Page 126 of The Trade Deadline
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 wassupposedto 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 Ialwaysattack you.”
Anders considered him, probably seeing him more clearly than Lars could see himself. “Whydoyou 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 hadscreamedat 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 wouldnotput up with Lars throwing another tantrum, so he’d better get used to it.
Anders heaved a deep sigh. “Lasse…I was never leavingyou. 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 fleeinghadto 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. Iftheywant 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.”
