Page 45 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 31

Lars

It wasn’t like he’d never lost teammates before. Lars had been on the Prowlers long enough to see players come and go. Some he’d barely known. Some he hadn’t even liked. There’d been a few, ones he knew better from being linemates or hanging out, that he’d kind of missed. But he’d never felt anyone’s absence. He’d noticed they were gone, waded through the somber, heavy atmosphere in the locker room as the team pretended they hadn’t lost a friend all while having to put on a smile to welcome their replacement.

Lars felt Ryan’s loss.

It wasn’t just in the locker room or on the bench. It was every moment of every day. All the places in his life that Ryan used to occupy and were suddenly empty. No one to carpool with. No buddy on the bus or the plane. Meals alone, a lonely bed, quiet in his condo that the TV and music did nothing to fill.

It was like he had a hole inside him, and he couldn’t fix it.

The Crabs reeled a little at the loss, blindsided by it as much as he was. Lars enjoyed that the other players struggled, because it meant they had to recognize that they’d lost a key piece of the team. He also resented that they somehow thought their loss was in any way equal to his. And then two new guys appeared, one to take over as center and one to make the defense fight amongst themselves to keep a spot in the lineup. Lars kept out of it, and did his best to be distantly polite to the new center.

He played like shit, too. If he was lucky, he could fall into the game and disassociate long enough to score. His production definitely suffered, but they played mostly struggling teams and he was able to rely on muscle memory to get by. It hadn’t gotten so bad that Thompkins had said anything, but Lars knew his play sucked.

His heart wasn’t in it.

On some level, he understood it was his fault. Not the trade, obviously, though maybe if he hadn’t pushed Ryan into the limelight, other teams wouldn’t have noticed him. But his current loneliness and isolation from Ryan were definitely his fault. He had plenty of texts where Ryan had reached out to bridge the gap, to at least stay friendly until they could talk in person and figure out the other parts.

The texts had trickled to a stop, almost assuredly because Lars never sent a genuine response and had never initiated one.

arrived in Cincinnati

game in a few hours. I haven’t even had a practice

with these guys and they put me on the top line

Hope I don’t blow it

you’ll do fine

good luck

got a place downtown

(Picture of a view from high up overlooking the city)

saw some stuff on insta from the crabs

You growing a beard?

almost playoffs

Getting an early start

miss you

same

There were others sprinkled in. Pictures and memes Ryan thought Lars might like. Comments about games and practices, the new team. For every one of Ryan’s that made it to him, there were a dozen unsent ones from Lars.

I can’t stand going to Rangoons without you

I tried reading that book you left at my place.

It’s awful. You have terrible taste.

Tanner dropped off a box of your crab-themed clothes

they’re really ugly which is kind of fantastic

I saw the highlights from your game yesterday

you were fucking fantastic

I wear the shirt you gave me every night to bed

because then I can pretend you’re still here

I’m not the only one who misses you

the guys talk about you all the time

don’t let the trade make you think you weren’t part of this team

I’m going to wear your crab bowtie tomorrow

think anyone will notice it’s yours?

i don’t know what to do with everything i feel about you

you’re gone, you’re not coming back

this can’t work, right?

Even in his unsent messages, they both very obviously avoided the two most obvious things they should talk about: their relationship and Anders.

Fuck Anders. Lars didn’t want to feel like shit and analyze his own part in his misery. He couldn’t afford to hold a grudge against Monroe or the Crabs, and, honestly (ew, honesty), the trade did seem to be in the Crabs’ and Ryan’s best interests. They didn’t know about Lars and Ryan, didn’t know that they’d complicated things and made Lars miserable.

Anders, though. He fucking knew.

He must know. He’d seen them in Vancouver together, and maybe he didn’t realize they were sleeping together, but it was obvious they were friends. It was obvious that Ryan leaving would hurt him. And no, Anders didn’t have the power to make a trade, but he could’ve put in a good word. Lars imagined the coaches asked him about “that guy from the All Star game” and of course Anders would’ve said Ryan was awesome. Anders wasn’t blind, he could recognize talent.

It was easier to blame Anders because he already bore so much of Lars’s anger. What was one more grievance on the list?

Whenever Lars happened to catch a glimpse of Ryan on TV in that ugly yellow and orange jersey with that stupid otter, Anders was nearby. With his insides twisted in knots, Lars always thought the same thing:

Good job, Ryan.

Fuck you, Anders.

* * *

In the mess of losing Ryan, Lars was too inside his own head to pay attention to the schedule. Wild card this, playoff berth that, 14 games left, blah blah blah. At most, he thought one game out, mostly so he knew if he needed to be at the airport or not. The away games were kind of nice, less lonely than his apartment, but he knew there was a home game coming up. He just didn’t realize it was that game.

“Are you looking forward to your rematch against the Prowlers tonight?”

Lars startled. Shit, was that who they were playing?

The reporter had a phone out, waiting and recording, so he couldn’t say what he really thought.

I don’t give a shit about Portland. I was upset before but if I hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have met Ryan again. Fuck the Prowlers and their unearned sense of superiority.

“Sure,” he said with a winning smile, remembered there was no camera, and gave up the effort. “They’re a tough team and I look forward to showing them that we are, too.”

Which was true, he supposed. Except for the part where he looked forward to anything.

“Anything we can expect with you mic’d up tonight?”

Again, Lars was taken off guard. He had agreed to be mic’d for an upcoming game, but had he really been so out of it that he’d agreed to this game?

“I’ll only curse in Swedish,” he promised with a wink. The reporter laughed, and luckily the rest of his questions were the usual garbage that didn’t require an actual response. “Stick to our game” bullshit to fill sound bites but saying nothing.

He chugged an energy drink before the game. He maybe didn’t care about much at the moment, but he did dislike the Prowlers enough to want to beat the shit out of them tonight. Bad enough losing to them in Portland; like hell he was going to let it happen in Baltimore. It at least gave him something to focus on.

Fuck, he needed Ryan here to calm him down. Maybe he could call?—

And say what, exactly? He wasn’t sure Ryan would want to pick up, never mind be able to. A couple weeks of lackluster texts and then his first and only call was because he couldn’t get his shit together? He didn’t need the mix of guilt and self-disgust the idea brought, so he let it go.

Instead, he took a moment to imagine how it’d be if Ryan were here, still on the team.

“You’ve got this,” Ryan said confidently. “You were the best part of their team and the best part of this team. We know it, they know it, that’s why they’re so p.o.’d.”

Yes, even Imaginary Ryan didn’t curse much.

“So you’re gonna go out there, score some goals, and then when we get back to your place tonight, I’ll fuck you so hard the headboard breaks. Sound good?”

It sounded very good. And despite the promise being one Imaginary Ryan could never fulfill, it did help him calm down.

He endured having the mic put on. He endured the team pump-up music in the locker room. He endured the glares he got from the Prowlers during warm-ups. He endured forcing conversation with Jake so the media team would have something to work with besides him sullenly breathing. He endured the craziness in the tunnel before the first period, the loud chants, the body slams, the layers of superstition each cluster of players performed religiously so the hockey gods would favor them with a goal or a positive plus/minus.

Not that Lars could judge. As messed up as he felt right now, he had his own routine: he put a gloved hand over his heart and shut his eyes, thinking of his parents and his grandfather and promising he’d do his best to make them proud.

He also indulged in a “Let’s fucking go!” right before they paraded out onto the ice, already breaking his only cursing in Swedish promise, but oh, well. He knew the fans enjoyed the bleeped out parts of player audio.

It was eerily similar to the game in Portland, with the fans fired up and his former teammates looking at him like he was a traitor. It was encouraging, though, that the fans were angry on his behalf, booing the Prowlers when they skated onto the ice and again when the starting lineup was announced.

“Ready to lose again, Nilsson?” the opposite center sneered before the opening face-off.

Lars shrugged, knowing his indifference would only bother him more. “It’s a game. I’m aware there will be a loser.”

It was brutal. They came after him again and again. The refs were more inclined to help the home team, and the Prowlers took penalty after penalty, but a lot happened when the refs turned their backs. It was hard to control his temper when he was getting hammered every shift. Looking only at the penalty list, he was tripped twice, boarded once, cross checked three times, and high sticked (though thankfully in the back of the head so he didn’t get hurt). He was constantly interfered with—though it was called exactly zero times—and cheap shots were taken at him long after the play ended.

The Crabs tried to help. Jake was there at every whistle to work his way between Lars and whichever Prowler was trying to get at him, and once Voronin tackled someone in front of the net who had given up trying to play hockey and was camped in front of the crease simply to slash the fuck out of Lars’s legs. Their help was appreciated, but it didn’t matter. Lars would be bruised and sore for a week, and for what? This was the first game since March 5th where he was actively trying to score, and he couldn’t. He’d gotten a few chances, but every inch he gained on the ice felt hard-earned, forced to work through a team that wasn’t so much interested in hockey but knocking him on his ass and keeping him there.

Their intense focus on Lars had its perks, though. They seemed too exhausted to do much when any other line was out, and having their sights set on Lars had allowed Jake and Tomas to each score.

“You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” a different center asked him. They weren’t keeping the lines consistent, like everyone on the Prowlers had a personal score to settle with him and Coach Jones was doing his best to allow it.

“Look at the scoreboard,” Lars said without taking his eyes off the ref’s hand. “You’re down by three.”

The next time it was someone Lars didn’t even recognize. Clearly a trade deadline acquisition who’d bought into the team’s anti-Lars agenda. “How’s it feel leaving for a team that sucks? Won’t even make the playoffs.”

“Who are you?” said with the practiced disdain he knew bothered players who weren’t “top tier” (whatever the fuck that meant). “You new to the league or something?”

He regretted it once he said it, mostly because it would make him sound like a prick if they chose that clip to play. It wasn’t the NHL who’d asked him, though, it was the Crabs; maybe they’d be merciful and scrub that one from the record.

“Couldn’t cut it with a real team so had to come out East to play with some scrubs?”

That one was somewhat baffling to him. Lars had always led the Prowlers in points and goals, and aside from the Prowlers’ two runs to the Cup, it was generally an Eastern Conference team who won. But he supposed logic wasn’t really a piece of it.

For better or worse, the Crabs were rising to the occasion. Instead of staying level-headed, they vented on the bench about how the Prowlers were all jerks and the league should do something about the way they were blatantly targeting Lars and maybe they should give the Prowlers a taste of their own medicine, etc.

“We’re just as big as them,” Tomas was saying. “We’re just as fast. We can throw our weight around and give ‘em a few bruises to remember Baltimore.”

“They fucking deserve it,” Jordy added in. “One of the guys nearly hit Vorny in the head because he was going for Nilsy. None of that’s okay.”

“Let’s fuck ‘em up!”

Lars kept looking to Ryan’s spot on the bench, desperately wishing he were there to be the voice of reason, to calm everyone down. Imaginary Ryan couldn’t cut it, quieter and quieter as he urged Lars to stay positive and play a clean game. By the start of the third, Lars couldn’t hear him at all.

Early in the third, Pavel laid a huge open-ice hit that had the crowd roaring and the Prowlers seething. Of course, they went right for Lars in retaliation, as though Pavel didn’t exist and was merely an extension of Lars Nilsson.

When one of his former linemates, Alex Zigmund, came after him, Lars finally got fed up. He dodged the check and then cross checked him right in the chest. He heard the whistle, knew he was going to the box for finally sticking up for himself, and it made him even angrier.

“What the fuck is your problem, Zigs?” Lars shouted at him, giving him another shove. “I went to your fucking wedding. Players leave, shithead, and it doesn’t mean you get to treat them like this.”

Zigmund’s response was probably one he should’ve anticipated: he dropped his gloves.

Well, shit.

Lars dropped his as well, circling Zigmund and wondering if he could fight someone who he’d barely thought about in months.

“You left in the middle of the night,” Zigmund said as he threw a punch. Lars dodged it, but Zigmund got a hold of his jersey. “You’re right, you went to my wedding.” Another punch, this one wide; Lars grabbed onto Zigmund’s jersey to try and keep some distance. “And you left without even saying why. So why”—this punch grazed his chin—“did you”—another, one that somehow hit his shoulder, the pads absorbing it—“leave!?”

The last one connected, right into his cheek. It surprised him that it was harder than when Anders punched him, which made no sense since Anders easily had five inches and fifty pounds on Zigmund. It surprised him a lot more to learn he hadn’t actually lost his temper until then.

Lars tightened his grip on Zigmund’s jersey, got both hands buried in the material and shook him hard. It threw him off balance, his hands coming up to Lars’s arms to try and steady himself, and Lars took the opportunity to punch him square in the jaw. He did it again for good measure, even though he saw the first hit had busted Zigmund’s lip, and then he threw him to the ice.

“I left because they found out I’m gay and Mackey told me to get the fuck out!” he screamed down at Zigmund. “Is that a good enough reason for you, asshole?”

And then he turned his back on Zigmund’s stunned expression and bloody lip, and dutifully skated to the penalty box without so much as glancing at the refs. As the adrenaline wore off, Lars found himself shaking in the box. He stared straight ahead, ignoring Zigmund in the neighboring penalty box and definitely ignoring the fans banging on the glass around him and the scoreboard replaying the incident above him. It was so loud in the arena that Lars wasn’t sure who’d heard his outburst. Zigmund had, he was sure, but had the refs? Were there other players close enough?

“What the fuck am I doing?” he grumbled to himself. As he gingerly touched his cheek to inspect the damage, he remembered the one thing he really shouldn’t have forgotten.

He was still wearing a mic.