Page 93 of The Trade Deadline
“—then we can try to figure it out.”
“Fine,” Ryan agreed, then his giddiness returned. “I can’t believe I get to go. What do you think the skill contests will be?”
“Well,” Lars considered, “there’s always some sort of passing one, which is where they’ll probably put you. Shooting, too, which is probably where they’ll put me. I’m too old for them to put in the fastest skater.” He missed that contest. He’d won two years in a row but then lost by a half-second to some kid who no longer even played. He’d been moved to shooting after that, no longer of interest for his speed.
“Shut up. I’m older than you, and I’m not old.”
“Yes,” Lars acknowledged. “But that’s what they say when they wonder why I don’t get put in the races anymore. I’m too old and past my prime. Overrated. Selfish. Too dependent on more skilled linemates.”
Lars meant it as a joke, but Ryan looked stricken. “Lars?—”
“I’m a big boy,” he interrupted and winked. “I can take it, and it doesn’t bother me what they say because I know they’re wrong about me. When they say bullshit aboutyou, though…” He grabbed Ryan by the wrist and pulled him onto his lap. “It makes me want to punch them when they say that shit about you, becauseyoudon’t seem to get that they’re wrong.”
Ryan didn’t say anything. He hadn’t argued with Lars as much recently about his worth to the team, but Lars suspected it wasn’t because he’d learned to appreciate his own skill. Rather, he’d learned it wasn’t worth the effort to disagree. Instead, Ryan drew his hands up and down Lars’s arms, the feather-light touch tickling him. It was gentle, with no intent behind it. Soothing. Affectionate.
Boyfriend-like.
“Let’s sleep on the couch,” Lars said abruptly. He slid down to his right and dragged Ryan with him. Their legs tangled together and they were nose to nose. “We can watch a movie.”
Ryan chuckled, indulgent. “Why?”
“So that we’re squished together and it’s uncomfortable. Then when I have a whole bed to myself this weekend, I might actually appreciate it.”
“You like being squished, though.” To prove his point, Ryan wiggled closer to him. Lars was pinned snuggly between the couch and Ryan’s heat, and it was disappointingly perfect.
* * *
The team threw them a send-off party before their flight out, with stupid decorations of their faces strung up around the locker room after practice, root beers and a cake shaped like a deformed crab. At least, they were told it was meant to be a crab. Jake apparently baked it himself and his kids helped with the icing, so it was more of an edible craft project, but Lars absolutely loved it. He posted a selfie of him and Ryan with it, making a joke about crab cakes that hopefully made sense in English.
They flew commercial, which Lars so rarely did with other people that he didn’t realize their seats wouldn’t be together until they were on board, but Lars was able to trade seats for the mere price of a selfie and signed hat. Even flying first class, he missed the team plane. As they Ubered to the hotel, Lars was riding a high that he didn’t think would be dampened even by the room situation. He literally didn’t care how he did at any of the events or in the game, as long as Ryan had a good time.
Unfortunately, that bubble burst as soon as they entered the hotel lobby.
“Farbor!”
Lars turned automatically and grinned wide as his nephew ran over and hugged him tight around the knee. He lifted Anton up as high as he could—not as high as it’d been even a year ago—and laughed in delight.
“Anton!Jag saknade dig!” Hehadmissed Anton, so he wrapped him in a hug before putting him down, which was about the exact moment when his brain caught up with events.
Anton wouldn’t be here unattended.
Amanda wouldn’t have brought Anton here just to watch Lars.
…hewouldn’t.
“Anton, don’t run off,” Anders scolded in Swedish, and then he was there. In the lobby. In Vancouver.
The motherfucker had decidedthiswas the All Star game he would attend? Lars clenched his fists, wondering briefly if a right or a left hook would take his brother more off guard?—
You’re in a fucking hotel lobby in front of your nephew. Get a fucking grip.
He forced his hands to relax. Unfortunately he couldn’t quite get his face to cooperate; he’d be wearing a scowl for the next hour, at least.
“Anders,” he said coldly. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I was nominated, too,” he said, his tone as annoyingly devoid of emotion as ever. If anything, there was a note of patience like when he was talking to Astrid and Anton. “Anton wanted to skate on ice with the other children whose fathers go.”
There was something strange in the way Anders spoke, but Lars ignored it.
