Page 18 of The Trade Deadline
“No,” Lars said seriously, if not without an adorable furrow between his brows. “I like green.”
Or, “Where did you play before the NHL?”
“I played for Frölunda HC and Team Sweden,” he said with a proud smile, and Ryan had to cut him off before he could direct the question back at him.
And once, boldly, “Have you ever been to Switzerland?”
“Yes! I was in Geneva for a few weeks the last time I played Juniors. Why?” A suspicious, calculating look made Ryan think he’d finally gone too far. He needn’t have worried, because Lars asked, “Are you Swiss?”
When he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing, Ryan wondered if he was being mean. It wasn’t as though it hurt Lars because only Ryan knew what he was doing, but it did wonders to ease his nerves. And he had a lot of anxiety about Lars’s appearance on the team, so he needed what little help he could get.
He decided it was maybe a little mean and he’d stop if anyone else noticed or if he thought it bothered Lars.
Satisfied, he plotted his next few questions and was delighted each time Lars answered as truthfully and obliviously as ever.
* * *
“He’s kind of a loner, isn’t he?”
Ryan looked up. Vorny, their goalie, was eyeing Lars.
Ryan shrugged and went back to untying his skates. Lars had complimented him at practice, which was messing with his equilibrium. Sure, teammates told him he did well, but that was during games, not practice. And it was Lars. There was nothing Lars could do or say to him that he wouldn’t (unfortunately) overanalyze. He wished he was as blissfully unaware of their hookup as Lars, because ugh.
“He’s new,” Ryan said as he wiggled his left foot out of his skate and flexed his toes. “It’s hard being the new guy.”
Ryan was speaking from experience. While Vorny had probably been the new guy on teams at some point, he was going on season five with the team who’d drafted him in the first round and had him playing as the starter most of his rookie year. Being the new guy wasn’t an experience Vorny had contended with in a while.
“I suppose,” Vorny conceded. “Is it true he calls you Brian?”
Ryan did his best not to make a face and tried to force his expression into a lopsided grin instead of whatever his actual reaction was. “Doesn’t he call everyone by their first name?”
“Yes,” Vorny agreed with a hint of disapproval. “I don’t like it. No one says my name right. And your name isn’t Brian.”
Both true—Ryan wouldn’t evenattemptto say Vladislav Voronin if he could help it—but he was trying his best to keep his personal feelings about Lars out of the equation when it came to their teammates.
There was a slight pause where Ryan debated the wisdom of speaking versus keeping his damn mouth shut, but in the end, he was too nice not to say it. “Aren’t you guys going out tonight for drinks? Why don’t you invite him?”
Vorny hummed in consideration. “Not a bad idea.” He stood abruptly. “Come with me. We’ll ask him.”
“Me?” Ryan also stood up, but not as a call to action; he had to take off his hockey pants, and he did so with undue concentration. “What’s this gotta do with me?”
“He likes you,” Vorny said, and it was rather unfortunate that it made Ryan blush. It was absolutely not true or Lars would remember him, but he couldn’t exactly say that. Lars had consistently talked to Ryan more than anyone else for whatever reason, so he understood why Vorny would get the wrong impression. “You don’t have to go drinking,” he assured Ryan, misunderstanding his apprehension, “but if you stand next to me when I ask, I think it improves the odds, yes?” And then without waiting for a response, he grabbed Ryan by the arm and marched them over to where Lars was pulling on his shirt.
“Vorny!” Ryan protested. He tried to pull away, but the goalie’s grip was like a vice. He’d have to put his whole body into breaking free, and that would only make it more awkward.
Vorny, of course, ignored him and only let go once they were right in front of Lars, blocking his escape from the locker room. He looked up at them through his lashes, light brown with flecks of blond at the end, and raised an expectant eyebrow.
“We’re going drinking,” Vorny said, Russian accent suddenly ten times thicker. “You will come with us.”
Lars’s gaze darted between them. “Just you two?”
Vorny shook his head. “Whole team.” A pause as Ryan nudged him. He sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “Most of team. RJ doesn’t drink.”
Lars frowned and fixed his attention on Ryan. “Doesn’t drink?”
“Not during the season,” Ryan clarified. They hadn’t technically had any games, but they were well into training and Ryan wouldn’t touch alcohol again until maybe Thanksgiving when his sisters talked him into a few glasses of wine so they could shit talk their parents, aunts, and uncles in the basement den.
“His body is a temple,” Vorny deadpanned, his lips curling as he repeated the running joke. He shot Ryan a disapproving scowl before turning back to Lars. “You will come with us,” he repeated, this time more a threat than an invitation. “We will meet at the Rangoons in Fed Hill at seven. The skate tomorrow morning is optional, so we can drink as much as we like.” A sideways look at Ryan. “Or as little.”
