Page 54 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 38

Ryan

Tanner

Good luck tonight!

Or maybe not good luck? I forgot you’re playing your boyfriend

Is he your boyfriend? Did you guys ever figure that out?

I was trying to research hockey stuff but accidentally ended up on

some forum where they post “real person fic” and there’s a lot of you two

Like. A lot.

I didn’t read it tho promise

But is this like a win-win for you cuz if you win you win but if the crabs

win then your boyfriend wins

Or is it lose-lose cuz if you lose then you lose and if they lose then he loses

And I bet it’s complicated bc the crabs made you leave so fuck them

But also Lars is on the crabs so maybe you’re still cheering for them?

Well

Good luck!

I’ll be watching :)

Tanner must be high. He never babbled that much unless he was baked or on the rare occasions when the power was out and his Switch had run out of batteries. And this was next-level babbling. Like holy crap Ryan was glad he wasn’t there in person, because he suspected Tanner would’ve wrapped him in a hug and trapped him while he went on and on while periodically offering him some of his weed.

thanks bro

hoping to win ofc

if the crabs beat us, lars moving on is a consolation prize

and no i don’t know if he’s my boyfriend. seems like a bad time to ask

He couldn’t even imagine how that conversation would go. Hey, I know we fuck on the regular and our teams are about to face each other for a minimum of four intensely physical games where one of us gets eliminated at the end, with the added baggage of you playing against your brother that you sometimes hate and me playing against the team that didn’t think I was good enough to keep, but hey wanna sit down and figure out our relationship status? And then if that conversation goes to hell, we can both play like shit?

It had been an awkward enough prospect to broach the subject when he’d still been in Baltimore. It was next to impossible now. He’d wait.

Besides, competing against each other beforehand might make it easier. Things between them were fine, steadier than they’d been in the wake of Ryan’s trade, but they hadn’t quite settled. It never really could, with them hundreds of miles apart and never hashing things out. If they couldn’t survive this playoff run, then that difficult conversation never needed to happen. If they did, well, maybe it’d be a much easier talk than he feared.

Don’t pretend you’ll be fine if this falls apart, a voice whispered in the back of his head. You’re probably in love with him. Which would be worse: not winning the Cup or losing Lars?

He couldn’t afford to think about it.

In the last eight years, Ryan had never really gotten a chance to compete for the Stanley Cup. There’d been a few times he’d played in the playoffs, but he’d had minor roles on those teams and they’d never made it past the first round. He’d been in a devastating Game Seven loss where he’d been benched in the third after an accidental Delay of Game penalty. He’d been forced to watch, powerless to do anything while his team got hammered in the last five minutes of the game. They hadn’t even made it to overtime.

For years, it had haunted Ryan. That he hadn’t been good enough, that he’d let himself and his team down. The closest he’d come was a first round exit. Now Ryan was starting to understand that the real tragedy was that he hadn’t played. He could’ve made a difference, and he should’ve stood up for himself with the coaching staff or made it clear with his media interviews after the loss that he should’ve been in that third period. It wasn’t his fault, and he wouldn’t let it be his fault again.

He parked his car in the player garage at the stadium. Others were arriving, all dressed in suits for the walk to the locker room through media and fans. Ryan’s hand had gotten sore from signing autographs the first day of Game One, and he expected a similar experience today. It still surprised him how many RUSSELL #6 jerseys and shirts he saw. He’d been on the team about two months and yet the fans had taken him in with open arms.

As he straightened his suit jacket, he saw a familiar blue Audi pull into the lot. It was Anders’s car, large and sensible for a family and not nearly as ostentatious as some of the other cars their teammates drove. Ryan lingered by the elevator to wait for him. Although he didn’t want to pry, Ryan wondered how things had gone with Lars the day before. He’d sent Lars a text but only gotten back a vague thumbs up in reply, which could’ve meant anything from “we’ve patched everything up and are BFFs” to “I successfully didn’t get murdered by brother and will be able to play tomorrow.”

When the passenger side door popped open before the driver’s side, Ryan barely had time to adjust his expectations before Lars appeared. His hair was tied back in a bun that only just held it out of his eyes, which was distracting enough. Then he slammed the door shut and Ryan got a good look at his outfit. He was wearing possibly the ugliest blazer Ryan had ever seen, a pale blue tweed with navy blue crab patches stitched onto it. It was, quite frankly, a monstrosity. A sin against fashion. An affront to the eyes. And the bastard looked incredible in it: perfectly tailored, the perfect shade of blue to bring out his eyes, he looked like a high-fashion runway model instead of a goofy hockey player wearing an equally goofy outfit.

Ryan wanted nothing more than to tear it off of Lars and run his tongue down?—

Anders got out of the car next, looking prim in a mustard suit and orange tie that looked equally ridiculous but suited him. It was unfair that the brothers could look so handsome in clothes that would make Ryan feel like a circus clown, but at least Anders’s appearance had scrubbed the dirty thoughts from Ryan’s mind.

They spoke to each other in Swedish, and though Ryan didn’t understand a word of it, he could hear Lars’s usual playfulness and his brother’s more somber responses. It reminded him of the All Star Game, where they’d bickered but otherwise gotten along.

Maybe things had gone okay, after all.

Ryan was torn between stepping forward to talk to Lars and remaining very still so he wouldn’t be seen. In the end, he stayed put and watched the brothers. It felt like he was back on his parents’ ranch, trying not to spook the horses.

Soon enough, Lars stuck his tongue out, his hands in his pockets, and then walked towards the far end of the garage where he’d no doubt be able to find his own team.

Anders didn’t spot Ryan until he’d nearly reached the elevator, and only a slight stutter in his step gave away his surprise. He nodded to Ryan and they waited in silence until the beep chimed to announce the elevator’s arrival.

“He apologized,” was all Anders said once the doors sealed them in. He wasn’t smiling , but he had a quirk in his lips that was the Anders equivalent of a toothy grin. He looked down his nose at Ryan. “You’re good for him.”

Too stunned to know how to respond to that, Ryan pulled at the collar of his shirt and said, “Think we’ll do the same lines as last time we played the Crabs?”

The lines were basically the same as they’d been since he’d joined the team, and it was clearly an attempt to change the topic, but Anders considered him seriously. “I think so, yes. No reason to change when it’s worked before, and it’s how we beat New England.”

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” Ryan agreed awkwardly. Anders politely let the conversation die. It was a pleasant silence, broken only by the doors opening once again and their footsteps as they went down the long hallway to meet the rest of the team.

* * *

After Ryan went through a few laps on their half of the rink, he made a beeline for center ice where Lars was not-so-casually stick handling.

“Your blazer is really ugly,” he said as he stopped next to him, bumping their shoulders.

Lars’s face scrunched up in confusion, and he looked like he was about to check what he was wearing.

“The crab one,” Ryan said, and when that didn’t seem to make Lars any less confused, he added, “I saw you in the garage wearing it. It’s hideous. Why’d I give you all my nice Crabs clothes if you were just going to buy something like that?”

“You saw me in the garage?” He looked hurt. “You didn’t say hi?”

Ryan winced in a way that hopefully looked apologetic. “Looked like you were having a moment with your brother. I didn’t want to interrupt, y’know? When you two were actually getting along.”

At this Lars huffed. “We can go five minutes without fighting.” When he saw Ryan's skeptical look, he flashed a lopsided smile that made him look mischievous. “I learned my lesson, I promise. No fighting. I have a game to win. I can’t afford distractions.”

Ryan poked Lars in the chest, right on the Blue Crab logo. “Excuse me, but you are not winning in this town.”

Lars brought a hand up to grab Ryan by the wrist and pull him in. Even though the gesture was familiar, it brought them too close. They weren’t teammates anymore. There weren’t a lot of excuses for being in each other’s space. Ryan swallowed reflexively, but he didn’t pull away.

“Can I come over tonight?” Lars asked in a low voice. “And the loser can take out their frustration on the winner?”

His cheeks burned. What a picture that painted…and what awful timing because how the hell was he supposed to focus on hockey after a proposition like that?

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Ryan joked as he shoved Lars away. “More like when I win, I should be able to tell you to get on your kn?—”

“Hey, RJ.” Jake hurriedly skated to a stop beside Lars, his voice light but his expression pinched. “Everything all right here?”

Ryan’s brain replayed what he’d just said and wondered how much Jake might have heard. Not that Jake would judge them or do anything, which was why Ryan couldn’t understand why Jake seemed upset.

“We weren’t really arguing,” Lars drawled. “We’re just messing around.”

And then Ryan remembered the pushing and jersey poking, and realized how that might look to an outsider.

“Jake,” he said in disbelief.

Jake relaxed and had the decency to look embarrassed. “Sorry. Had to be sure. Playoffs and all. Lots of emotions.”

Ryan was torn between anger and resentment. Did Jake think so little of him, know him so poorly?Not understand how much he cared about Lars? He couldn’t imagine the circumstances where he’d actually fight him, and even then he was sure he’d pull his punches. Why would Jake?—?

“Do I have to hold you back?” Lars whispered. He had a hand on the bottom of Ryan’s jersey and was holding him from drifting closer to Jake, who had already retreated to the Crabs’ side of the ice.

“What? No, I’m not going to fight anyone.” His heart was hammering in his chest; suddenly he wasn’t so sure.

“Good.” Lars let him go. “It’d be awkward to have to pick between you and my team in a fight.” His wry smile suggested it wouldn’t and he’d already made up his mind.

With a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest that almost made him feel drunk, he said, “Good luck tonight. I’m not going to lie, I’m going to do my best to make sure you guys lose, but…”

But I wish this was something we didn’t have to take away from each other. That we could win or lose and have it be completely separate from us.

“I know,” Lars said gently. His eyes flicked up to the scoreboard. They probably didn’t have much time left before warm-ups ended and they were officially enemies for the next few hours. “If it can’t be us, I hope it’s you.”

“Same,” Ryan said wholeheartedly. He knew how much it would cost them each to see the other move on. Anders. The Crabs. The trade. Another year, another chance, gone. He wanted so much to hug Lars or kiss him or do something. The horn blared above them. Time was up. “Promise it doesn’t matter,” he blurted out. “Whoever wins, it won’t change anything.”

Lars’s expression softened. “It doesn’t matter,” he agreed. He didn’t even hesitate, which meant more than his assurance. “I?—”

“Nilsson!” Coach Thompkin’s sharp call interrupted and they were forced to face reality. They were the last people on the ice and even the benches had mostly cleared out, with only Thompkins glaring at them and on the Otters’ side, Anders lingering at the entrance to the tunnel. Ryan didn’t dare look at the fans gathered around the rink, their eyes wide and their cameras honed in on them.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lars said breezily. He winked at Ryan before skating off. “I’m coming. What do you think he’s going to do, recruit me?”

Thompkins didn’t seem amused by the sass, and he didn’t even glance Ryan’s way as he followed Lars down the tunnel, as though making sure Lars didn’t turn around or do something stupid.

The doors for the zambonis were already open, the drivers waiting for him. With nothing left, he got off the ice and followed Anders to the Otters’ locker room.

Game time.