Page 4 of The Trade Deadline
Lars
Seven Years Later
“Lasse,what the fuck did you do?”
Lars winced. When his agent had called, he’d answered automatically. He hadn’t really thought aboutwhyMax might be calling him in the offseason. Now he regretted picking up, because the last thing he needed right now was to be chewed out.
At least I’m alone.He looked around his condo, sparsely furnished since he never had anyone over. What was the point of extra seating if no one would ever use it?As usual.
“I don’t know what they told you?—”
“They said they caught you and a male trainer in the locker room. They were somewhat more graphic in relaying that information to me.”
Another wince. Or maybe a grimace. Lars was glad this wasn’t a video call, because he wasn’t sure he liked what his face was doing. “Okay, so that might’ve happened, but I swear it’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“It doesn’t sound good,” Max said sternly. “This shouldn’t be a big deal, I get that, but you know how their management is. I warned you when you signed that first contract with them that you’d have to keep your private life private.”
Lars remembered that conversation all too well. He’d been so focused on hockey his rookie year, he hadn’t had time to fool around. When he’d been offered a longer, more lucrative deal, Max had warned him that while the city of Portland was very accepting, that was a different beast from the NHL and more specifically the Prowlers. The words “discreet” and “careful” were thrown around so many times that to this day they reminded him of Max’s warning.
“I know,” he said, feeling and no doubt sounding like a chastened child. “I’m sorry.”
“They’re pretty adamant that if this goes public, they’re going to spin the power imbalance angle and pin it all on you. A superstar player taking what he wants from someone in the organization who can’t say no to him. It won’t look good, Lasse.”
The blood drained from Lars’s face. He didn’t play into that particular “superstar” stereotype (at least he hoped he didn’t), but it was a tempting one for fans to buy into. The spoiled player with an ego who used his status to bully people. He heard that storyline all over the league, and the press loved to run with it.
Definitely lucky this wasn’t a video call; Lars wanted to punch someone. “It— I would never— Max, I swear?—”
A loud sigh came through, followed by Max’s placating, “I know, but that’s what they’ll do. It’s Portland. They know the fanbase would support a gay player, so they’re going to have to spin it in a way that makes you the bad guy. That’s of courseifyou’re willing to come out, which I assume is still a hard no.”
Lars suddenly felt dizzy and had to sit down. This was a lot to take in. He definitely didn’t want to be out. If they could keep this quiet…that was what everyone wanted, right? He could barely hear over the rushing sound in his ears, but he was aware that Max was still talking and tried to tune back in.
“The Prowlers were very clear they want zero to do with a gay or bi or anything else player right now. They don’t want it hitting the media and being a ‘distraction from hockey’.”
Max used the voice he always used when he was quoting Portland’s General Manager Rob Mackey, a no-nonsense man in his seventies who’d been in hockey probably a decade longer than he should’ve.
When his coach had stumbled in on Lars and that trainer half-naked and enthusiastically making out, he’d seen the grim set of his mouth and known he was in trouble. He’d been caught by coaches before when he was younger, and they’d excused it after warning him not to be so reckless. Apparently his fellow Swedes were a lot more forgiving than Rob Mackey’s staff, because he’d been told to go home and stay there until they’d “talked it over.”
“So what? I promise to keep my mouth shut and be more discreet and we pretend it never happened?” he asked hopefully. Not that it would be that easy. The coach would look at him differently, and Lars wouldn’t be able to respect him as much now that he’d gone running to Mackey. But he’d deal with that later.
Max didn’t answer immediately, and Lars had a sinking feeling in his gut. “They want to trade you.”
“What!?” Lars sputtered. “They can’t do that. I have another two years on my contract and a no trade clause. Theycan’t.”
Portland had drafted him seven years ago, and after a stellar rookie season where he won the Calder, he’d signed an eight year deal. He’d made sure that no trade clause was in there, because there was no fucking way he wanted to be moved to another team unless it was under on terms.
“I know,” Max said, “but they implied it would be very uncomfortable for you to remain in Portland and that you should agree to a trade. They’ll happily buy you out if that works better, but we still need to get you a team.”
“Very uncomfortable.” Belittling comments, reduced minutes, worse linemates, healthy scratches. Lars could easily picture the scenario in his head as the team did their best to drive him out all while tanking his value as a player. If he left now, after a 50-goal season, both he and Portland had leverage to make this a mutually beneficial send-off.
All he had to do was agree to leave the place he’d called home for the last seven years. The only place he’d called home since he left Sweden.
Fuck, did he mess up…
Though maybe this was for the best. There were no guarantees his new team, whatever it was, would be more supportive, but now he knew for sure Portland would never be. Long term, he'd always have to be in the closet, and as comfortable as he currently was hiding that part of himself from the world, eventually he might meet someone he didn’t want to hide.
“Fine,” he said through his teeth. He started pacing up and down the short hallway from his living room to his bedroom. All around him were mementos of his career so far, going back to youth hockey, then Team Sweden, and mostly with the Portland Prowlers. There were pictures of him and the Cup he’d helped them earn his second season after a drought of two decades, plus the second they’d gotten three years later. He’d helped them do that…and to them he wasn’t even worth the potential bad press of being gay. “Get me a new team.”
“Where?” Max asked, papers shuffling on the other end of the line. “Nevada and LA have been sniffing around for the last couple of years. Or Calgary, if you’re thinking Canada.”
