Page 53 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 37

Lars

Lars didn’t like the state of things between him and Ryan.

They were on speaking terms, at least. Er, texting terms. They’d messaged back and forth a little since the start of April, but they hadn’t said anything of substance since Lars broke Anders’s nose. Mostly memes and pictures of food. There was also the picture his mormor had sent of her and Ryan, her looking quite smug and him with his stupid, wonderful smile. All his favorite pieces of his life, intersecting.

Without him.

The plane was taxiing, and Lars couldn’t sit still. He didn’t fidget or pace much by nature, but his right leg hadn’t stopped shaking since they’d landed. This wasn’t hockey nerves—he didn’t really get those anymore, hadn’t even the last time he’d played in the Cup Finals. This was much worse.

He was seeing Ryan today.

Instead of going to the hotel, he’d pick up his suitcase and take a taxi to the address Ryan had sent him. Neither of them had practice today or any team meetings. The hectic playoff life would start again tomorrow: no room to breathe and no extra space in his head to worry about cute boys or family problems.

The taxi driver recognized him, which made it awkward. He’d been very chatty about how impressed everyone was with the Crabs and must’ve been worried about his tip because he didn’t mention Anders or the Otters once. It looked like he wanted to, but Lars appreciated that he didn’t. For the next eighteen hours, he got to pretend he wasn’t here for hockey.

When Ryan opened the door, looking devastatingly handsome with his playoff beard, Lars was struck speechless. Not that he’d had a plan on what he was going to say, but normally he was at least able to form words like “Hi” or “I missed you” or “I’ve been dreaming of you fucking me for weeks.”

Instead it was Ryan who grinned at him and said, “You wanna come in or what?”

He swallowed and stepped inside.

He’d seen a few pictures of the place but honestly they hadn’t done it justice. They were on the 25th floor with huge windows overlooking the city. The apartment was sparsely furnished, all the furniture devoid of personality. Probably came with the place, since Ryan wouldn’t have had time to arrange for his stuff to be shipped over. It was fancy, honestly, and suited Ryan more than his place in Baltimore. Well, except…

“Why would they waste a nice kitchen on you?” he teased, finally finding his tongue. “So you can make ramen?”

“I haven’t even made that,” Ryan said with a laugh. “I have a meal service through the team. If I don’t eat at the rink, I just heat up a pre-made dinner.”

That was a relief, actually. He knew Ryan was particular about calories, carbs, and protein but didn’t do a good job of paying attention to things like taste. It was good he was being taken care of, even if by a faceless meal service.

“You didn’t invite me over for microwave dinners, did you?” he asked, as if he wouldn’t gladly eat or do anything Ryan wanted right now.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe. I ordered dinner, and we can eat that first if you wanna pretend that’s why you’re here…” He trailed off, his expression all sorts of hungry that definitely had nothing to do with food.

“We can eat after.” He was going for nonchalant, but his need was too close to the surface, too long ignored to be easily hidden.

Ryan, as if somehow unaffected by their weeks apart, shot him a crooked smile. It was like when he winked at cameras but all the more potent for it being real. He crossed his arms over his chest and pretended to think it over. “I think I can live with that.”

Lars didn’t know who moved first. Within seconds he had his hands fisted into Ryan’s stupid Otters shirt and Ryan’s arms were circling him. His hands gripped his ass, pulling him close and Lars yelped.

Ryan froze. He’d been leaning in to kiss him but he stopped and frowned. “Are you hurt? I don’t remember any big hits on you in the Pythons series…”

“No. It’s not that.” His cheeks heated up, and he wasn’t thrilled to find out he could still feel embarrassed in front of Ryan. “I’m uhm…I have a plug in.”

The admission earned him a wide-eyed look. Ryan was speechless for a moment before he growled and started backing Lars towards the windows. “How long?”

Lars let himself be manhandled, trusting Ryan to guide him. “Since I left my condo.”

“It’s a two hour flight!”

“I had to add more lube,” he admitted. “Wanted to be ready.”

They hit the window. Ryan snuck a hand beneath the waistband of Lars’s pants, the stupid fancy slacks he’d been forced to wear, and pushed on the end of the plug through his boxers. Lars jerked into him, his dick fully hard and starting to ache as it strained against the zipper. He was also painfully aware of his button-down shirt, making him feel ridiculous when Ryan was in athletic shorts.

“Should I get more lube?” Ryan offered, his voice an octave deeper than it’d been a moment ago. “A condom?”

“Lube, yes,” he said as he pushed his ass back against Ryan’s hand. “Condom, no.”

Ryan sucked in a breath. They’d done that so rarely, only once before that stupid trade, for practical reasons. Right now, Lars honestly didn’t care how much of a mess they made. He wanted to feel everything.

“Get undressed. I’ll be right back.”

Lars stripped in record time and tossed his clothes over the couch. He wasn’t sure what Ryan was planning, but he figured if he’d opted for the living room and not the bedroom, they’d be doing something more fun than fucking on the couch.

Ryan reappeared, naked and with a bottle of lube in hand. He was also rock hard; Lars licked his lips.

“You can suck me off next time,” Ryan said. “I’m not gonna last long enough to fuck you if you try right now.” Then his eyes drifted down and his brow furrowed. “You said you weren’t hurt.”

Lars looked down reflexively. There was a bruise, yellowing and ugly, along his left side. He’d blocked a shot and it had hit a spot between his shoulder pads and hockey pants. It had hurt like a bitch, but luckily it’d been near the end of the period: he’d managed to stay on his feet and saved the doubling over in pain for the locker room.

“It’s fine,” he said dismissively. “Almost healed. How do you want me?”

Ryan’s dark eyes were back on his in an instant. “Turn around. Hands on the window.”

Lars did as he was told. The city had a decent skyline, but he stopped taking it in the moment Ryan was behind him, a hand on his hip and his lips on Lars’s neck.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Ryan gritted out. “I like when your hair is long.” To prove his point, he grabbed a handful and used it to pull Lars’s head back. He kissed along his neck as he mumbled, “Getting a little too long, though.”

“How else would you manhandle me?” he challenged. He liked the feel of Ryan’s beard against his neck. Not normally his thing, but he enjoyed the added sensation since he couldn’t see Ryan. “You going to fuck me or what? I have dinner plans with a cute guy.”

“So impatient,” Ryan said, his warm breath making Lars shiver and his skin prickle.

A hand trailed down Lars’s back, pinched his ass, and then stopped at the base of the plug. He could feel Ryan’s thumb tracing it before he pushed it in deeper, then let up the pressure. He repeated the movement three more times before digging his fingers in and slowly drawing the plug out. Lars bit his lip, bracing for the feeling of emptiness only to moan when Ryan stopped at the widest part of the tapered plug before pushing it back in roughly.

“You didn’t think I’d make it that easy, did you?” Ryan asked. His voice was fucking sinful, and Lars was struck by the difference between this Ryan (confident, sexy as hell, bossy) and the Ryan he’d met in August (shy about his wants, trying too hard to please, weirdly genuine while being superficial). He’d thought that other version of Ryan was cute, but he would do absolutely anything this newer Ryan said. Hell, he’d endured the most physically uncomfortable flight of his life just to get Ryan’s dick in him faster.

“Don’t play hard to get,” he shot back. “I can feel your dick against my ass. You’re harder than I am. Use the lube and get in me.”

Ryan only chuckled, but he finally pulled the plug out. Lars clenched around the emptiness and sighed in anticipation of being filled again. He spread his legs further apart and placed his hands against the window to balance himself better. The glass fogged around his breath, momentarily obscuring the city from view. They could be anywhere, even back in Baltimore.

He heard the lid popping open. Imagined Ryan squeezing lube onto his fingers before slicking himself up. There was a brief moment, maybe two whole seconds, when Lars hoped Ryan would drag things out a little longer. Make him beg for his cock. It wouldn’t take much encouragement: Lars was so gone on Ryan, he’d be on his knees in a second, pleading in whatever language Ryan wanted.

The desire was fleeting: they both needed this too much to wait any longer. If Ryan decided to drag things out, Lars was so needy and desperate he might actually cry. But Ryan was holding Lars steady with one hand and eased his dick against his hole, a gentle but firm pressure until?—

“Fuck,” they hissed together when Ryan’s dick pushed past the rim. Lars clenched around him and Ryan whined pitifully, and he was barely inside him. It felt like it took ages for Ryan to push in fully, though in reality it probably took less than a minute.

“You good?” Ryan asked when he was balls deep. His hands were digging into Lars’s hips and his legs were trembling. “You feel amazing .”

Lars nodded. “I’m fine. Move.”

Ryan wasted no time. He settled into a steady rhythm of shallow, hard thrusts occasionally broken up by a longer, even harder one that rocked through Lars so sharply his cock slid against the cold glass, pre-come smearing across the window. It was the only friction on him, but he needed both hands to keep himself upright or they’d both hit the window. He didn’t mind, though; he’d have already come if there were a hand on his dick.

When Ryan came, Lars could feel his come spilling inside him. Warm and deep, it almost pushed Lars over the edge. Instead a spurt of pre-come shot onto the window.

“Fuck that was good,” Ryan mumbled against his ear before sucking the earlobe into his mouth. His right hand wrapped around Lars and slid around his dick. Ryan thumbed across the head before he started to jerk him off. “I should put that plug back in so you’ve got my come in you the rest of the day.”

Beyond words, Lars moaned in response. He wouldn’t say no to that, except he’d been looking forward to the feel of Ryan’s come dripping out of him for weeks now. Maybe next time.

“I’ve wanted to fuck against this window since I moved in,” Ryan admitted. His hand never stopped, and Lars started thrusting into his fist.“One of us trapped against the glass, no one out there knowing.”

The idea of someone knowing made Lars’s insides twist. Not being caught having sex (disaster), but the world knowing they were together. Lars and Ryan. Not teammates, former or otherwise. A pair. Together.

The thought made his head light, almost like he was drunk. He bucked into Ryan’s hand so hard Ryan slid out of him, come sliding down his leg and finally sending Lars over the edge. He came in spurts into Ryan’s hand and then nearly collapsed.

He rested his cheek against the glass and groaned. Ryan was a warm, solid weight behind him. He had both arms around Lars to bear his weight and had buried his nose in Lars’s hair. Despite the burn in his legs and the effort it took to stay upright, Lars really liked the feeling.

“ Jag tror att jag ?r k?r i dig ,” Lars said as he threaded their fingers together. I think I’m in love with you. Safe to say when he knew Ryan couldn’t understand him. When they didn’t have to worry about the how .

“If you’re saying you’re hungry or that we’re a mess,” Ryan said, “then I agree.” He kissed the back of Lars’s head before easing them both upright. “You should see the shower. It’s got one of those rainwater faucets. It’s great.”

And while food and a shower hadn’t been on Lars’s mind, those things were simpler; he followed Ryan willingly.

* * *

Ryan pulled over in front of Anders’s house, ignoring the long driveway. Things were better between them, but still not as good as they’d been before the trade; they’d taken their time getting cleaned up and continued their pattern of not actually saying anything real as they chatted over dinner. Lars tried not to read too much into Ryan’s choice of drop-off spot.

The car engine continued to thrum, and Lars was forced to acknowledge Ryan was going to leave.

“You sure you don’t want to come in?” There was a pleading note to his voice he couldn’t quite quell.

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “You sure this is a good idea, staying there?”

Lars scoffed. He’d made a big deal of telling reporters that he’d be staying at his brother’s place, liking the way they’d gone wide-eyed and whispered about mind games. He’d promised Coach Thompkins it really was fine. And it was: Lars hated that road trips here were too short, too regimented to allow him a proper visit.

And, sigh, he owed Anders an actual apology.

He had said sorry. Eventually. After the silent treatment from Ryan, Amanda’s gentle nudging, and Mormor’s blunt insistence. In the same manner they always spoke to each other, he’d texted a message in Swedish: sorry I broke your nose it won’t happen again . True, but hardly heartfelt. Anders had, for once, acknowledged his message with an equally warm: good .

“I’ve made a mess of things lately,” he admitted. Ryan gave him a skeptical look. Not because he didn’t agree—Lars knew he did—but probably because he couldn’t believe Lars knew it, too. “I should try to fix them.”

Ryan put a hand on Lars’s knee and squeezed. “Good luck. How do you say that in Swedish?”

“ Lycka till .”

“ Lycka till. ”

It was pitiful that such a benign phrase in Ryan’s mouth made his dick stir with interest. He was screwed if Ryan ever actually learned Swedish.

“Look, I know we didn’t…” Ryan made a pained face and started over. “There’s no mess between us, okay? We’ll figure it out after playoffs. Let’s just try not to kill each other on the ice.”

Lars shook his head grimly. “No promises.” Then, before he lost his nerve, he kissed Ryan goodbye and got out of the car.

It was Anders who answered the door, grim-faced like he was already exasperated with Lars’s presence. Usually Lars didn’t get on his nerves for at least a few hours. This was a new record.

“Lillen,” he said curtly. His face wasn’t as bruised and puffy as it had been (yes, Lars had stalked the Otters’ social media to check), but the bridge of his nose had a distinct bend to it that hadn’t been there before.

“Don’t call me that,” he said automatically and scowled. Then he remembered what he was supposed to be doing, and said, “Could you let me in the guest house?”

Anders raised an eyebrow, no doubt thinking about Lars’s key that he always used to let himself in, often even before stopping by the main house.

“Humor me,” Lars said.

Anders made a sweeping gesture for him to lead the way, and they walked along the stone path that went behind the house. His suitcase rolled along the uneven walkway and provided an awkward musical accompaniment to their otherwise silent march. Lars waited until they were inside the guest house (and yes, he used his own key even though he was tempted to pretend he didn’t have it on him so Anders would have to go back and get the spare) to say anything.

“I’m sorry about your nose,” he grumbled. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his brother as he said it, instead opting to stare at his feet. Anders was barefoot, hadn’t bothered to put on sandals or anything on the way out, and Lars rolled uncomfortably on the balls of his feet.

“It’s okay,” Anders said calmly. Worse, he sounded like he meant it. “I know you didn’t mean to.”

Lars wanted to take his brother’s easy acceptance and run with it, put the mistake behind them and go back to the way things always were between them: mildly uncomfortable silence interspersed with shouting and cursing at each other. But he was trying to be a better person, because he was probably in love with someone who definitely was a better person, and he had to start being good enough for Ryan if he stood a chance.

And, admittedly, a lot of his shittiness as a person was connected to Anders.

“It’s not okay.” His shoulders were slumped and getting the words out was like pulling teeth, but he made himself look up to meet Anders’s gaze as he did it. “I’m really sorry about attacking you. And that I always attack you.”

Anders considered him, probably seeing him more clearly than Lars could see himself. “Why do you attack me?”

Fair question.

“Because I’m still angry at you.” He’d never hidden how upset he was when Anders told them he wouldn’t be coming back to Sweden. He’d been so happy for Anders when he was drafted. Lars had watched as many games as he could given his own busy schedule and the time difference. Sometimes they’d record a game and watch it as a family, him, Mormor, and Morfar. Then that summer when the Otters didn’t make the playoffs, Anders had called to say he was staying in Ohio indefinitely. No visit and please mail over the rest of his things when convenient. Their grandparents hadn’t seemed surprised, but the news had shattered Lars. The four of them were a family, and Anders didn’t care.

Lars had screamed at him over the phone about betrayal and duty. To his credit, Anders had taken it. He’d listened and after Lars had yelled himself hoarse, he’d calmly told Lars he understood why he was upset, but the decision wasn’t about them and he would not put up with Lars throwing another tantrum, so he’d better get used to it.

Anders heaved a deep sigh. “Lasse…I was never leaving you . I was leaving behind memories I didn’t want.”

“What memories?” Lars challenged. He couldn’t see how Sweden and their family weren’t connected, that whatever Anders was fleeing had to do with them, somehow. “We were happy in Sweden.”

“Pappa was a shit father, you know this?” When he saw Lars gape at him, he sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “He was a good hockey player and a good husband, I think, but not a good father. He didn’t want children, he wanted a legacy. He was gone so often to play and didn’t want to spend time with us when he was around?—”

“That’s not true.” His cheeks were hot, angry. “He played?—”

“Hockey. He would only play hockey, Lasse,” he said gently. “I told you, legacy. He was determined we would be as good as him, and he wasn’t interested in our feelings on the matter. It’s fortunate I liked hockey, or I would’ve been miserable. I sometimes wonder if it’s better he died, because then he couldn’t make me fall out of love with the sport, that he never got a chance to do it to you, either. And then I feel like shit for thinking it.”

The revelation made Lars uncomfortable, but not because he didn’t believe it. As much as he wanted to tell Anders to take it back, to deny and pretend, what Lars really wanted was to not think too closely about it. He had so few memories of his parents, ones he didn’t look at often for fear of wearing them out. If Lars believed they were there, waiting on a shelf for him in the back of his mind, then he would never have to admit otherwise.

Still, there was a hollow ring of truth. He remembered the sound of his father’s voice, a fact he was confident in. He didn’t want to explore that his best memory of it was his father yelling at him to stop being such a baby while they practiced on the driveway in the growing twilight.

“You think I want to be out here instead of inside eating dinner with your mother? Quit being a baby and hit the last target already. No tears in hockey.”

He’d been three, maybe four.

He had other memories of Mats playing hockey with him, of course, but those were indistinct. They blurred together so much he could no longer separate the individual moments from one another, the real memories from the imagined ones.

…but he had many clear memories of playing with Anders. Anders helping him learn to skate, to shoot, to stick-handle. Anders helping him try on new skates. Anders cutting his new sticks down to size for him. Anders cheering for him at games until he’d moved…

“That’s why you don’t want the kids to play,” Lars said dumbly. Anders loved hockey, and he loved his children. Why separate them? Lars had never understood.

He shrugged. “They can play if they want to. If they want to. I wanted them to learn to skate, since that’s such a big part of my life, but anything more was always their choice. Hell, if they’d cried while skating, I’d have stopped the lessons.”

“And…” More pieces clicked into place. “And that’s why you left. When you were drafted. Because of Pappa.”

“I also owe you an apology, I suppose. I’m sorry I left and didn’t come back. I wanted to be my own person away from Pappa, and for a while that meant being away from Sweden. Did you know when I was drafted, I told Toronto not to bother picking me because I’d never play for them. I’d join the KHL or something if they tried it.” He looked pleased with himself that it had worked. Lars was impressed: he also hadn’t wanted to play for the Terrors, but he hadn’t thought to threaten them. “Maybe I should’ve brought you, but you were happy with Morfor and Mormor, and they didn’t want to leave. I was young, but I…maybe I forget that you were even younger. You couldn’t see why I left. Maybe you thought it was your fault, and I should’ve explained it wasn’t.”

Lars’s heart ached. “I didn’t—” But he couldn’t deny it. He had thought that, a little. He’d been mean to Anders from the very moment he’d moved and made it clear Sweden was no longer his home. It had hurt, and it was easier to be angry than devastated.

“It’s okay,” Anders said. Now he was the one staring at the ground. “It’s been nearly fifteen years. I should’ve said something. I’m older?—”

“I know I didn’t make it easy,” Lars said. “I…can’t promise I’ll be able to change that, either. Old habits or whatever. But I’ll try not to break anything when we play each other, and I’ll try to be nicer.” A pause. “Only a little nicer. I still want to win and you’re still a stick in the mud.”

His lips curled in a smirk. “I don’t know what I’d do with you if you stopped being a brat.”

They stood there silently, their peace treaty making the air seem lighter than it had in years. Lars didn’t think they’d be able to go easy on each other during the series, but maybe they could do it without Lars wanting to punch anyone. They might even be happy for each other when Round Two was over.

Maybe.

“This is none of my business…” Anders had a pained look. “But Ryan…?”

Lars’s reflex was to deny deny deny and tell his brother to fuck off; he suppressed the impulse. “It isn’t your business,” he agreed, “but yes.”

Anders seemed more surprised by his honesty than the answer itself.

“Is that a problem?” Lars challenged, fists clenching without him meaning them to.

Anders didn’t rise to the bait. “He has somehow gotten you to apologize for years of being a brat. Why would it be a problem?”

Lars stuttered through a half-hearted denial, because of course it was true: in no way, shape, or form would he be here having a heart-to-heart with Anders if it weren’t for Ryan Russell. “It’s…it’s not…he didn’t…” He sighed and gave up. “It’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone.”

There was a moment when it looked like Anders wanted to ask more questions, but something on Lars’s face must have given away how draining this conversation had been. Anders shut his mouth and nodded like he agreed. This had been more words than they’d shared in over a decade, after all.

Anders clapped a hand on his shoulder as he passed, then mussed his hair like he had when they were kids. “You need a haircut.”

“Yeah, I’ve been getting that a lot lately.” He ran a hand through it. He’d have to tie it back if it got any longer. “I’ll cut it when I shave at the end of playoffs.”

“You can use my razor,” he said on his way out of the guest house. “I’ll bring it to Baltimore for Game Four.”