be oblivious to the other team. At first Ryan had waited for them to make eye contact and…something. A wink? A shared smile? A joke about Geneva? He hadn’t really thought it through on his end, and kinda hoped Lars would take over. It was a half dozen games before he picked up that Lars legitimately didn’t care who was playing against most of the time. Every face-off, he never took his eyes off the puck.
Probably why Ryan had lost a lot of those face-offs; he’d been too busy staring at Lars.
“And he hasn’t said anything before?”
“Nope.” He let the word pop as it left his mouth. It didn’t do much to make him feel better, but it felt nice.
“That’s great!”
“It is?” Ryan frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“You’re worried it’s gonna be weird, but the guy has already proven he’s chill about it. So no problemo, you just follow his lead. Do the hockey things.”
Tanner Greenwood has attended exactly one hockey game in his life, and that was when Ryan first moved in. Ryan was trying to make a friend and Tanner was attempting to be supportive. Turns out he knew absolutely nothing about hockey, nor did he seem inclined to change that. But he was the biggest Ryan Russell fan outside of his home state of Montana. Ryan appreciated the enthusiasm.
“I’ll do the hockey things,” he said. No specifics needed. “But what if?—?”
“No, dude. No what if’s. Just do your thing. You’re both the same hockey thing, right?”
This was actually an issue that Ryan was avoiding at the moment: one more center meant someone got pushed out of the lineup. Probably one of the younger players on a 2-way contract with the AHL farm team, which would suck. There was some hope, since their previous first line center had retired, but still, it put more pressure on Ryan to play well so that he kept his spot on the team over one of their up-and-coming draft picks. Someone equal to Lars’s talent.
When he joined the league, Ryan had been that up-and-comer who’d been overlooked and pushed out; he knew firsthand it was a shitty position to be in.
Instead of explaining any of this to Tanner, he just nodded.
“So you shouldn’t even have to hockey at the same time very much. See! Easy peasy. Worrying for nothing.”
He echoed Ryan’s earlier pep talk, which did help settle his nerves. He didn’t necessarily buy that it would be “easy peasy,” but he had been talked down from doomsday scenarios.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Anytime, bro.” Tanner handed him a controller. “Wanna play?”
Ryan powered it on, ready to let his worries disappear under hours of mind-numbing first-person shooters. “Sure.”