Page 4 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 3

Lars

Lars didn’t know shit about the Baltimore Blue Crabs.

Yes, he’d played them twice a year every year, but he hadn’t actually paid any attention to them. Most of his time was spent focusing on Western Conference teams he saw all the time and had to compete with for playoff positions. By February, he couldn’t give a shit about the East, not until the Stanley Cup Finals.

Which was an excuse that was fine when he’d been in Portland. It was a shitty excuse now that he’d officially signed off on the trade and was on a flight to Baltimore.

When he’d first been drafted by the Prowlers, he’d spent hours going through the team history and learning the roster so he’d know his teammates before actually meeting them. He’d been a little overzealous about it, but he’d been young and determined to make his mark, to prove he deserved being a first round pick.

To prove to Anders that you could be good and still care about your family.

Now he was simply too mentally worn out to make the effort. He’d flipped through posts on the team’s social media accounts, getting more of a vibe for the club and fanbase than learning anything substantial. He wasn’t ready to put 100% of himself into another team after the way he’d been treated by Mackey. What was the point of all that extra, non-hockey effort when he could be pushed out like he didn’t matter? They wanted him to play hockey and win games, which he was confident he could do without memorizing stats on his future teammates.

Current teammates? Whatever.

When he arrived, he wanted nothing more than to sleep for the next week, but there was a driver waiting out front for him, ready to take him to the team’s facility. Like an idiot, he’d agreed to the suggestion when he’d spoken briefly to Coach Thompkins, and he wasn’t enough of a dick to change his mind now.

He allowed himself a whole thirty seconds of hiding behind a pillar, mentally preparing himself for what he hoped wasn’t a total shitshow, before plastering on his best smile and walking confidently toward the car.

* * *

The Blue Crabs’s facilities were…fine. Not nearly as nice as what he’d had in Portland, but they were clean and well kept even if there weren’t any of the extra bells and whistles he’d kind of assumed were part of any team’s space. He didn’t look around too much, afraid to let even a trace of disappointment curdle in his gut.

A chatty assistant babbled about the upcoming training schedule as she walked him past the rink, the locker rooms, the gym, up some stairs, and through a corridor of offices at the very far end of the building. The walls were lined with photographs, some new and flashy while others had an old, grainy quality that depicted players long gone. The few that pictured the Stanley Cup were among the more weathered photos; Lars tried not to think about that.

“Here we are!” She stopped abruptly at a large oak door with the nameplate Charlie Monroe . She knocked and opened the door without waiting for a response. “Mr. Monroe, Mr. Nilsson’s here.” And then she disappeared before Lars had even gotten a chance to step into the room properly.

“Good to meet you!” Charlie Monroe stood from his desk, grinning widely as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. They shook hands and Lars uncomfortably took a seat across from him. “How are you enjoying Baltimore so far?”

Lars shrugged. He hadn’t seen much on the drive from the airport. “Baltimore” was still an unknown quantity, something he could only vaguely remember from previous visits.

“It’s fine,” he said, then offered an almost charming smile. If he weren’t so tired, he might’ve been able to put in a bit more effort; as it was, he was happy just to keep his eyes open.

Monroe nodded, thankfully unoffended by his new center’s apparent apathy. “Always an adjustment. We’ve got some people who can help you get settled in, if you need help finding a place or?—”

“I have a place,” he said. He’d never stepped into the apartment he’d found online and had all his stuff shipped to. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if his stuff had arrived; like any road trip, all he had was his gear and whatever he could fit in a suitcase. But the place existed and there was hopefully at least his couch there, waiting to give him a place to crash.

“Good,” Monroe said, and then, sensing Lars wasn’t interested in small talk, changed tacks. “We’re still in optional preseason training. Only a few guys here, mostly the North American players.”

If Lars remembered the roster correctly, that was more than half of the Baltimore Blue Crabs. They didn’t have many European-born players, at least not ones they chose to feature on social media posts, and he wondered if that was by design or accident. There certainly weren’t any other Swedes, which only served to make him feel even more isolated. “When am I officially expected to start?”

“Week and a half. I’ll get you the schedule. If you’re up for it, we could get you some interviews with our media team ahead of that.”

He left the offer hanging, and Lars was glad it sounded like an actual offer instead of an order framed like a request.

“I’d rather not,” Lars said. “Obviously, I’ll have to talk to them eventually, but…”

But I haven’t figured out what I’m going to say. How can I explain leaving the team that drafted me? How do I avoid sounding bitter about it? How am I supposed to stomach saving face for that dickhead Mackey?

“That’s fine. No rush. It’d be great to get your face out there in a Blue Crabs jersey, but we’ll let the rumor mill do its work generating interest before we do an official reveal.” Monroe hesitated before casually adding, “Robert told me why he wanted you gone.”

Lars bristled, suddenly more awake. “That fucker,” he growled under his breath.

Monroe held up both hands. “I wanted to be up front with you. I couldn’t understand why I was getting one of the league’s best for such a good deal. I’m an idiot like that, looking a gift horse in the mouth, but I worried there was an injury or drinking problem or something they were trying to hide. Mackey and I go way back. My dad used to work with him in Toronto, so I figured if I asked, he’d tell me the truth.” A pause. “And he did.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Lars said automatically. “I got careless, but I really can keep my personal business out of?—”

“You’re right,” Monroe interrupted. “It won’t be a problem, because I don’t care. Granted, I’d prefer it not to be with a member of my staff, but your sexuality is a non-issue here. And I don’t mean in that bullshit ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ kinda way. You wanna be public, then be public and you have our support. You don’t want it to be public, then don’t. I’m not here to micromanage anything my players do, and Coach Thompkins doesn’t care what his players do off the ice so long as they perform on it.”

Embarrassing as it was, Lars’s jaw had dropped and he was openly gaping at Charlie Monroe. The words, the carte blanche to be himself in any capacity he wanted, didn’t compute. Even Team Sweden, who’d loved him for his play and for being his father’s son, had made it clear that he had to keep in line. Drunken flirting and they could look the other way; being openly gay was not an option.

“I don’t…” He swallowed and tried again. “Are any of the other players…?”

“Some current and former players are out among the team, but I don’t think any of them have made any public declaration or anything like that. They know they can, but the league and the public aren’t always as…supportive as they should be.”

Don’t I know it, he thought.

“Well, thank you.” Lars didn’t know what else to say.

“You’re welcome. Wanted to clear the air, make sure we understood each other.”

“I appreciate that,” he said, and he meant it. As humiliating as he thought it’d be to have the incident in Portland known to his new boss, he was glad to know where they stood. More importantly, he was glad he didn’t have to tiptoe around everyone here. “I don’t know what I’ll say about the trade. I don’t want people to know the details, but I feel like I have to make an excuse or lie, and I don’t want to do that either.”

“My advice?” Monroe leaned forward across his desk. “Don’t lie. Say you needed a change of pace, which I think you’ll find is true. You weren’t in a rut by any means, but sometimes a player of your caliber needs a challenge. You won for Portland, and now you can help us win.”

That might work. Frame it as his competitive nature wanting a challenge. And the Blue Crabs were definitely a challenge. They hadn’t won a Cup in some forty-odd years, their one and only win coming within a decade of the team’s founding. They’d come close a few times (maybe…he’d have to double check the team’s history to be sure), but the team had seen some rough times, to put it mildly.

They’d been trash, if he was being honest.

“I’ll do my best to help the team,” Lars said. Because he was feeling charitable to Monroe right now, he added, “But I don’t see a Cup coming this season.”

Monroe stifled a snort. “I’m not expecting miracles, Lars. Making the playoffs would be enough of a change of pace for us. But this might be a discussion to pin until January, maybe late November at the earliest.”

Was Charlie Monroe even real? Lars didn’t think it was possible for a GM to be so laid back, so nonchalant about the team’s chances.

“So you don’t want us to win the Stanley Cup?”

“Make no mistake, I want that damn Cup. I want it each and every year, but I didn’t get where I am by being anything but a realist. This team’s been in a rebuild phase for too long with nothing to show for it. Not bad enough to get high draft picks, not good enough to make the playoffs. I’m telling you this because you seem like the kind of player who can handle it, but there’s pressure on you here. You specifically. I can get some real traction going for us if you do well here, draw in some more talent to help bolster the roster. So you get out there, you score some goals, you win us some games. But I don’t want you to think it’s Stanley Cup or bust. You’re not a failure if you don’t get it this year or next. Keep that in mind.”

“Yes, sir.” He wasn’t sure about the rest of it, but Lars liked knowing there was a spotlight on him. He did his best work when he knew his team trusted and depended on him.

“I know you’re probably beat, but I’d love to give you a tour of the facility.”

Already in a better mood than he’d been in for over a month, Lars gave in. “Sure.”

* * *

Again, Lars was underwhelmed by what he saw. There was nothing bad , it just lacked in small ways. No barista making coffee and protein shakes to order. No ping pong table in the player lounge. No fancy murals of the team winning the Cup.

Well, that last one wasn’t really fair. And he could do something to inspire a change on that front.

They ended at the gym where about a half dozen guys were in the middle of working out. Some were on treadmills, zoned out to the world, while the others were huddled around the squat rack and talking loudly. When they noticed Monroe approaching, their chatter died down.

When they recognized Lars, their jaws dropped.

“Morning, boys!” Monroe said happily. “News hasn’t officially hit yet, but welcome your new teammate. Lars, meet Jonathan, Peter, Morgan, Ryan, and Connor.”

And then they were shaking hands while Lars tried desperately to remember names and faces. Johnny. Pete. Morgan. Brian. Connor. Maybe this was a bad idea—he was too fucking tired for this interpersonal stuff. He needed to make an escape before the treadmill guys realized what was going on and he had more names to deal with.

“Nice to meet you,” he said with a crooked grin that probably went nowhere near his eyes. “Can’t wait to play with you guys this season.”

They shook hands, four of them looking at him in wide-eyed awe. Less so Brian, who looked bored. Lars was used to a lot of different reactions when meeting other players, and honestly the star-struck ones made him the most wary. They didn’t quite view him as a person, with expectations that could only be shattered. It usually didn’t last long if they actually played with Lars, and the hero worship became something more…normal. Easier for Lars to navigate, anyway. He was also used to compliments, used to people seeing him as a challenge, and used to pretty much everything except boredom.

“I’m sure you wanna talk his ear off,” Monroe said as he put a hand on Lars’s shoulder and started steering him back the way they’d come, “but I’m going to need to steal Lars away. There’ll be plenty of time to get to know him when training officially starts.”

The disappointment Lars saw on their faces was in direct contrast to the relief he felt as he was guided out the door. Before he left, he turned back. He didn’t know why, couldn’t explain where the impulse came from, but without meaning to, he stole a glance over his shoulder. Four of them were still looking his way, talking excitedly, and the guys on the treadmill were starting to realize something had happened.

Brian had his back to the door, carefully loading the squat bar and getting ready for a set. It was like he’d forgotten Lars had even been there. Or more likely, didn’t care.

Huh.

Again, a new feeling took root in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know what it was yet, but Monroe was talking and the air was getting colder as they neared the rink. Later, after a nap and a shower and at least two thousand calories of food, he could figure it out.

* * *

The apartment wasn’t bad. The main plus was that his stuff had arrived, the moving company having left most of it in boxes but getting the bigger pieces like his bed and couch in the correct room, if not the best spot. In a few weeks, maybe it’d start to feel like home.

The apartment itself was much like the pictures he’d seen online: a large, open concept living space with the original brickwork visible on one half while sleek, modern lines filled in the rest. Large windows looked over rooftops to give a hint of the bay, but mostly just other expensive apartments and high-end shops. He’d get blackout curtains eventually, but for now it was a good reminder that he wasn’t in Portland.

The kitchen was updated—which Lars appreciated, even if he didn’t plan to use much more than the microwave and fridge until he’d settled in more—and the high ceilings made it feel bigger than it was.

Bigger than his old place, that was for sure.

The lone bedroom was huge, with a massive closet that might actually fit all his awards and mementos, and a seriously nice bathroom that looked incredibly inviting. If he weren’t afraid he’d fall asleep on the wooden bench, he’d take a hot shower and ease some of the tension out of his shoulders. But his bed was calling his name, even if he couldn’t find his sheets and had to settle for wrapping himself in his big down comforter.

When he next opened his eyes, the dwindling afternoon light was gone, replaced with darkness and the glow of streetlights floors below. He pulled the blanket tighter around him and tried to go back to sleep, but the strangeness of the new space wouldn’t let him. With a sigh, he reached blindly for his phone where he’d dumped it on the floor and hoped he could settle himself with some mindless scrolling.

It didn’t work. He ended up on Instagram where the Blue Crabs had posted a vague hint that something big was coming, and he winced. Lars knew better than to read the comments, just like he knew better than to check the Prowlers’ page to see if they’d mentioned his leaving. Instead, he clicked on the Blue Crabs’s page and started looking through it with renewed interest. He had a few names now, and he saw a few of them in the posts from last season. Connor and Morgan were defenseman, it seemed, and Johnny and Pete were young forwards with a few posts about milestones they’d achieved like “first career multi-goal game” and “first overtime goal.”

Brian, though? There were a ton of posts about him. He seemed to be a fan favorite, and Lars could see why. He was definitely attractive, the captions filled with heart eyes and fire emojis that were more than earned. Short brown hair framing coal-dark eyes, a chiseled jaw, kissable lips, and a smile that would make anyone melt. The few videos of him showed he was a decent player (not up to Lars’s caliber, he noted, then rolled his eyes at how snobby that sounded), the type of grinder who could win you those hard fought games you maybe had no business winning. They referred to him as RJ, which okay, weird, but Lars knew plenty of players acquired weird nicknames that they didn’t really have any control over. Some things just stuck.

As Lars stared at the pictures (and there were a lot , more than any other player except the goalie), he couldn’t help but wonder why this guy gave exactly zero shits about Lars joining the team.

Lars’s finger hung over the tag to Brian’s (RJ’s?) personal account, but he drew the line at clicking it. He was already obsessing a dangerous amount, especially when he had zero interest in checking out his other teammates. Hadn’t he just gotten himself unceremoniously kicked off a team for not being able to control himself? No, he’d leave Brian alone and focus on hockey. Shouldn’t be too hard, since it seemed like the guy wanted to do the same.

Pity, though. He was really good looking.