Page 66 of The Trade Deadline
Ryan froze, the puck sliding off his blade and disappearing down the ice. He still didn’t look up, but it was obvious his full attention was on Lars.
“I’d like to apologize for…” There was a lot, and he floundered trying to figure out where to start. Duh, the beginning. “Sorry for not being there the next morning or explaining. It was shitty to do that.”
Ryan straightened up and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Not gonna lie. I wondered about that.”
Lars grimaced. “A family thing came up, and I got distracted. I still should’ve said something, but I was eighteen and dumb. Now I’m twenty-five and dumb, but, y’know, more…responsible about it.”
“What family thing?” There wasn’t suspicion so much as curiosity, and Lars knew it was an invitation to be as forthcoming or quiet as he’d like.
“Oh, uh.” Lars didn’t like talking about this with…anyone, actually. He didn’t even talk about this stuff with Mormor anymore. He deflected or quietly waited for Mormor to finish whatever memory she wanted to express, but he didn’t say shit about any of it if he could help it. Not the personal parts. So his first instinct was to try and distract Ryan, until he realized he didn’twantto. That defensive reaction had somehow been completely bypassed, and he found himself answering more honestly than he ever did. “My morfar, my grandpa, he’d had a stroke. I had to get back to Sweden to help my mormor and…” He shrugged, embarrassed. “I was young, hungover, and stressed. I left.”
“I'm sorry, but what? Your morfar”—Lars’s stomach did an uncomfortable somersault when Ryan used the Swedish word instead of the English one like people usually did—“had a stroke? Jesus, Lars, maybe lead with that.”
“I didn’t want to make it seem like I was trying to justify my behavior.”
“Which I appreciate,” Ryan said, “but you can still, like, contextualize it.”
“I—” They were interrupted by Coach Thompkins blowing a whistle and shouting directions that inevitably took them to opposite ends of the rink.
The next time there was a break, Lars purposefully sought Ryan out.
“Are you okay?” Ryan asked with a hint of actual concern. “Because you’ve been playing like butt?—”
“I was very drunk,” he interrupted. “I don’t remember anything after we opened champagne in the locker room. I really am sorry.”
Ryan paused, almost as if he were frozen, until the words seemed to sink in. “It’s fine.” He took in Lars’s doubtful expression, then punched his shoulder lightly. Very bro-like. Lars didn’t care for it. “Seriously. Don’t worry about it. I’m over it. It was years ago.”
“Over it,” he repeated carefully, the words heavy on his tongue. “Over being upset with me or…over me?”
This time, Ryan looked around to make sure they were alone. “The first one,” he said quietly.
Encouraged, Lars said in a rush, “Maybe we could start over? Like pretend I got traded today and we’re meeting for the first time since Switzerland.”
“So forget the part where you were an ass and start fresh?”
Lars’s eyes narrowed. Apparently he’d been bad enough to get Ryan to use a real swear word. “And the part where you neglected to tell me I didn’t know your name.” He held up his hands defensively and cut off Ryan’s attempt to interrupt. “I know, not as bad. Just saying we both might like a re-do. We can do better, right?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said with an indulgent sigh. “We can.”
Lars took off his right glove and offered his hand. “I’m Lars Nilsson. I think we met back in Juniors.”
Ryan stared at his hand before shrugging and taking off his glove. They shook hands, the touch electric until Ryan pulled away.
“We did,” Ryan said, a smile lurking at the corner of his lips. “Don’t let that give you any ideas, though,” he said sternly as he put his glove back on. “I’m not a dumb kid anymore.”
“No.” He let his gaze trail over him. “You’re definitely not.”
The whistle blew, and they had to split up again, depriving Lars the chance to see what effect his words had on Ryan.
“Nilsson! Russell! Whatever you knuckleheads are doing, get your asses over here. I need my centers.”
They didn’t get a chance to talk again during practice. As though sensing he was giving the team too much leeway, Coach Thompkins held them twenty minutes longer than scheduled. They barely got to stop long enough to grab their water bottles between sets, and they were all too busy gulping down water to say much of anything to anyone.
“Alright, get outta here,” Thompkins said, earning a tired but appreciative response from the team. The trickle to the locker room showed how tired they were. How tired most of them were, anyway. Lars was still going strong, thanks mostly to being too distracted to put in 100% effort. He’d been staring at Ryan all practice, willing his mind to fully remember that shared night in the exquisite detail it deserved.
“You’re staring again,” Ryan said when they were alone in the locker room waiting for the showers to free up.
“I can’t help it. You’re hot.” He enjoyed watching Ryan’s cheeks brighten. “I’m just annoyed that eighteen-year-old me got to fuck you, and he barely knew what he was doing. Imagine whatIcould do to you?—”
