Page 70 of The Trade Deadline
Lars stopped short for a half step, then nearly tripped over his feet as he rushed to catch up. “Exactly!” Then with an adorable amount of nervousness, he asked, “Want to go out?”
He was tempted. The idea of the two of them grabbing dinner definitely appealed to his romantic side that wanted an actual date before they fell in bed together. But he was too tired to put up a fight. What was he even fighting at this point? Lars and him were on the same page about this, so why put it off?
“Wanna order out?” Ryan asked, then gulped. “My place or yours?”
Lars looked like he was about to jump up and down in excitement. “Mine. There’s a burger place at the corner. I could order before we left and pick it up and—” With visible effort, he stopped himself, took a deep breath, and said evenly, “My place, if that’s okay.”
Ryan couldn’t remember if he had done laundry or put away his dirty dishes before he left. “Works for me.”
They parted ways in the parking garage. He sat in his car a good ten minutes after Lars had texted him the address, giving his head time to clear and to check in with himself. Hands on the steering wheel, he could still list all the reasons this was a bad idea…and he still didn’t care.
“Alright,” he said as he shifted the car into gear. “Let’s do this.”
* * *
Lars lived in one of those fancy apartment complexes that was in a hundred-year-old building, some old factory or warehouse that had been converted into high-end living space but carefully curated so it still held the “charm” of its former life without any of the inconveniences. It was nice, probably not more than a dozen condos in the whole place, and looking at the brick facing and iron structures was the perfect distraction as he took the steps up to 412. By the time he got to the door, Ryan’s hesitation was gone. He was ready.
He knocked.
Lars opened the door and smiled shyly at him, and Ryan’s heart nearly stopped. Maybe he wasn’t ready, because if only his smile could paralyze him, he was doomed.
“Hey,” Lars said warmly and opened the door wide. Ryan stepped in automatically, hands deep in the pocket of his sweatshirt just to have something to do with them. “Did you find it okay?”
Ryan cursed himself for taking so long. All the time to make sure Lars didn’t see how nervous he was, and he’d gone and made Lars worry instead. “Yeah, sorry?—”
Lars interrupted him with a hand to his shoulder. “It’s okay. It gave me time to get the food. Burgers and cheese fries for me…” He led the way to a kitchen island, the food already plated and waiting. “...and a burger and salad for you.” He looked pleased with himself for remembering Ryan didn’t do potatoes. “What would you like to drink? I have tap water and Seltzer.”
There was a beer sweating next to Lars’s plate. Ryan gulped as he eyed it. “A beer would be great, actually.”
Lars raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Just to take the edge off,” he mumbled. He was too excited and nervous. He’d be an absolute mess in bed if he couldn’t calm the hell down.
“They’re all IPAs.” He said it like an apology, but Ryan understood the warning. Way more alcohol than he normally drank.
“A water, too. Tap is fine.”
Satisfied, Lars disappeared into his ginormous fridge while Ryan sat on a bar stool. Watching Lars was helping. He was so at ease, comfortable in his own space, that it made Ryan calm by osmosis. He was able to match Lars’s mood, almost like when he’d followed Lars’s lead in that one game and ended up scoring a Michigan.
Holy crap. He’d scored aMichigan goalin an actualNHL game.Only maybe five other players had managed that.
When Lars set a bottle of beer in front of him, he chased the thrill of his recent success with a long swig. It was bitter (or “hoppy,” as he was often corrected whenever he drank a beer and said it tasted awful), but still he forced himself to take three full gulps before putting it down. He’d feel it soon, that dampening of his self-consciousness, then he’d be able to pick up where they’d left off in San Francisco.
Lars was in no rush, though. He leisurely ate and drank, chattering on, thankfully needing very little input from Ryan. It was like he understood what Ryan needed and was happy to fill the silence and drive along the evening. By the time they were done eating, Ryan had fallen into a false sense of security that shattered the second Lars set the plates in the sink.
“You tipsy yet?” Lars asked with faux innocence.
Ryan’s head was wonderfully cloudy. “A little.”
“Perfect.” But instead of flashing him a seductive look, Lars leaned back against the counter and grinned mischievously. “Challenge you to a game of air hockey?”
He blinked, then giggled (oh God, he reallywastipsy if he was giggling). “Air hockey?” he asked. “For real?”
“Absolutely,” Lars said solemnly. “I would never joke about hockey. Ice or air.”
“Then let’s play.”
During dinner, Ryan had faced the kitchen, his back to the open living space that took up most of the apartment. As they stepped into it, Ryan was suddenly hit by its size. His whole apartment, a completely normal living space that was well above what his sisters had lived in during college, could fit into the living room. The ceilings were tall and the space was rendered even larger by the sparse furniture. A large TV and sectional did nothing to mask that there were lots of bare spaces where things should be, but there weren’t many things at all. An air hockey table, treadmill, and an overflowing bookshelf looked almost pathetic in the emptiness.
