Page 46 of The Trade Deadline
Ryan was handsome. Lars wasn’t blind. He’d known that from day one. He radiated kindness and was polite to a fault, and Lars had seen first hand how easily Ryan charmed fans, teammates, reporters, refs, pretty much everyone. Tonight he was ten times better looking, his eyes clear and smile bright as he soaked in his family’s love and support. The confidence that he normally lacked, unable to assert himself, was finally shining through and it made him the center of the room.
Their gazes met—inevitable given how much Lars was staring—and he held out hope Ryan would make his way over. All he got was a smile and a wave before one of his brothers-in-law stole his attention back. It wasn’t a rejection, he knew that, but it stung like one. The hurt led him to the bar and a strawberry daiquiri so strong he could barely taste the strawberry over the booze.
When someone sat beside him, too close and warm in the crowded bar, he looked over with a scowl and the intention of shooing them away, only to be met with familiar coffee-colored eyes.
“You really like strawberry, huh?”
It took Lars a full thirty seconds to process what the words were and who had said them, then he broke into a grin and hugged Ryan. “I missed you!”
Ryan stiffened briefly, then relaxed into the hug. He might have even held on too long (though Lars didn’t trust his judgment on that) before he pulled back and frowned at him. “Are you drunk?”
Lars nodded grimly. “Probably.”
A moment’s hesitation. “Are you upset about the lines? I didn’t know it would last this long and?—”
“What?” Lars scrunched up his nose. Why did everyone think he’d care about that? “No, I don’t care.”
“Then what are you upset ab?—?”
“They didn’t tell me you were #14,” he said sorrowfully. “I asked for the number and they gave it to me. I didn’t know I was taking it from anybody.”
“Oh.” Ryan looked around awkwardly. “Don’t worry about it. They asked me first.”
Of course they did. Because they knew Ryan and knew he’d agree. He was too nice, too apologetic about taking up space on the roster that he’d never make waves. Asking had been performative at best, though at least they’d gone through the motions.
“I do worry,” Lars whined. “I could have been…what’s seven times three?”
“Twenty-one.”
Lars nodded. What an ugly number. “I could’ve been twenty-one. It’s a bit of a stretch to say I’mthreetimes better than Anders since I haven’t won the Cup three times, but?—”
“Nilsy.” Ryan put a hand on his shoulder, licked his lips, then leaned in and said, “Lasse.It’s fine. I’m over it. 75 is a perfectly adequate number.”
Lars pouted. “It’s a goalie number.”
Ryan made a face. “Yeah, kinda. But it’s fine. I don’t care about the number. I care about the jersey.”
“The jersey has the number on it,” Lars said slowly, not understanding what Ryan meant.
“I care that I’m on a team,” Ryan clarified. “I play for an NHL team and I get to put on that jersey every game day and play.That’sthe important part.”
Lars couldn’t really disagree. He held much of the same attitude, which was why he couldn’t get worked up about the first versus second line nonsense. Therewasa difference, though. His blasé approach had nothing to do with the fear Ryan seemed to have, but Lars was about four drinks too far gone to be able to articulate any of that (even if he was just the right amount of drinks in to actuallywantto say it instead of keeping his mouth shut). Instead, he had to settle for something easier.
“You’re a really good hockey player,” Lars said earnestly. “I’m glad I get to play with you. Except not at the same time. But the same team. Yeah.”
Ryan stared blankly at him before shaking his head and laughing. “Me too. Look, let’s get you some water and then I’ll find someone to take you back to the hotel.”
“Nooo,” Lars whined. “I like it here. Everyone is nice to you.”
“Enjoy it while you drink your water, okay? You’ll thank me in the morning.”
And then with painful clarity, Lars pictured what a morning waking up next to Ryan might look like. The warmth beside him. Was Ryan a morning person or did he need a cup of coffee to be functional? Did he like the right or the left side of the bed? What type of toothpaste did he use? What?—?
Like swatting away a fly, he shook his head to dispel the thoughts. Right. Water and sleep. He needed to get back on track before he said or did anything stupid. Something he couldn’t undo.
“G’night, Ryan,” he hiccuped. “Enjoy your party. Your family seems awesome.”
“Night, Lars. Seriously, water.” He pointed sternly at him. “And don’t worry about the number. If I don’t care, you’re not allowed to care.”
