Page 16 of The Trade Deadline
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 toplay. 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,reallyattractive. 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 thenmorephotos, 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. Themalephotographer.
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’remyfavorite 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—everyinteraction 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 wasnotspoiled—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?—
