Page 65 of The Trade Deadline
Lars looked at the sleeping figure in the bed. It was dark—he’d only used the bathroom light—but he could make out a well-sculpted body and dark hair. He groaned internally, wishing he could go back to bed and enjoy round two in the morning. He thought about leaving a note, but decided against it. There was never going to be anything past breakfast for them, and he honestly couldn’t handle the extra social interaction right now, even if it was one-sided.
Putting the prior night behind him, he opened the hotel door and quietly slipped out. Let the past stay the past; he had a future to worry about.
* * *
Present Day
Pacing the length of his hotel room, Lars chewed his thumb and tried to figure out what the fuck had just happened. Had he been wrong about him and Ryan? Had he read too much into things and pushed where he wasn’t wanted?
He reached the window and turned around again.
What had Ryan said? That Lars had forgotten him?
It seemed impossible, but he also knew full well that few players made a lasting impression on him. They were about the same age and had been playing against each other for years: their paths had definitely crossed, but maybe more than Lars had previously assumed.
He stopped short on his next lap and went to grab his tablet. Ryan wouldn’t have said that if it weren’t important, and though he’d have appreciated more insight, he could do himself the favor of trying to figure it out. Plopping down on the edge of his bed, he closed out of his ebook and opened up a search for “Ryan Russell, NHL center.” On the hotel stationary, he started mapping out Ryan’s career, his previous teams before the Crabs. Then he pulled up old schedules where their history overlapped. Seventeen games prior to the start of this season where they faced each other.
Through YouTube and NHL.com highlights, he watched old games through the new lens of him and Ryan. He watched faceoffs and their opposing Power Play and Penalty Kill units. Ryan was fantastic as always, shutting down the Prowlers again and again. But he couldn’t see a moment, couldn’t pinpoint anything that would explain Ryan’s hurt.
He’d gone all the way back to their rookie season with nothing to show for it. With growing dread, he pulled up Ryan’s career tab again and scrolled down to his pre-NHL career.
It didn’t take long to find it. There were North American and American youth teams, but the obvious stand out was the World Junior Championship nearly eight years ago, hosted in Geneva, Switzerland.
All the strange references Ryan had made to Switzerland came to mind, and suddenly he understood what Ryan was poking at, the things he was trying to shake loose in Lars’s mind.
He was afraid of what he was about to find. He hoped, prayed, that he was mistaken in thinking he hadn’t even played Team USA that year. Maybe some insult there was the bitter memory Ryan was nursing.
He didn’t think Ryan was that petty and wasn’t surprised that he was correct: he hadn’t faced the American team that year. They’d have had no reason to interact at all that tournament. Unless, of course…
Lars pulled up an old picture of Ryan from Juniors. There was no way to avoid recognizing him, seeing the full grown version hidden in youthful features, but the familiarity that hit him was…different.
“Fan också,” he cursed. He gripped the edges of his tablet and tried very hard not to bang his head against it.
Lars had taken his jersey number. Lars had gotten his name wrong for weeks. And, the crowning achievement that Ryan couldn’t overlook, he’d had sex with him years ago and then completely forgotten about it.
He looked into the mirror next to the bed, his own guilty face staring back at him.“You’re lucky he ever talked to you at all,”it seemed to say to him.
“He could’ve said something,” he said weakly, but that wasn’t fair. While Lars was definitely the type to casually bring up a one night stand and tease his partner about it, Ryan wasn’t that person. All of Ryan’s effort went into being easygoing and likable. Even when teammates said bizarre or borderline rude shit to him, he brushed it off with a laugh or a joke. He would absolutely avoid the mutual embarrassment of bringing this sort of thing up. The man hadn’t even wanted to correct Lars about his name; this would’ve been a million times more awkward.
He and his reflection agreed that he was the asshole here; he turned away in disgust.
“Great,” he said, still trying to reevaluate all of their interactions over the past few months in light of this new information. Ryan was hurt, obviously, but he also seemed open to starting something up again. That was a plus.
“So I just have to fix this,” he reasoned. “I’ll make it up to him, show him I care, and we can start over.”
Great idea, in theory. His heart swelled with hope while his head reminded him he had no idea how to do that. It was a starting point, though, and he took comfort in knowing this was a setback and not an ending.
* * *
Ryan was long gone from breakfast by the time Lars made it down. He’d slept in as late as possible, still only managing two hours of actual sleep, and hoped that caffeine would be enough to keep him functional.
He was a little hurt but unsurprised to find Ryan already sitting next to someone on the bus, and he tried not to take it personally when he chose a locker stall far from Lars. It was absolutely personal, but still. He understood the reasons for it. For the first time since they’d “met,” Lars finally did understand all the reasons for everything.
It wasn’t until a slight break in practice that Lars was finally able to get close to Ryan. He hadn’t consciously made the decision to do it; he’d been staring at Ryan all morning and hadn’t realized he’d drifted over to him until they were alone at one corner of the rink where Ryan was stick handling while pointedly not watching Lars approach.
“What’s up?” Ryan asked. It was his media voice, the overly friendly one that hadn’t sounded fake until that moment.
“Your hair was longer,” Lars blurted out. He’d spent most of the morning trying to map the faint memories he had and the pictures he’d seen onto this adult version of Ryan. “And you were skinnier. Lanky? Is that the word?” His eyes roamed appreciatively over Ryan’s chest, well aware of the broad shoulders and toned chest hidden beneath his jersey and gear.
