Page 8 of The Trade Deadline

Chapter 5

Lars

Lars stood in front of the mirror, unsure how he felt seeing himself in the blue and red jersey. He wouldn’t say he missed the Prowler’s purple and silver, but he wasn’t used to the powder blue and maroon combo. He’d worn blue before for Sweden and red for Fr?lunda, yet the combination and shades rendered his reflection unfamiliar to him. He knew who he’d been on his former teams; who would he be on the Crabs?

Gingerly, he touched the large crab emblem on his chest. He’d always found the logo strange—what do crabs have to do with hockey?—and a tad cartoonish. Almost like something a child would draw. He smiled fondly, remembering when he’d drawn pictures of his dad when he was a kid. He’d gotten pretty good at drawing polar bears, the mascot for the Toronto Terrors. The comparison made him instantly fond of the slightly deformed crab.

After the overly aggressive, werewolf-like creature he’d worn with the Prowlers, he kind of liked this swing in the opposite direction. Maybe this really wasn’t a team that would cast him out for imagined sins.

He tapped the crab once more, then left the small dressing area.

“Looks good on you,” a photographer said. In his experience, photographers always said that and he’d grown numb to the praise. “I’ll just do a few shots for promos and then let you get back to your team.”

“A few” was clearly in the hundreds, because again and again the lights flashed and he was put into different poses with different props. These weren’t his hockey gloves, wasn’t his stick, was barely even his smile as the time stretched on and on. He’d been through this dog and pony show before—he was subjected to some version of it every season—but this time his nerves were less up to the task. He just wanted to play . He wanted to learn this team so he could help make them a contender. He wanted to show the Prowlers what they’d lost.

He wanted to see Brian again.

It was an errant thought, so wholly unexpected that his plastered-on smile faltered and the photographer had to gently remind him they were almost done. Why did he want to see Brian again?

Yes, he was attractive. Like, really attractive. Dark eyes you could fall into, brown hair just long enough you could give it the slightest tug, and the kind of deep voice you knew sounded good moaning your name. So Lars had certainly noticed him and would continue to, but he’d had plenty of attractive teammates before. Even before the situation in Portland, Lars had a rule about fooling around with teammates. Too many ways for things to go poorly. Generally, he didn’t even consider players from other teams as potential hookups because there was always the potential they’d end up on the same team. His attraction to Brian was irrelevant.

It was the way that he ignored Lars that intrigued him.

Lars was used to attention. Ever since he was in Mites, people had been watching his play. As he’d gotten older and moved up, he couldn’t escape the expectations of his coaches and his teammates, who sometimes looked at him with the same sort of rose-tinted glasses that fans did. It’d only gotten more pronounced in the NHL, with players trying to ingratiate themselves to him. Why, he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like Lars made the lines and he honestly didn’t care who was on the ice with him; he trusted them all equally.

Even the ones without an agenda were friendly with him. The other “superstars” didn’t want to create unnecessary drama—there had been plenty of rivalries created and perpetuated by the media—and since Lars himself tried to be polite to everyone (well, except Anders, but he could hardly be faulted for that), that was more or less what he got back. Occasionally there was someone who tried to antagonize him, usually an enforcer or young defenseman on another team trying to make a name for themselves, but Lars was good at ignoring it.

Brian’s outright indifference…that was new. And for no reason Lars could pinpoint, he wanted to make Brian like him. He wanted a real smile and an actual conversation where Brian said more than three words at a time.

What a stupid thing to care about, given his life lately. Maybe he was fixating on this because it was a small, irrelevant obstacle that made the challenge of starting over on a new team seem more manageable. That was it, he decided. It wasn’t even about Brian.

The idea comforted him as he went through the rest of the day. Media days were exhausting. Aside from photos, there were interviews and then more photos, this time in gear and on the ice. Videos, too. He was used to bearing the brunt of it as a “fan favorite” and had more or less learned to dissociate during the never ending parade.

Which became a lot harder when he and Brian were paired together for a lot of the on-ice videos. Lars wasn’t expecting to be with other centers, but he soon gathered that while everyone assumed Lars would be popular, Brian really was an actual favorite in Baltimore. It also put into stark contrast the bubbly way he spoke to the reporters and photographers compared to the disinterested way he spoke to Lars.

“Make sure to get my good side,” Brian said with a flirty wink to the photographer. The male photographer.

He laughed. “All your sides are your good side, RJ. Just ask my wife and daughter. They’re your biggest fans.”

Brian flashed a lopsided grin. “You’re just trying to butter me up so I’ll smile.”

“Honest to god, you’re their favorite. Thanks for those signed pucks last season, by the way.”

“Well, they’re my favorite fans. Don’t think I forgot that peach cobbler your wife made for the team. I’ll sign ten more pucks if it gets me that recipe.”

It went on like that for several more minutes, Lars skating in awkward circles while he waited. Part of him hoped that maybe Brian’s good mood would carry over to Lars, but when they had a chance to talk, nothing. It was left to Lars to ask a hesitant, “Are you looking forward to the preseason?”

Brian looked at him quizzically down his perfect nose before saying, “Sure.”

And that was it.

The only time Brian was “friendly” was when he’d blindside Lars with a completely random question. As they left the ice after the photo shoot, he asked, “Do you like Toblerone?” with a weirdly knowing look. Like he was about to find Lars’s answer equally disappointing and amusing.

Feeling like it was a test— every interaction with Brian felt like a test—he thought carefully before saying, “That Swiss triangle chocolate? Not really. It’s too hard to bite into.”

And yes, there it was. Amused disappointment.

“Why?” Lars quickly asked. “Do you?”

Brian bit his lip adorably. “I like it better fresh,” he said and walked away.

Honestly, what the fuck?

* * *

Unable to leave well enough alone, Lars stewed in his annoyance. It was easier to place the blame on Brian than to wonder why he felt a compulsive need to make Brian like him. He could easily imagine his brother calling him spoiled and narcissistic, which only made things worse. He was not spoiled—he worked hard, dammit—or narcissistic—he had a healthy appreciation of his strengths but recognized his faults. This was a Brian thing, not a Lars thing. It had to be, since Brian was friendly with the coaches and their teammates, the barista and other staff, every other person in the whole damn facility?—

He cut himself off before he got too worked up. They were in practice, and Lars needed to focus. While he’d been accepted enthusiastically overall, he still wanted to prove he was worth the hype. During drills, he actually tried instead of going through the motions. When they did edge work with the skating coach, he didn’t even complain. He was a model player, exactly the type he’d been as a kid that made his coaches shower him with praise.

It bothered him a little that Brian matched him, move for move. He was technically better at skating and mechanics, though not as fast or agile and seemed a little less…creative? Confident? There was some intangible difference that Lars couldn’t pinpoint, something that gave him the edge when he and Brian went head to head. It was kinda fun, actually, but after the fifth time he beat Brian outright, he noticed the other forward’s brow furrow in frustration.

Oh.

When they were split into teams for a scrimmage, Lars decided to investigate a sinking suspicion about why Brian didn’t like him.

On the bench, he scooted over to where Jake Campbell—veteran right winter and current captain of the Blue Crabs (inexplicably nicknamed “Soups” by the team)—was chewing his mouthguard and watching their white team fend off a Power Play from team blue.

“Is Brian upset I took his spot on the first line?” he asked.

Jake’s face scrunched in confusion. “You mean RJ? First line?” A slight laugh. “He’s always been second or third. If he doesn’t like you, it’s got nothing to do with hockey.”

Second or third line? Weird. The other options for center that he’d seen were decent players but either young and still developing or old and ready to retire. Brian was a clear standout among them. In fact, everything he’d seen suggested Brian was one of the best players on the team, period. Anyone with eyes and any hockey sense could see it, but this wasn’t the first time he’d encountered casual resistance to the idea that Brian was a capable player.

“Why wasn’t he first line?” Lars asked. He hoped his accent hid his surprise.

Jake shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. RJ’s great. Nicest guy in the world.” Lars ground his teeth. “But he’s…” He paused, apparently couldn’t think of the right word, and gave up. “He’s just not first line material.”

Jake was likely going to be on the top line with Lars, and yes, if he were in Jake’s position, he’d choose himself over Brian, too; that didn’t mean he wasn’t the best option pre-Lars. Why wouldn’t they want Brian on their line?

Lars turned back to the game where Brian—“RJ”, he’d have to get used to that—was weaving in and out of the attacking Power Play unit, killing time more effectively than if he’d dumped it. He then managed to send a stretch pass to one of the other players hoping for a breakaway. On the resulting play, the winger got a decent shot off and the opposing goalie had to cover. It was textbook…and all because Brian was doing what he was supposed to.

Yet their teammates were banging the board and shouting at the winger and goalie for the awesome play. Even Brian, who skated over dutifully for the resulting face-off, fist bumped his winger and patted his shoulder, like the shot on goal was the most impressive part. When the Penalty Kill ended (successfully), Lars jumped the boards and stepped in front of Brian as he returned to the bench. Brian scowled and opened his mouth to say something, but Lars quickly cut him off.

“Nice job on that kill.” He patted Brian’s helmet. “Perfect pass.”

Brian stiffened, almost like he was angry. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. When he tried to move around Lars, Lars physically blocked him off.

“Really. It was a beaut. I see why they trust you on the PK.” He spoke as earnestly as he could, hoping his actual appreciation for Brian’s role on the team might soften the blow of another center in the pecking order.

Brian’s shoulders relaxed minutely. “I’m surprised they don’t have you on the kill.”

Lars’s chest constricted. Was this a real conversation?

“Me?” He laughed. “I’m garbage at defense stuff. They tried it in Portland and I always try to get a shorthanded goal and get my team burned. Can’t turn off the offense long enough. They’d rather go empty net than have me out, I promise.”

I’m not trying to take this from you.

“Oh.” And then, small and shy, he gave Lars a genuine smile. Not as bright and hammed up as he usually flashed, but it reached his eyes all the same.

Lars was wondering how he could keep this going (would he finally satisfy his curiosity enough to move the fuck on from obsessing?) when a whistle blew.

“Nilsson! Get over here!” Thompkins yelled. “Don’t make me give this face-off to Soups.”

“Please don’t,” Jake grumbled loudly, earning laughs from the team.

“Coming.” And then with a final look at Brian, he skated off, letting their shoulders brush as he went.