Page 55 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 39

Lars

BLUE CRABS RETURN TO BALTIMORE DOWN 0-2 IN SERIES

Lars aggressively swiped away the notification and glared at his phone for betraying him with that stupid headline. What an awful way to wake up.

He didn’t like losing. Obviously he didn’t like it. You couldn’t get this far in professional sports without having a competitive drive, and that went hand-in-hand with wanting to win. Lars could handle losing. He could bounce back and he could talk himself down from being too upset and spiraling into worse games. It hadn’t been that bad, back on the Prowlers. They won more than they lost, and it never seemed like a dry spell lasted more than three games.

With the Crabs, he’d had to grow some tougher skin. There’d definitely been worse streaks than three losses in a row, and some of those losses had been bad . He’d thought he’d matured a lot over the season by not letting it ruin his focus.

Turned out he was wrong. It was really just having Ryan there suffering with him that had made it okay. Now he was losing to Ryan. In the playoffs . One playoff loss hurt as much as a month’s worth of regular season games, and it was brutal to be around someone who was happy about the series, even if Ryan was doing his best to hide his excitement.

It was fucking awful.

Except he was really proud of Ryan. Ryan, who never necessarily went easy on former teammates but was obviously still friendly with most of them, locked into every game the second the puck dropped. It didn’t matter that they were often in the face-offs against each other or battling along the boards. Ryan genuinely didn’t seem to notice or care if it was Lars or Jake or Vorny or anyone. He played, he went hard, and he was spectacular.

“Why the fuck did they trade him?” Tomas had hissed in the locker room during the first intermission of Game Two; moments before, Ryan had embarrassed the whole team by skating through them and scoring a beautiful backhand goal. “We’d be winning this series right now.”

“Or if you’d do your job and score,” Pavel had muttered as he pulled off his jersey.

“If you’d do your job and stop them from scor?—”

“Enough,” Thompkins had snapped. Credit where credit was due: no one had thought the Crabs would get this far and despite not having much playoff experience, Thompkins had done a hell of a job adapting to the Pythons. They just couldn’t seem to get a handle on the Otters. “We’re all going to do our jobs and keep our heads in the game. Let’s win this next period and build from there.”

They hadn’t won that period, or the next. Certainly not the game. It was an uphill battle, and Lars was starting to worry they needed to focus on not getting swept versus actually winning the series. He wasn’t used to being the underdog, and he really didn’t like it.

Ryan’s breath hitched on a snore and then evened out again. He snuggled closer to Lars, his arms around Lars’s waist and his nose buried in his hair.

It was really hard to stay upset when he got to see Ryan every day. The longer this series lasted, the longer they could pretend nothing had changed. Great motivation, honestly. Lars knew where he stood, but there were too many variables to know what that meant for them. He was absolutely in love with Ryan and wanted to continue being with him, and was absolutely dying to call Ryan his boyfriend. He’d never had a real boyfriend, and the idea made him giddy.

And that was as far as he got. What did it mean if they were boyfriends? Would they keep it a secret? Lars was out, a fact that he’d mostly been ignoring but would probably have to deal with sooner rather than later. Ryan wasn’t, though, and he had no idea how feasible going public was. Did the league have any rules against it? And how would things work long distance? Sure, Ohio and Baltimore weren’t far and it was convenient that Ryan was near Lars’s family, but that was only a guarantee until the playoffs ended and Ryan’s contract was up. What if Ryan didn’t even want a relationship and?—?

He squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath for ten seconds, let it out slowly and started over. It took effort to clear his head, but he did it. This was a later problem, and one he’d tackle with Ryan.

His flight wasn’t until the afternoon; he set an alarm on his phone and rolled onto his back, pulling Ryan with him. He fell back to sleep with his fingers trailing along Ryan’s beard.

* * *

“I can’t believe you shoved me out of the crease,” Ryan grumbled as he discarded his dress slacks and began on the buttons of his shirt. They were at Lars’s apartment after Game Three—a narrow victory for the Crabs—waiting for the shower to heat up. Neither wanted to admit it, but they were sore and tired and needed the scalding water to help them relax. “You could’ve hurt me.”

“It was either me or Vorny, and Vorny wouldn’t have been so gentle,” Lars said. He’d seen Vorny winding up to slash Ryan’s legs out from under him, so he’d practically tackled Ryan to get him out of the way. It’d earned him a roughing penalty. “Though they probably wouldn’t have given him a penalty.”

“Can you believe they dinged me for one, too?” Ryan hadn’t known it was Lars who’d knocked him over, so he’d blindly shoved back. When he’d seen who it was, he’d rolled his eyes and huffed an annoyed, “Really?” Lars had even tried arguing with the refs, swearing up and down they weren’t trying to hurt each other. They hadn’t bought it, and the two had shrugged helplessly at each other from their respective penalty boxes. It’d been kind of funny, actually, though their teams hadn’t thought so. Anders, at least, had looked amused when he’d skated by and caught Lars’s eye.

“They didn’t call shit when we played the Pythons,” Lars said. He checked the water, just shy of being too hot, and held the shower curtain back for Ryan. “I could’ve used one when your winger interfered with me.”

“First of all”—Ryan stepped into the tub—“that wasn’t interference. You’re just not as fast as you think you are. Second of all, they barely call interference in the regular season. They sure as heck aren’t calling it now . Most importantly, why aren’t you in the shower with me?”

Lars couldn’t argue; he got into the shower and they stopped talking about hockey (or anything) for the rest of the night.

* * *

The high of winning Game Three was followed by the crushing overtime loss of Game Four. The team had dug deep and still came up short, and now they were on the brink. They headed back to Cincinnati knowing that they could be eliminated in any game, and it made the flight somber.

Despite knowing the odds, Lars really thought they could do it. He wasn’t giving up—none of them were—but it now felt like the Cup was just out of reach. The Pythons were good, but the Crabs had had their number all season. The Otters were better than both of them, and it would take everything they had to hold them off even one more game.

Maybe more than they had. Lars had been here before with the Prowlers. Facing elimination against a team they had no business beating. Even if they won, they’d have nothing left in the tank for the Conference Finals.

He’d promised Ryan he’d get the Crabs to the playoffs. Maybe he should’ve considered what would happen when they got there.

There’d been talk in Baltimore about how getting the Wildcard shot was victory enough, and then winning a single series had exceeded everyone’s expectations. It was setting the stage for the team’s future blah blah blah. It was a positive spin that felt hollow. He didn’t want to settle for less. It’d been instilled into him from a young age that he should always aim for the top.

But he also had to deal with the reality of the situation. Unless the hockey gods decided to send some puck luck their way, they were playing on borrowed time.

His head fell back against his seat and he stared at the ceiling. There wasn’t much chatter, and he suspected their thoughts were along the same lines as his. All he could hear was the fan blowing above the seats in front of him.

He missed Ryan. Lars had never much cared who he sat next to or if he sat alone while the team traveled, but Ryan had spoiled him. Worse, he knew how good things could be and that they’d never get it back. Ryan wasn’t coming back to the Crabs. It wasn’t as bad as when Lars left the Prowlers, but he sensed the Crabs had burned that bridge with Ryan. Lars didn’t blame him; he wouldn’t want to go back to a team that hadn’t thought he was worth keeping for the playoffs.

But they had taken care of Lars. As much as he tried to pretend his outburst hadn’t happened, it had, and the Crabs as an organization had closed ranks around him. The media hadn’t asked him any questions about the Prowlers (or his sexuality), even though he was sure there was nothing they wanted to talk about more. That was a mandate from the GM if he’d ever seen one, and he appreciated it. He hadn’t figured out what he wanted to do with being openly gay, but he sure as fuck didn’t want to deal with it during the playoffs.

With two years left on his contract, Lars would stay in Baltimore.

Which meant next year, wherever Ryan ended up, it wouldn’t be with him.

It was with that grim prospect in mind that he grabbed his phone and headphones, put on his loudest playlist, and drowned out his thoughts for the rest of the flight.

* * *

“You’re not coming?” Lars tried not to pout, realized that might actually help him, then did it more.

Mormor tsked. “I came to two games already. You both did well, and I’m glad I got to see it with the children. But this is an elimination game. Emotions are high. You might be upset at the end, or your brother is upset. I don’t want to be happy for one while the other is hurting. I stay home, and we all have time to calm down from excitement or sadness.”

She was right. One of them would win, and she’d be happy for them; one of them would lose, and she’d be there to console them. Granted, a loss would be more upsetting for Lars, but he knew he’d be obnoxious if the Crabs won and that would only make Anders more annoyed about another trip to Baltimore.

“I’ll be watching, Lillen.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll be cheering for you both, and proud of you regardless. You’ve been playing very well this year, and this whole series you haven’t fought your brother once.”

The last part wasn’t exactly true. There’d been some pushing and shoving on the boards and in front of the net, but compared to their usual levels, they were playing a clean game. Lars could’ve elbowed his brother in his newly healed nose and he didn’t. He was glad Mormor had noticed.

“I really want to win,” he confessed.

“I would be worried if you didn’t. As good as you are, you don’t control the game. Your team might lose and you’ll have to let that go. Play the best you can, and I’ll be proud of you.”

“And if I play like shit and we still win?”

She bopped him on the head. “Then I will be happy for you to have a chance to do better. Lillen, I know how well you play and I expect to see it. Win or lose, I’ll tell you what you did wrong.”

He laughed and gave her a hug. Overall, he wasn’t sure how much he liked playing against the Otters, but seeing Mormor so often was definitely one of the perks.

* * *

What was that saying? Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong? That was how Lars felt at the start of the third period. The Otters and the Blue Crabs were scoreless still, a tied elimination game that would leave both teams exhausted whenever it ended. Especially if it went to Overtime. Or Double Overtime. Or Triple. Fuck, that would be awful.

In the first period, the growing welt on his lower back was testament to the shot he’d blocked. Stupid Anders and his stupid hard shots. Stupid wingers not covering the point. Stupid Lars deciding to block it.

In the second, Lars had gotten a juicy chance to score on a delayed penalty call. Jake had set him up for a one timer backdoor…and his stick had broken. The shot had gone harmlessly to the corner, and one of the Otters had grabbed the puck for a whistle.

And since apparently bullshit came in threes, his bad luck streak continued. Apparently he hadn’t learned his lesson earlier, and he decided it would be a good idea to put himself between a shot and the goal. It wasn’t Anders, which made him think it was a reasonable idea. Ryan lined up for a shot as he entered the zone, and Lars stupidly got in the way. It hit him low, and he was relieved it hadn’t hit any exposed skin.

Then his left leg went out from under him and he hit the ice.

When he tried to get back up and fell over whenever he tried to put any weight on his left leg, his heart sank. The skate blade had broken off when the puck hit it. He was stranded in the defensive zone.

He quickly assessed his options and started crawling to the bench.

“Get on your left shin.” Ryan came up behind him and started pushing him. “Kick with your right.”

Lars did as he was told. Ryan pushed him a little farther, but once he got the hang of it, Ryan rushed away to catch up to the play that had moved to the Otters’ blue line.

When he got to the bench, there was a mad scramble to get him off the ice and then the equipment manager was fixing his skate. He felt like a horse getting reshod as he watched, helpless, as Ivan hopped over the boards to replace him.

“Real nice of RJ to do that for you,” Logan, the backup goalie, said. His eyes were on the play, but Lars’s skin prickled with awareness; he was definitely paying more attention to Lars than the game. “Wonder why he did it.”

“He probably felt bad.” It wasn’t even a lie. Ryan often apologized to other players. Lars had seen Ryan dump someone into the bench and call “Sorry!” as he skated away. “It was his shot that took me out, wasn’t it?”

“Was it?” Logan asked evenly. He didn’t turn his head, but his gaze briefly flicked to Lars.

“Good as new. Try not to break another one.” The equipment manager patted Lars’s leg and disappeared to his usual spot next to the extra player sticks.

Lars waited until he was gone before he started, “I’m not sure what you?—”

Logan finally turned to face Lars and gave him a withering look. “I’m just saying you two are obvious. You got away with shit like that when RJ played with us, but everyone and their brother’s going to be talking about that after the game. If you’re lucky, they’ll talk about sportsmanship and not whether you two are fucking.”

His jaw dropped.

“I’m the backup,” Logan reminded him. “All I do is watch. And you two…” He shook his head. “You guys put on quite the show.”

“I don’t— We—” Realizing he was stuck and a terrible liar, he pivoted. “Who else knows?”

Logan shrugged. “Vorny and I’ve talked about it, but no one else has mentioned it. Heteronormativity’s a helluva drug, and he left before you were out so it probably wasn’t on anyone’s radar, even though most of us know he’s bi.” There was a stoppage in play and a line change. It wasn’t until the bench had settled again that Logan leaned over and asked, “Was it hard when he left?”

“First line, get out there!” Thompkins shouted. “Offensive zone face-off. Jake, line up for a shot off the draw. You better win it clean, Nilsson. RJ’s not out there, so you’ve got a chance at it.”

Lars hesitated before he stood up. “Yes,” he said to Logan. “It fucking sucked.”

“They’re gonna feel like assholes when they find out,” Logan said matter-of-factly, and the thought of Charlie Monroe feeling bad about the trade echoed through his head as Lars got back on the ice. He didn’t know if there would be any “finding out,” but he did like the idea of them regretting the trade.

The rest of the game was a blur. He did his best, he really did, but he couldn’t be on the ice the whole time. A sloppy turnover by the fourth line led to a late goal by the Otters, and it felt like a death sentence. Three minutes to try and tie it when they’d barely gotten off fifteen shots all game.

He did play the last two minutes with only a timeout to buy him a breather. He powered through his exhaustion, pushed and pushed and pushed .

It wasn’t enough.

The arena roared well before the final buzzer sounded and continued long after. Lars fell to his knees on the ice, defeated while the Otters celebrated around him. It was like he didn’t exist.

“Fuck,” he said. Jake and Tomas hung nearby, equally despondent with shoulders sagged and heads down. There was nothing they could do but watch as their season ended. All this way for nothing.

They waited for what felt like ages for things to settle down and a line to form at center ice for handshakes. Admittedly this was a tradition he appreciated, a show of mutual respect for their rivals and the sport that he almost wished they did every game, not just during eliminations. But then he’d have had to shake the Prowlers’ hands after they’d treated him like shit, and he was glad he’d been allowed to turn his back on them without a second thought.

He got in line, somewhere in the middle of the pack so he’d have time to process what he wanted to say. He didn’t know most of the Otters. He’d faced them for years, and he suspected they weren’t his biggest fans, but he’d paid so little attention to them he wouldn’t have more to offer than “good game” and “good luck.” There were two people in particular he actually knew , and he almost dreaded when they’d meet.

Anders was near the front, and Lars was forced to look up at his big brother and offer his hand.

“I’m still better than you,” he said in Swedish.

“The score says otherwise,” Anders said. After they shook hands, Anders pulled him into a hug. Lars was acutely aware that if his brother had done that even a few months ago, Lars would’ve knocked him to the ice.

Today, he reluctantly hugged him back.

“This doesn’t mean I’m happy about this,” Lars grumbled and pulled away. “But I suppose it’s good that one Nilsson is still playing.”

Anders patted his shoulder. “Stop holding up the line. Say good luck and move on.”

He almost gave his brother the finger, then remembered this was a nationally broadcast game and he didn’t need more media attention. “Good luck,” he said with an overly sweet voice that dripped sarcasm.

“I’ll see you at the house,” Anders said, and then they both moved on to the next person.

Even as long as he and Anders had taken, the line was slow-moving as everyone on the Blue Crabs spent extra time wishing Ryan luck. They’d never been able to give him a proper send off, and there wouldn’t be a better time to tell him how much he was missed and appreciated than now when he was moving on after a well-earned victory. Lars’s heart was near to bursting as he waited, and then all too soon it was his turn.

“You played well,” he said, hand out, at the same time that Ryan said, “ Jag ?lskar dig .”

Lars stood there, frozen. The words didn’t compute. Ryan did all the work to shake their hands and leaned in to whisper, “I’ll meet you at your brother’s place tonight, okay?” and was gone before Lars had gotten a chance to recover.

There was someone else in front of him now, politely shaking his hand and offering platitudes, and Lars was staring over his shoulder at the back of Ryan’s head. It took monumental effort to go through the rest of the handshake line and it passed by in such a daze that he knew he wouldn’t remember any of it later.

Well, except that one part.

Jag ?lskar dig.

I love you.