Page 23 of The Trade Deadline
The idea of never lifting the Cup again made him grind his teeth. No, he hadn’t grown out of it.
“That Russell,” his grandma said, “he’s a good one, too. He and the goalie are the best so far. Make sure they don’t get sick or injured.”
Lars’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, remembering how much of a jackass he’d been.
Of courseRyanhadn’t said anything about Lars getting his name wrong for two solid weeks. Ryan was a people-pleaser, compulsively nice to a fault. Lars had thought Ryan didn’t like him, that he was an exception to Ryan’s good cheer, but it was actually just Lars being an idiot, calling him the wrong name over and over, and Ryan was too damn nice to say anything and too uncomfortable to be his usual bubbly self.
But they’d cleared the air, had an actual conversation where Lars didn’t feel like Ryan was secretly judging him, and now he could put his strange fixation with Ryan behind him.
Except since Rangoons, he’d been no less drawn to Ryan that he’d been to Brian. Lars still spent too much effort trying to talk to him, especially now that Ryan would give him actual responses instead of one word answers.
“Yes, Ryan is pretty good.” A pause, questions and concerns bubbling up inside him that he’d been ignoring for nearly a month now. “Ishe one of the best on the team?”
“Of course,” his grandma said immediately. “Only you and the goalie are better. He’s not as fast as you, but he looks stronger. And he’s not as fancy, which suits him better. If they don’t make you play, why do they make him play?”
So it wasn’t Lars seeing something that wasn’t there. His grandma hadn’t grown up watching hockey, not even when her daughter had married star defenseman Mats Nilsson, but she’d taken to the sport like it was her job once he and Anders started playing. She kept up with the league and would often talk to Lars about his team and how she thought he was playing. Often she’d spotted some of his injuries before the press, like when he’d played through a sprain in the playoffs three years ago, because she had a good eye.
Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was herlillen. She probably noticed if he played with a cold.
But the fact that she’d spotted talent in Ryan when the rest of the Blue Crabs—Ryan included—seemed dismissive of his skill meant something, right?
“They don’t seem to think he’s very good,” Lars admitted. “I don’t understand it.”
His grandma was quiet as she considered. “I haven’t paid much attention to him before,” she admitted. “You both have played against him, so if he didn’t make an impression before…” She trailed off and he could imagine her shrugging. “Your team might know something you don’t about him.”
Or maybe they don’t see him clearly,he thought to himself. To his surprise, he actually voiced it and with more annoyance than he’d expected.
“Ha!” his grandma laughed. “You like him. Now I understand. You’re worriedyoudon’t see him clearly.”
He didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know exactly what she meant. “I don’tlikehim, Mormor,” Lars protested. “He’s a teammate. Ican’tlike teammates.”
“You can like them, you just shouldn’t pursue them,” she corrected. “Even if he is very handsome.”
“Mormor…”
“You can be friends, though. It would be good for you.”
Lars rolled his eyes and took a big bite of his oatmeal, smacking his lips loudly, to buy himself some time to think. This was an old argument. Most of Lars’s friends were ones he’d made years ago in Sweden from playing together. They were still close, but the friendships were maintained through texts and summer visits. Each season he’d play against a few of them, and that might involve a dinner here and there, but his regular, in-person friendships were…lacking.
He’d had friends on the Prowlers, sort of. Guys he hung out with, like he had with the Blue Crabs at Rangoons, but often it had felt forced. Still, he would’ve gladly talked with any of his old teammates. He was confidenttheydidn’t want to talk to him anymore. After news had gotten out about the trade—released by the media or maybe the coach had told them, Lars had no idea, except thathehadn’t said it—he’d gotten a string of calls he ignored and texts that amounted to variations of “what the fuck.” He’d offered generic apologies with no explanation, and soon the messages had grown sparse. He was unceremoniously removed from the group chat, and that was that.
Undeterred by his silence, she went on. “He would be a good friend. Good players who are underrated, they are hard workers.”
“So he’d be a good influence? I’m not twelve anymore.”
“Are you sure? I see how long your hair’s gotten over the summer. You wore it that way when you were a boy. You need a trim.”
He ran a hand through his hair self-consciously. It was getting a little long, admittedly, but more from neglect than style. “Get a friend. Get a haircut. You have any more advice for me?”
“Get another Cup.” When he laughed, she waited patiently until he’d stopped before she asked, “When do you come to Cincinnati? Amanda said you would come two times during the season instead of one.”
“Not until late October, then again in March, I think.” Lars always took a perverse sort of enjoyment in playing against his brother. He usually played well against Anders, and as a plus he got to see Mormor, Amanda, and the kids. It also left him emotionally and physically drained to put so much of himself into a single game, especially when it was an otherwise completely unremarkable, unimportant game. His teammates on the Prowlers often tried to rile him up more beforehand, which had helped fuel his competitive side…and led to him being way too upset if they lost.
“Hmm, still far away. I’m glad I won’t have to stay up late to watch your games anymore, though. I don’t know why this country needs so many time zones.”
“How are the Otters doing? Have you watched any of Anders’s practices?”
“I don’t tell him what you tell me about your team. I won’t share secrets,” she chided with amusement. “But Anders looks good. I was worried he would want to retire soon, and I don’t know what he’ll do with himself when he does.”
