Page 50 of The Trade Deadline
“I guess we’ll find out.”
Chapter17
Lars
Lars didn’t getnervous before games. That was a well-documented fact. Excited, sure. Maybe even a little angry, if it was against the Otters. Nervous? No fucking way, and fuck you for suggesting it.
But his stupid, treacherous heartwasnervous about facing the Prowlers. Which was so fucking stupid. Lars hadn’t done anything wrong.
Like an idiot, he’d thought he was doing a good job hiding it. When he was a kid, his grandparents had always known when he was lying or upset, or by contrast when he was excited or proud, but he’d assumed that was simply because he’d been young and that over the years he’d…gotten better at hiding it. But the way the whole team had looked at him since the flight out, Lars knew he was as bad as ever.
Lars hated pity and being babied, and it had grated on him that they were treating him like he was about to shatter. He’d gotten through his parents’ and grandfather’s deathandAnders’s disappearance; a single game wouldn’t break him. All their talk about relaxing and not worrying only made it worse.
Which was actually a blessing, because it mercifully brought Ryan to his hotel room that night. Thank fuck he was too wound up to do any of the stupid ideas that his brain helpfully supplied when it heard “Ryan Russell and me, alone in my hotel room.” They shared a beer from the minibar and played Xbox until it was clear they’d stayed up well past Ryan’s bed time. Lars’s stress might’ve embarrassed him in front of the Blue Crabs, but it had orchestrated him spending a whole evening alone with Ryan. He got to see Ryan bleary-eyed and yawning, enjoy his sleepy smiles and terrible attempts at trash talk, and be impressed that Ryan took to the game so quickly despite having never played before. They ended with the Blue Crabs beating Team Sweden in eight of their thirteen matchups, though Lars couldn’t always tell if Ryan was letting him win.
Actually, maybe it had been terrible. As awesome as the evening was, it left his hotel room empty when Ryan eventually went to his own room. All Lars could hear and see were the empty places Ryan had just occupied; all he could feel was the way his heart ached for the company. He passed out easily, exhausted as he was, and drifted through dreams of dark eyes and strong hands, and the only person who actually offered to be there when Lars needed someone to get him out of his own head.
Yes, he sleepily jerked off in the morning, not even sure what fantasies fueled him but knowing heat rose in his cheeks when he ran into Ryan at breakfast.
“You ready to kick some butt tonight?” Ryan said around a cup of coffee, deep black and steaming. He didn’t drink caffeine, as far as Lars could tell, and there was definitely more stubble and less hair gel than usual, as if he’d only just rolled out of bed instead of hitting the gym early. Lars’s heart kind of melted.
“Always,” Lars said with a wink. He slid into the open seat next to Ryan, his own coffee a light brown that smelled more like sugar than anything else, with a pile of pancakes dripping in so much syrup it made Ryan wrinkle his nose. “Didn’t you see me last night? I was on fire.”
“Hopefully video game wins translate into actual on ice wins,” Ryan said dryly. Then they spent the rest of the morning doing a great job pretending there was no such thing as hockey and Lars hadn’t been stressed out about it the previous night. It was nice, actually. So nice he wanted to invite Ryan to his room again to play some more, but guilt stopped him. That and self-preservation. He liked Ryan too much as it was, and it was better for his self-control if they remained in supervised areas.
Though sometimes, when he saw Ryan smile and melted into those chocolate eyes, Lars forgot why he cared. If Ryan were into him, if this otherwise inconvenient crush were the least bit requited, would it really be so bad if they hooked up? If he was allowed to spend the evening playing video games with Ryan, who would ever know or care if they did something else?
The angry mobs that greeted them outside the rink answered for him: being caught would make their lives difficult. Made theircareersdifficult. He read unpleasant signs from former fans, heard their indistinct but definitely angry shouts, and endured their accusing glares as he walked calmly from the bus inside.
Their practice was closed to the public, thankfully, but that didn’t save Lars from the media. After they got off the ice, Lars was subjected to round after round of the same questions.Why’d you leave? What’s it like being back? Do you miss the Prowlers? Are you happy with your new team?On and on as he was forced to keep smiling and answer in ways that didn’t make anyone look bad, which basically meant saying absolutely nothing at all. Luckily nobody really expected anything from hockey players in interviews. All he had to do was drop phrases like “play hard” and “great team” and “focus on my game,” and everyone was satisfied enough to leave him alone.
“Nilsson,” Coach Thompkins called once he’d escaped.
Lars didn’t like the formal tone and almost turned around to walk back to the media room. “Coach?” he asked with less forced cheer than he’d mustered for the cameras.
“I’m officially putting you on the top line tonight.” He held up a hand before Lars could try to interrupt (he didn’t). “I’ve thought a lot about what you said about you and RJ, and I do think there’s something to it. But this is Portland, and I need my biggest guns up front.”
“Biggest guns?” he grumbled. “I think you mean biggest target.”
Thompkins shrugged. “Not much difference. If they’re after you, that’ll free up ice for the other guys. I’ll have Morgs and CC out with you as much as possible.”
Morgan Hayes and Connor Carter weren’t their best defensive pair, but they were the biggest. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Connor fight, but he’d gotten to see Morgan throw a few haymakers already this season. Part of Lars appreciated the support; mostly he resented the feeling he was being babysat.
“I can fight my own battles,” he said, chest puffed up. It was true in a more theoretical sense. He was faster than most of the other guys on the ice, and he wasn’t small by any means: in the rare instance he couldn’t avoid a check, it didn’t do much damage. He could stand up for himself, but he was literally only good at fighting Anders. He literally onlywantedto fight Anders. The physics of fighting someone else must be the same, he reasoned. And it wouldn’t come to that. The Prowlers had been his team; they wouldn’tattackhim.
“Of course. But I’d rather have them out there as a deterrent. I don’t want to set a precedent with these guys that we’ll have to deal with in Baltimore come March. We force them to play a clean game, we end it in sixty, we put it behind us and head into Thanksgiving with something to be thankful for.”
The only thing Lars was thankful for was a two-day break from practice, five days between games, and not having to visit Ohio for the American holiday. Win or lose, Lars’s discomfort at being back in the place he’d called home for seven years wasn’t something he particularly enjoyed. He could only hope that next season, it wouldn’t be so bad.
The butterflies that had taken up permanent residence in his stomach only let him be when he was on the ice. During practice he regained his footing, and once the team stepped out for warm-ups, the worry disappeared. He knew from experience that once the puck dropped, he’d barely notice anyone on the Prowlers. Unless his opponent was Anders Nilsson, he generally never noticed anyone on the opposing team except in vague terms. “Easy to get around” or “good poke check” or “blocks shots” were the ways he referred to opponents in his head, just hockey-shaped obstacles to learn how to bypass. Honestly, he’d already done it to his former teammates, knew their weaknesses so that he could cover for them. Now he just had to implement it in reverse.
Then the Prowlers blindsided him. Just as Lars was sinking into that sweet headspace where he kicked ass, before the National Anthem could play, the fuckers did a god-damned video tribute to him. He was forced to awkwardly stand there, cameras on him, and watch the montage and listen to praise from his former teammates. He had to drag himself enough into the world around him to wave at the roaring fans and their cacophony of boos and cheers. All he wanted to do was play, but he was forced to publicly acknowledge what was probably meant as a heartfelt farewell to a valued player but in reality felt like a middle finger, a taunt directly from Rob Mackey himself.
It was admittedly a nice video. He hoped they posted it online so he could send it to Mormor.
And if that hadn’t messed with his process enough, he made the mistake of actually looking at his opponent at the opening face-off.
“Marley!” he said in delight when he saw the Canadian center who’d clearly taken over Lars’s spot. He even had a silver-lined A on his chest to show it. “They made you an alternate captain! Congratulations, it’s well earned.”
