Page 31 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 21

Lars

Seven Years Earlier

Lars was in one of those deep sleeps where no dreams, nothing even resembling a thought, took shape. The kind that made it hard for his brain to boot back up when an annoying, grating ring broke through the nothingness. He frowned and rolled over, sighing in contentment as he found another warm body next to him. The ringing didn’t stop.

And that’s when it clicked that it was a fucking phone.

Lars jolted awake. The person next to him stirred slightly, and he shushed them gently, patting their back before scrambling to find his phone. Except it was the hotel telephone beeping indignantly at him, so he picked it up and disappeared into the bathroom so he wouldn’t disturb…whoever the fuck was in bed with him.

“Hello?” he asked, opting for English because he wasn’t one hundred percent sure where he was except that it wasn’t Sweden.

“Pick up your fucking phone when people call you.” Swedish. Angry Swedish.

Ugh. Anders.

“It ran out of battery last night,” he grumbled back defensively, also in Swedish. It had been a dead weight in his pocket most of the evening. Given how he was a lovely combination of still drunk and hungover, it was probably for the best that he hadn’t had access to it while he was that far gone. “I was sleeping. I haven’t charged it yet.”

Why did talking to his brother always make him feel like a child?

“Look.” He could tell it was Anders’s “I’m doing my best to remain patient with you but I’m all out of patience” voice. “I need you to pack up and get your ass to Gothenburg.”

“What? We’re scheduled to fly out this evening?—”

“Morfar’s in the hospital. He had a stroke.”

Luckily Lars had already been braced against the vanity, or he’d have fallen. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. What was he supposed to say? His head had only just registered the words but they hadn’t reached his heart yet.

“Are you there?”

“Yes,” Lars croaked. “Sorry. Yes. I’ll…I’ll do that.”

“I need you to fly out there to help Mormor. She’s distraught about Morfar and she’s worried because we couldn’t reach you.”

He nodded, realized his brother couldn’t see him, and forced out, “I’m coming. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry anyone.” He was definitely less drunk now, but was regretting the growing hangover. “Are you already on a plane?—?”

A pause. “Lars.”

Oh.

“You’re not coming?” Anger shot through him. “Morfar’s had a stroke and you’re not?—”

“I can’t .”

“It’s just a few fucking games. Your team will understand. Your grandfather’s in the hospital?—”

“You think I give a shit about the NHL? You think I care about hockey more than my family?” It was lucky he steamrolled right ahead, or Lars would’ve answered and neither of them would’ve been happy rehashing that argument. “You know Amanda’s due any day now. I can’t leave her alone with Astrid to have a baby.”

Lars wanted to call him out, to say he absolutely could find a way if he actually wanted to…but he didn’t bother. If it had been back when Anders first moved, Lars would’ve been right. He’d had no one but himself to watch out for in North America, and even back then he’d come for a week in summer at best. As soon as he married Amanda, Lars couldn’t really complain without feeling like an ass. They were married, and now there were kids involved. Anders’ responsibilities weren’t in Sweden, and Lars felt like a dick for being upset about it.

“Right,” he said. “I’ll pack and head to the airport. I’ll charge my phone and call Mormor. I’ll be there.”

Anders’ relief was palpable, even with an ocean between them. “Good. Keep me updated.”

“Sure,” he lied. He’d leave that to Mormor, since Mormor and Anders actually enjoyed talking to each other. “Send pictures when the baby’s born.”

Anders grunted what was presumably a confirmation. Lars was about to hang up, when Anders said, “Congrats on gold, by the way. You had a good game.” Then the call ended, giving Anders the last word.

“Easy to have the last word when you’re the one ending the call, prick,” Lars grumbled. He allowed himself five seconds to quietly fall apart, then he pulled all the pieces back together and set to work.

As quietly as he could, he grabbed his stuff and shoved it in his duffle bag. He got enough charge on his phone to start looking at flights. The only thing left before he headed down to the lobby was…

Lars looked at the sleeping figure in the bed. It was dark—he’d only used the bathroom light—but he could make out a well-sculpted body and dark hair. He groaned internally, wishing he could go back to bed and enjoy round two in the morning. He thought about leaving a note, but decided against it. There was never going to be anything past breakfast for them, and he honestly couldn’t handle the extra social interaction right now, even if it was one-sided.

Putting the prior night behind him, he opened the hotel door and quietly slipped out. Let the past stay the past; he had a future to worry about.

* * *

Present Day

Pacing the length of his hotel room, Lars chewed his thumb and tried to figure out what the fuck had just happened. Had he been wrong about him and Ryan? Had he read too much into things and pushed where he wasn’t wanted?

He reached the window and turned around again.

What had Ryan said? That Lars had forgotten him?

It seemed impossible, but he also knew full well that few players made a lasting impression on him. They were about the same age and had been playing against each other for years: their paths had definitely crossed, but maybe more than Lars had previously assumed.

He stopped short on his next lap and went to grab his tablet. Ryan wouldn’t have said that if it weren’t important, and though he’d have appreciated more insight, he could do himself the favor of trying to figure it out. Plopping down on the edge of his bed, he closed out of his ebook and opened up a search for “Ryan Russell, NHL center.” On the hotel stationary, he started mapping out Ryan’s career, his previous teams before the Crabs. Then he pulled up old schedules where their history overlapped. Seventeen games prior to the start of this season where they faced each other.

Through YouTube and NHL.com highlights, he watched old games through the new lens of him and Ryan. He watched faceoffs and their opposing Power Play and Penalty Kill units. Ryan was fantastic as always, shutting down the Prowlers again and again. But he couldn’t see a moment, couldn’t pinpoint anything that would explain Ryan’s hurt.

He’d gone all the way back to their rookie season with nothing to show for it. With growing dread, he pulled up Ryan’s career tab again and scrolled down to his pre-NHL career.

It didn’t take long to find it. There were North American and American youth teams, but the obvious stand out was the World Junior Championship nearly eight years ago, hosted in Geneva, Switzerland.

All the strange references Ryan had made to Switzerland came to mind, and suddenly he understood what Ryan was poking at, the things he was trying to shake loose in Lars’s mind.

He was afraid of what he was about to find. He hoped, prayed, that he was mistaken in thinking he hadn’t even played Team USA that year. Maybe some insult there was the bitter memory Ryan was nursing.

He didn’t think Ryan was that petty and wasn’t surprised that he was correct: he hadn’t faced the American team that year. They’d have had no reason to interact at all that tournament. Unless, of course…

Lars pulled up an old picture of Ryan from Juniors. There was no way to avoid recognizing him, seeing the full grown version hidden in youthful features, but the familiarity that hit him was…different.

“ Fan ocks? ,” he cursed. He gripped the edges of his tablet and tried very hard not to bang his head against it.

Lars had taken his jersey number. Lars had gotten his name wrong for weeks. And, the crowning achievement that Ryan couldn’t overlook, he’d had sex with him years ago and then completely forgotten about it.

He looked into the mirror next to the bed, his own guilty face staring back at him. “You’re lucky he ever talked to you at all,” it seemed to say to him.

“He could’ve said something,” he said weakly, but that wasn’t fair. While Lars was definitely the type to casually bring up a one night stand and tease his partner about it, Ryan wasn’t that person. All of Ryan’s effort went into being easygoing and likable. Even when teammates said bizarre or borderline rude shit to him, he brushed it off with a laugh or a joke. He would absolutely avoid the mutual embarrassment of bringing this sort of thing up. The man hadn’t even wanted to correct Lars about his name; this would’ve been a million times more awkward.

He and his reflection agreed that he was the asshole here; he turned away in disgust.

“Great,” he said, still trying to reevaluate all of their interactions over the past few months in light of this new information. Ryan was hurt, obviously, but he also seemed open to starting something up again. That was a plus.

“So I just have to fix this,” he reasoned. “I’ll make it up to him, show him I care, and we can start over.”

Great idea, in theory. His heart swelled with hope while his head reminded him he had no idea how to do that. It was a starting point, though, and he took comfort in knowing this was a setback and not an ending.

* * *

Ryan was long gone from breakfast by the time Lars made it down. He’d slept in as late as possible, still only managing two hours of actual sleep, and hoped that caffeine would be enough to keep him functional.

He was a little hurt but unsurprised to find Ryan already sitting next to someone on the bus, and he tried not to take it personally when he chose a locker stall far from Lars. It was absolutely personal, but still. He understood the reasons for it. For the first time since they’d “met,” Lars finally did understand all the reasons for everything.

It wasn’t until a slight break in practice that Lars was finally able to get close to Ryan. He hadn’t consciously made the decision to do it; he’d been staring at Ryan all morning and hadn’t realized he’d drifted over to him until they were alone at one corner of the rink where Ryan was stick handling while pointedly not watching Lars approach.

“What’s up?” Ryan asked. It was his media voice, the overly friendly one that hadn’t sounded fake until that moment.

“Your hair was longer,” Lars blurted out. He’d spent most of the morning trying to map the faint memories he had and the pictures he’d seen onto this adult version of Ryan. “And you were skinnier. Lanky? Is that the word?” His eyes roamed appreciatively over Ryan’s chest, well aware of the broad shoulders and toned chest hidden beneath his jersey and gear.

Ryan froze, the puck sliding off his blade and disappearing down the ice. He still didn’t look up, but it was obvious his full attention was on Lars.

“I’d like to apologize for…” There was a lot, and he floundered trying to figure out where to start. Duh, the beginning. “Sorry for not being there the next morning or explaining. It was shitty to do that.”

Ryan straightened up and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Not gonna lie. I wondered about that.”

Lars grimaced. “A family thing came up, and I got distracted. I still should’ve said something, but I was eighteen and dumb. Now I’m twenty-five and dumb, but, y’know, more…responsible about it.”

“What family thing?” There wasn’t suspicion so much as curiosity, and Lars knew it was an invitation to be as forthcoming or quiet as he’d like.

“Oh, uh.” Lars didn’t like talking about this with…anyone, actually. He didn’t even talk about this stuff with Mormor anymore. He deflected or quietly waited for Mormor to finish whatever memory she wanted to express, but he didn’t say shit about any of it if he could help it. Not the personal parts. So his first instinct was to try and distract Ryan, until he realized he didn’t want to. That defensive reaction had somehow been completely bypassed, and he found himself answering more honestly than he ever did. “My morfar, my grandpa, he’d had a stroke. I had to get back to Sweden to help my mormor and…” He shrugged, embarrassed. “I was young, hungover, and stressed. I left.”

“I'm sorry, but what? Your morfar”—Lars’s stomach did an uncomfortable somersault when Ryan used the Swedish word instead of the English one like people usually did—“had a stroke? Jesus, Lars, maybe lead with that.”

“I didn’t want to make it seem like I was trying to justify my behavior.”

“Which I appreciate,” Ryan said, “but you can still, like, contextualize it.”

“I—” They were interrupted by Coach Thompkins blowing a whistle and shouting directions that inevitably took them to opposite ends of the rink.

The next time there was a break, Lars purposefully sought Ryan out.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asked with a hint of actual concern. “Because you’ve been playing like butt?—”

“I was very drunk,” he interrupted. “I don’t remember anything after we opened champagne in the locker room. I really am sorry.”

Ryan paused, almost as if he were frozen, until the words seemed to sink in. “It’s fine.” He took in Lars’s doubtful expression, then punched his shoulder lightly. Very bro-like. Lars didn’t care for it. “Seriously. Don’t worry about it. I’m over it. It was years ago.”

“Over it,” he repeated carefully, the words heavy on his tongue. “Over being upset with me or…over me?”

This time, Ryan looked around to make sure they were alone. “The first one,” he said quietly.

Encouraged, Lars said in a rush, “Maybe we could start over? Like pretend I got traded today and we’re meeting for the first time since Switzerland.”

“So forget the part where you were an ass and start fresh?”

Lars’s eyes narrowed. Apparently he’d been bad enough to get Ryan to use a real swear word. “And the part where you neglected to tell me I didn’t know your name.” He held up his hands defensively and cut off Ryan’s attempt to interrupt. “I know, not as bad. Just saying we both might like a re-do. We can do better, right?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said with an indulgent sigh. “We can.”

Lars took off his right glove and offered his hand. “I’m Lars Nilsson. I think we met back in Juniors.”

Ryan stared at his hand before shrugging and taking off his glove. They shook hands, the touch electric until Ryan pulled away.

“We did,” Ryan said, a smile lurking at the corner of his lips. “Don’t let that give you any ideas, though,” he said sternly as he put his glove back on. “I’m not a dumb kid anymore.”

“No.” He let his gaze trail over him. “You’re definitely not.”

The whistle blew, and they had to split up again, depriving Lars the chance to see what effect his words had on Ryan.

“Nilsson! Russell! Whatever you knuckleheads are doing, get your asses over here. I need my centers.”

They didn’t get a chance to talk again during practice. As though sensing he was giving the team too much leeway, Coach Thompkins held them twenty minutes longer than scheduled. They barely got to stop long enough to grab their water bottles between sets, and they were all too busy gulping down water to say much of anything to anyone.

“Alright, get outta here,” Thompkins said, earning a tired but appreciative response from the team. The trickle to the locker room showed how tired they were. How tired most of them were, anyway. Lars was still going strong, thanks mostly to being too distracted to put in 100% effort. He’d been staring at Ryan all practice, willing his mind to fully remember that shared night in the exquisite detail it deserved.

“You’re staring again,” Ryan said when they were alone in the locker room waiting for the showers to free up.

“I can’t help it. You’re hot.” He enjoyed watching Ryan’s cheeks brighten. “I’m just annoyed that eighteen-year-old me got to fuck you, and he barely knew what he was doing. Imagine what I could do to you?—”

“Jesus,” Ryan muttered as Vorny and Pavel sauntered in. The illusion of privacy vanished with their loud arrival. There was a hint of unease in the way Ryan kept his gaze down, so Lars decided to check his flirting. It was for the best: if he was actually going to learn anything from the Portland incident, it should be to keep it together at practice and games. In the privacy of their free time, well, then it was only Ryan’s business what Lars decided to say.

He’d allowed his excited embarrassment to get the better of him today; he’d have to show he could do better.

He slid down the bench a few inches so there was a more obvious gap between them. “Video games again tonight?” he asked hopefully but was unsurprised when Ryan shook his head.

“Maybe not a good idea,” he said apologetically. “This is…a lot.”

It was. It was already a lot when he’d thought it was an issue of Ryan’s self-confidence and being teammates. It’d become more complicated in the face of Switzerland and the way Ryan no doubt thought it justified his low self worth.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Lars said with a wink.

“You’re literally getting on a plane tomorrow night and going to Anaheim. And then Houston before Baltimore?—”

“Ha!” Lars leaned over to gently slap Ryan’s knee. “You know what I mean.”

The rest of the day, Lars got the distinct impression Ryan was avoiding him. It reminded him of when he’d first come to Baltimore and Ryan had maintained a fake-but-strained good humor with him. At least this time he understood the motivation behind it, and maybe even applauded his effort to maintain space while the world slowly fell back into place after last night. Honestly, Lars didn’t have the self-control to pull it off right now, so good on Ryan for doing it for them.

On the bright side, it gave Lars the chance to talk to other teammates, to wheedle out of them more details about Ryan. He wasn’t too aggressive about it, mostly nudging the conversation to the past couple seasons. Leading questions that told him more about Ryan as a player, or sometimes general questions about Ryan’s hobbies and interests where he could glean details about him as a person. Some of what they said confirmed things he’d noticed—Ryan’s favorite pregame meal, his taste in music, his work with local youth teams. Others were delightful new tidbits: the battered Montana Mustangs jersey from his youth that he wore to one practice as a joke, the Crabs blazer a fan made for him and that he wore to fan appreciation night at the end of the season, the time he missed a week because his mom was in a car accident.

It was all so Ryan , and Lars delighted in it.

It was almost like being drunk, the bubbly nerves that were a living, breathing thing in his chest. He’d been so sure only a month ago that he could keep his crush under control, not stoke the flames, and let it burn out on its own. Too late, he’d realized it was never going to work. Now he had to do the best he could with the consequences of his actions while wanting nothing more than to know what it was like to kiss Ryan Russell one more time.

Despite Ryan avoiding him all day, it was some mutual finangling that had them alone on the elevator ride back up to their rooms hours later. The anticipation had made Lars cautious, like he had to use this private moment wisely.

“I don’t know if this helps,” Lars said once they passed the third floor and neither had spoken, worried Ryan wouldn’t hear him out, “but my wanting to kiss you isn’t related to hockey. Sometimes watching you play is sexy as fuck, but that’s really just because you’re sexy. Even if you did play as badly as you think you do—which you don’t, by the way—that wouldn’t change anything for me. And I’m sorry if what happened after Geneva made you think that.”

Ryan didn’t react. He didn’t breathe or blink, only the small vein bulging in his neck giving away how very hard he was working to not react.

“But,” Lars continued, “I am still interested. In you. As much as you’d be up for. Even if it’s just movies on the plane and video games on road trips and the occasional dinner at Rangoons.”

“You sure?” Ryan asked softly. “That you’re interested in me, I mean.”

The dramatic part of him, the one that always showed up versus the Otters or for Team Sweden, wanted to press the emergency stop on the elevator. Because how could he be expected to let Ryan say shit like that and not do something? He reeled in the impulse, settling for stepping right in front of Ryan and invading his personal space.

“I’ve met you twice, yes? And both times, you mesmerized me. We’re on our third try, aren’t we? What’s that saying?”

“Three strikes and you’re out?” Ryan said flatly.

Lars huffed indignantly. This stupid language. “Third time’s the charm.”

The elevator pinged and came to a less-than-smooth stop on their floor. When the doors swished open, cool air greeted them and effectively let out the stuffy tension that had been building since the lobby.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Lars said as he stepped out, hands in his pockets like he was relaxed and not about to have a heart attack, “you know where to find me.” And with a monumental effort, he made himself walk away.