Page 58 of The Trade Deadline
Lars
Lars normally didn’t stay in Ohio until both he and Anders were out of the playoffs. He didn’t want anything to do with the Otters’ playoff runs, and he didn’t want his foul mood to dampen anyone’s spirits. Well, he wouldn’t mind if it got on Anders’s nerves, but he didn’t want to upset the rest of the family.
This year was different, obviously.
Ohio seemed to be gathering all the people he cared about most, which was disappointing, given how boring the state was otherwise. He promised Ryan he would stay in Cincinnati until the Otters’ season ended. It was hardly a chore: when the Otters were at home, Lars stayed at Ryan’s apartment. Discreetly, of course. He was able to attend games with Amanda, Mormor, and the kids without anyone being suspicious. The few times he was on the jumbotron, he even made a show of booing his brother. The crowd hated that. Or rather, they loved it, since they seemed to enjoy him making an ass of himself.
When the Otters traveled—first to Boston for the Conference Finals, and then to Albuquerque for the Finals—Lars stayed at Anders’s guest house. He really liked this whole dating thing; whether in person or via video chat, he saw Ryan every day. He got to alternate between teasing Ryan for his poorly-stocked pantry and complimenting him on how fantastic he’d looked in his pre-game suits. They’d also gotten very adept at sexting.
It was admittedly weird, sitting in the living room with Mormor to his right and Amanda to his left, Astrid and Anton hopping around from bean bag to recliner to ottoman. They’d never all rooted for the same team before. Hell, he’d never done this whole “watching the playoffs and not playing in them” thing before, and he found he respected Amanda’s struggles a lot more. Yes, he was still jealous that they’d stolen Mormor away, but he couldn’t deny this was a better place for her. She wasn’t lonely, and neither was Amanda.
It came down to Game Seven, because of fucking course it did. It might make for better TV, but Lars wished the Otters had stomped the stupid Turkeys in four or five games. He’d never been so nervous watching a game he wasn’t playing in.
“Sucks, huh?” Amanda nudged his elbow and offered him some popcorn. They were in the suite reserved for players’ families. All the wives, girlfriends, and partners were very polite to him, but he could sense they didn’t quite know what to do with him.
Lars took a big handful of popcorn and shoved it in his mouth, only belatedly realizing she’d asked him a question. “Wha?”
“You’re as bad as the kids, I swear,” she scolded. “I meant it must suck. A big game like this, you’re usually playing in it. Must feel kinda helpless, sitting all the way up here with us.”
He grumbled incoherently until he finished his mouthful of popcorn. “Yes, it’s the worst. I could win them this game no problem!”
“Doesn’t hurt that you’re well-rested and didn’t have to fly in from New Mexico a few days ago.”
“Details.”
As unexpected as it had been for the Turkeys to even make it into the playoffs, their run had been fantastic. It aggravated Lars that the current round was still going, but he admired the effort the Turkeys had shown. But unlike the Otters, who hadn’t seen a Game Seven before tonight, the Turkeys had needed all seven games each round to get here. One of those went to double overtime. They’d made an impressive push against the Otters—their goalie was on fire—but it seemed they were running on fumes. Lars wouldn’t say it was an easy win for the Otters, but they took an early lead and were able to hold it through two periods, adding another couple goals in the third when the Turkeys started playing desperate.
Lars was on the edge of his seat most of the game. Once the one-minute mark hit, a strange sense of calm went through him. They’d done it. The Otters had won.
It was like an out-of-body experience to go onto the ice with the other family members. He’d experienced this decades ago when his father won, and he’d never gotten over how overwhelming the whole thing was. The confetti, the cameras, the cheers—it was a spectacle worthy of any king’s court.
Anders had won the Conn Smythe for playoff MVP, and after Lars had a very underwhelming photoshoot with his brother where he scowled and put up bunny ears when Anders wasn’t looking, the attention briefly moved on to the other players having their turn with the Cup.
“You should’ve been here the first time I won,” Anders said in Swedish. He was wearing one of those ugly STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS hats they gave everyone. Anton and Astrid had started flinging theirs back and forth like boomerangs; Lars had thrown his to the fans. “I always hated that you weren’t there.”
Lars had only been twelve, moody and angry; he’d declined his brother’s invitation to come watch the playoffs, citing their grandparents as an excuse. He sort of regretted it now, but it was probably for the best; he’d have made a fool of himself.
“Now you’ve won twice,” Lars said. “I’ll have to do better so I can get a third and a fourth. Need to make sure they know which Nilsson brother is better.”
“The Crabs can’t get to the Cup without going through Ohio,” Anders said smugly.
“Good. I don’t want you getting knocked out in the first round and complaining when we win that it wasn’t legit if we didn’t face you.”
Anders rolled his eyes. “You’re an awful brother.”
“Besides, it’ll be easier next year when you don’t have Ryan.”
“Won’t we?” Anders said vaguely before pushing Lars away. “Go find your boyfriend. He won too, you know.”
Oh, he knew.
He was so fucking proud of how Ryan had played, and so fucking happy for him. Eight years in the league and he hadn’t gotten this chance, and now he was a Stanley Cup Champion.
Lars had to weave through the crowd to get to where Ryan was talking with some teammates. The second he saw Lars, he skated away from the crowd and rushed toward him.
“You did it—!” Lars was cut off by Ryan nearly knocking him off his feet. The hug made him yelp and flail as he tried to keep his balance (stupid shoes, why would anyone ever go on the ice without skates?), so he had no time to brace himself for what happened next. One moment, he was desperately holding on to Ryan for dear life, the next he was being swept up in a kiss. Then he was desperately holding on to Ryan for completely different reasons.
“I can’t believe I got to lift the Stanley Cup.” Ryan was breathless with excitement. Or from the kiss. Or both.
“You deserved it,” Lars said. He’d regained his footing but couldn’t quite let go of Ryan. Not that Ryan was letting go of him. “Just in case you didn’t notice,” he said, “you kissed me on national television.”
Ryan frowned, blinked, then took a look around them. As if it weren’t really fucking obvious they were in the middle of an ice rink with tens of thousands of people staring at them and an endless cascade of camera flashes.
“Hmm. Guess I did.” He turned back to Lars. “That a problem?”
He was dating a Stanley Cup Champion. Everyone knew he was dating a Stanley Cup Champion. He’d be hard-pressed to think of any problems. He might never have any problems ever again.
This time it was Lars who leaned in and kissed Ryan. Short and chaste, on the lips and then on the cheek. “Not a problem at all.”