Page 49 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 34

Ryan

Flying to Baltimore made Ryan’s stomach turn. It’d been years since he’d first arrived, and the similarity was unnerving. Nothing quite like joining a new team then returning to play an old one to make you want to throw up.

Then there was the Lars situation. Ryan couldn’t tell if that made things better or not, knowing he was going to see Lars in—he checked his watch— forty minutes. Obviously he wanted to see Lars, but there was the nerves of a reunion, their upcoming game, and the inevitable goodbye.

What were they even going to say to each other? Were they going to have The Talk? What would Ryan say ? What did he want? What did Lars want?

“You don’t look so good,” a teammate observed. Shupp, maybe? Stroh? Ugh, he hated learning so many new names all at once. No, Sampson. Sampsy.

“He came from the Crabs, remember?” Anders said from a few aisles down, a book in hand. “Leave him be.”

“Shit, sorry,” Sampsy said with a sympathetic look. “We’ll get ‘em.”

Ryan had stopped paying any attention to him, instead focused on Anders. He was sitting by himself and had been nice enough to Ryan so far. Would he mind if…?

Before he could second guess the wisdom of his plan, Ryan got up and sat next to Anders.

“Hey.”

Anders gave him a once over. Whatever he saw, he deemed it was going to require his full attention, because he carefully closed his book and waited expectantly.

“So like…I’m really confused,” Ryan said. He looked around to make sure no one was listening—nothing but empty seats, sleeping teammates, and headphones barely muffling music—and continued, “Do you hate your brother? Because he seems to hate you, but he visits you every summer, and the few times I’ve seen you together, you don’t seem to hate him. And I think you liked me because Lars likes me, and you get upset when people talk shit about him?—”

“I don’t hate Lasse,” Anders interrupted.

…aaaand that was it.

“Okay.” That wasn’t helpful. The only thing he’d learned was that Anders would stop him from babbling. “But do you like him?” Ryan pressed.

Anders sighed. There was something about the way he did it that conveyed he in no way wanted to have this conversation but he would, and only because it was Ryan asking, otherwise he’d tell Ryan to fuck off and mind his own business.

“He’s my brother. I love him. He’s just…very spoiled, and we’re very different ages. We didn’t spend much time together as he was growing up because I left, and that’s what he remembers. But before I moved, I spent every day with him. I made toys for him and taught him how to skate and played hockey with him.” A pause. “He hates that I left. He’s never forgiven me. He’s never understood that my life at home wasn’t the same as his. That Pappa had set expectations for me that Lars hadn’t experienced yet. When they died, it was simple for him to mourn Mamma and Pappa. It was…more complicated for me.”

Ryan nodded. Each revelation sat heavy inside him, explaining so much and reminding him painfully of his sisters. When they’d eventually moved out, he’d missed them, but it had been a gradual process where they went one by one. Even after they left, his parents had been there. It didn’t hurt that he’d been a lot older than Lars had. Ryan couldn’t imagine his family shattering when he was five.

It also made him feel like a dick that he’d asked. This was personal and he’d pried. As much as he wanted to know, it wasn’t his business to dig deeper.

Okay, it was maybe his place to say something on Lars’s behalf.

“Does Lars know all that?”

Anders shrugged. “He doesn’t want to understand. Like I said, spoiled. Only sees what’s convenient.”

Again, so much given so freely. Anders barely knew him, and only in connection to Lars, but that shouldn’t be enough. Why?

He didn’t ask, but the question must have been evident on his face because Anders answered it. “My brother likes you. He doesn’t like many people.”

Ryan laughed. “Lars likes everybody.”

He shook his head. “He charms everyone. That’s not the same. But he smiles at you even when you’re not looking. And he doesn’t talk to me unless he has to, but he texted me when he found out about the trade and told me to look out for you.” He rolled his eyes. “ Told me. The little shit never asks, only tells.”

“Sounds about right.” Ryan also assumed Anders hadn’t dignified that particular demand with a response. “Thanks for talking with me.”

“I’d say any time, but I would prefer not to do it again. Hockey, yes. My idiot brother, I’ll leave to you.” His eyes narrowed. “Coach said you’d be leaving the team to deal with your apartment.”

“Which is completely plausible, since I do still have an apartment in town.”

“But you’ll be staying at the hotel…?”

As much as Ryan didn’t want to answer, he felt he owed Anders a bit of honesty.

“Yeah. Seemed smart to keep my old life and new life separate so I could focus.” Then as a whisper, he added, “But I wanted to see him. Especially after…” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “Everything.”

“I think you are a good influence,” Anders said approvingly. “There are only twenty minutes before we land, and I’d like to finish my book.”

Ryan accepted the dismissal and went back to his seat (and nervously tapping on the armrests).

* * *

When Ryan went right instead of left with the rest of the team, going to find a taxi while they went to the bus, it drew his teammates’ attention. There was lots of teasing about meeting up with a girlfriend or a booty call with an old flame, and it only made his cheeks heat up more when Anders told them to shut up.

The ride to Lars’s place was longer than he remembered. His heart was beating so hard he didn’t see much point in knocking—surely the whole building knew he was there—but he did and stood there in absolute torture. What if, what if, what if?

The door opened and he was abruptly pulled inside. He barely registered it shutting behind him before he was being kissed. Ryan melted right into it, giving in to Lars’s onslaught. It had been a long twenty-six days since he’d last seen Lars. Twenty-six days where he’d alternated between being so busy and so stressed that he had barely jerked off; once he’d found out he’d be here, in this painfully familiar condo held in wonderfully familiar arms, he’d avoided it altogether. He was so fucking pent up he’d probably be done as soon as Lars touched his dick.

He was reacquainting himself with the feel of Lars’s ass (still fantastic) and the taste of his mouth (intoxicating, more than usual), when Lars abruptly pulled away.

“Wha—?”

“Sorry,” Lars said. His eyes didn’t leave Ryan’s lips, but he’d put a frankly illegal amount of space between them. Lars’s chest was no longer pressed against his and both their hands were empty. What the fuck? “We didn’t…you never said if…I shouldn’t…”

Was it weird that he completely understood Lars’s non-sentences?

We didn’t clarify what we’re doing.

You never said if you were still interested.

I shouldn’t assume.

He put both hands on Lars’s cheeks to make him actually look at him. “ Jag saknade dig ,” he said, hoping his practice with Google translate was enough to make the words comprehensible; he was sure Lars would hear the sentiment behind them, even if he butchered the pronunciation.

I missed you.

Lars’s answering moan was absolutely obscene. “You’re killing me,” he groaned, his arms back around him and his hard cock back against Ryan’s as he crowded in again. “You’re fucking killing me.”

“Me?” he accused and ran a hand through Lars’s beard. An actual beard, darker than his hair (which was also longer, so long Ryan imagined wrapping the strands around his fingers and giving it a good yank) and making him look both older and more distinguished. He wanted that beard rubbing against his thighs yesterday. “I’m gonna die if you don’t kiss me right the fuck now.”

Never one to disappoint, Lars stole his lips again and ran his tongue along Ryan’s teeth before dipping deeper. “ Du smakar gott ,” he mumbled, and then took Ryan’s bottom lip into his mouth. “You taste good.”

“Then taste me,” he challenged. “Shut up and make me come.”

Predictably, Lars accepted his challenge.

Somehow they ended up on the couch, which was a small miracle in and of itself. Ryan had managed to lose his pants and briefs, Lars his shirt and pants, and the mismatch didn’t occur to him until he was thrown backward onto the couch and Lars climbed over him. Suddenly his dick was surrounded by Lars’s hot mouth, and he was nosing at Lars’s boxers like an idiot. Lars was deepthroating him like his life depended on it while Ryan had to somehow find the presence of mind to work Lars’s boxers down his massive thighs so he could lick teasingly at his cock.

Holy shit he’d missed this. Lars was awesome, obviously, but sex with Lars was next level. Best sex he’d ever had, and it only seemed to get better as they’d learned each other’s bodies and preferences. Like he knew if he licked along Lars’s taint before sucking one of his balls into his mouth, Lars would?—

“ Heliga fan ,” Lars swore, abandoning Ryan’s dick to press his forehead against his hip. He stayed very still, only a slight tremble in his legs giving away how terribly thin his self control was. “Please,” he begged, and it was only from experience that Ryan knew it was a plea to stop.

His mouth plopped off with a wet smack, and he returned his attention to Lars’s dick; Lars took a moment before he returned the favor, devouring Ryan’s dick with an enthusiasm that made Ryan dizzy. It was intense, trying to balance what he felt and what he was doing, trying to exact the same pleasure he was receiving. This moment was everything, made those twenty-six days disappear. How could they matter, when it was still this good?

Ryan came first, thrusting weakly into Lars’s mouth. He couldn’t decide if he’d rather have Lars come down his throat or onto his chest, decided on the latter, then realized too late he still had his shirt on and made a mess of himself.

They lay there on the couch, wiggling so they were side by side. Ryan rested his head on Lars’s legs and marveled at the freckles hidden there while he tried to catch his breath. There were things he knew he should say, but he didn’t want to ruin the moment. And then by avoiding the bigger things, he ruined it anyway by saying: “We need to be at the rink in an hour for practice.”

Lars groaned. He pressed a kiss to Ryan’s foot and then untangled himself from his legs.

“Where’s your bag?” he said as he nodded to Ryan’s shirt.

Ryan made a face as he inspected it. “I had them bring it to the hotel for me. Which I’m now realizing was probably not my best move.”

“You’ll have to wear CCM or Bauer or something. I don’t own any Otters shirts.”

They didn’t speak as they hastily cleaned up and got dressed, Ryan digging through Lars’s shirts not so much for a non-Crabs one but for one that smelled like Lars.

“What hotel?” Lars’s voice was gruff, a neutral edge he was barely holding onto. “I’ll drop you off.” That explained his bland white tee and a baseball cap. Lars must have thought it qualified as a disguise, though the messy blond hair escaping the hat gave him away.

Ryan was nauseous on the drive. The brief moments of comfort, of coming home, were replaced with an unease that spread through him like dread.

“How’s Ohio?” Lars asked as they left his parking garage. Ryan tensed, worried it was a jab, but it sounded like he was making a genuine effort to pretend things were normal.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I miss seafood, but I’m a Montana boy. Easy come, easy go. I can get used to meat and potatoes again.”

“I’ve always been near the ocean. I don’t think I would like living away from fresh fish.”

The conversation fizzled out.

“Your brother, he’s not as bad as I thought he’d be.” Ryan thought of their talk on the plane, Anders’s concern for Lars after the Prowlers incident, his easy acceptance of Ryan. “I don’t know if you give him enough credit.”

The car jerked to a stop at a red light, Lars having hit the brakes too sharply. “I think I know my own brother,” he said and hit the gas too harshly as the light turned green.

Spoiled echoed in his head. He doesn’t want to understand .

“Sure,” Ryan agreed. “I know my sisters well, too, but sometimes people know them in ways that I can’t see, because they’ve never had to share a bathroom with them or gotten bossed around by them or?—”

“It’s not the same.”

“Okay. How?” Lars sent him a sideways glare, and Ryan held up his hands in surrender. “I’m trying to understand. The Anders you see and the Anders I see don’t match very well, and I?—”

“And you think I’m wrong. You think you’ve been in Cincinnati a whole month?—”

(“Twenty-six days,” he wanted to say. “Haven’t you been keeping track?”)

“—and you’re suddenly best friends? One month to twenty-six years of dealing with his shit and everyone thinking he walks on water? What, he say you’re a great center and you were flattered and decided to give him a shot?”

Ryan sat there, speechless. Okay. This was an argument they were having. A day before playing against each other. With no plans to see each other again after the game. Perfect.

But there was no time to mount a defense, no opportunity to apologize and walk it back. They were in front of the hotel, and Ryan had to go before someone recognized them and asked questions they couldn’t even answer for each other.

“You used to say I was a great center,” he said quietly. “If it helps, I didn’t believe either of you.”

Then he got out of the car and didn’t look back, hands buried in his pockets so no one would notice them shaking.