Page 103 of The Trade Deadline
Because sure, this was Ryan’s life and to Ryan this was absolutely devastating; to Monroe, this was just business. A variable in an equation he needed to balance. Ryan was a commodity that was more valuable to him elsewhere than on his roster, so they were done.
If he’d just made it past today, this could’ve been an actual conversation. Ryan could’ve made his case, begged to stay, and maybe taken less money than he was worth to secure a longer contract. But he hadn’t. There was no amount of arguing or pleading that would do anything now. From now until July, he belonged to the Otters.
“When do I head out?”
Again, a slight flash of sympathy in Monroe’s eyes. “Tonight. They’ve got a hotel lined up for you until you find something more permanent. I’m sure they have people who can help?—”
“I know the drill,” he said. “Not my first trade.”
Monroe nodded. “They play tomorrow night and want you on the ice. Obviously go home and pack. Let me know if there’s anything we can do on our end to make things go smoother.”
As if that were possible. As if a few kind gestures could erase the complete tornado that had blown through his life.
“Great,” he said, with so little enthusiasm Monroe flinched. “Is that all?”
“Actually, I need to get back to the Otters. What number would you like?”
Ryan startled at the question. What number would he like? He hadn’t been asked that since…since Juniors, maybe. Every team had picked one for him, even when he was in the AHL. He’d shown up at some new rink and they’d handed him a jersey, ready to go.
“Six,” he said, throat thick.
Before he left, he lingered in the doorway. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer, but this was his last chance to ask. “If I hadn’t played so well this season,” he said, “if teams weren’t trying to sign me, would you have re-signed my contract this summer?”
Monroe sat back in his chair and gave him a considering look. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “We can’t afford you now, obviously, not what you’re worth. And at the beginning of the season, Thompkins and I had discussed it but hadn’t made a firm decision. We wanted to see how you’d do. Honestly, the Otters can do more for you than we can. They’re first in the Metro, definitely making the playoffs. They’ve got two centers retiring at the end of this season who’ll need to be replaced. You do well for them…”
“Right,” he said. “Got it.” This was supposed to be mutually beneficial. No one knew this had royally fucked up his shit.
He barely saw anything as he walked down the hallway back to the player area. Practice had already started; he could hear the occasional whistle. He ignored the windows into the rink as he walked by. He hadn’t even made it to the locker room before he’d been pulled aside; there was nothing for him to do here except arrange for his gear to be sent over. No loose ends at all.
When he got to the parking lot, he was forced to recognize there was one very big loose end: his car wasn’t there because Lars had driven them to the rink today.
“Shit,” he hissed under his breath. He ordered an Uber like a coward and went right to his apartment. The flight details had already been sent to him, along with a message from someone on the Otters who’d be helping him in Cincinnati. He felt sick as he packed, not even sure what ended up in his bags and what he’d have to deal with later. Would he come back in the summer? Maybe Tanner could help him arrange for his stuff to be packed and shipped.
It wasn’t something he wanted to ask Lars to do. It felt…cruel.
He almost laughed out loud at that. Cruel. Word of the day.
Three hours before his flight out, Lars arrived. He knocked tentatively at the door, nothing to give him away, but Ryan knew. Who else could it be?
Ryan carefully closed his bedroom door to hide the suitcase and duffle bag, overfilled and leaning precariously against each other to stay upright, a suit bag draped over them with his two best suits. All the evidence of his departure tucked away to hopefully buy him an hour of pretending it didn’t happen.
“Where’d you go?” Lars asked when Ryan opened the door, and like a coward Ryan pulled him inside and smothered their lips together. No time for Lars to get a good look at him, no risking a wobble in his voice when he answered, nothing but one last time where things were still uncomplicated.
He pinned Lars against the door and kissed him again and again. Lars was slow to return the kisses at first, obviously still curious about why Ryan had disappeared earlier, but he gave in. He probably assumed there’d be plenty of time to talk after.
Ryan slipped his hands under Lars’s shirt and brought one to rest on his chest, the thumb rolling over a nipple, while the other stayed at the small of his back and kept Lars firmly in place. When he nudged his thigh between Lars’s legs, Lars groaned but spread his legs to make room for him. Ryan broke the kiss and ignored the way Lars leaned forward to chase his lips, instead dipping his head to kiss a line down his neck and then suck at his pulse point. Normally so mindful not to leave a mark, he did the opposite now: hewantedthere to be a bruise tomorrow.
Lars gasped and then groaned loudly, melting against the door. He was rock hard against Ryan, more than willing to follow Ryan’s lead, and Ryan took full advantage. After the telltale reddish purple mark had started to show, Ryan grabbed Lars and manhandled him to the couch.
“Wha—?” Lars squeaked when he fell backwards onto the not-quite-long-enough couch, looking up at Ryan with wide, blue eyes that were so damn beautiful.
Ryan didn’t answer. He pulled off his shirt, his pants, kicked aside his briefs. Lars took the hint and had just managed to wiggle out of his pants and underwear when Ryan straddled him. He’d already opened himself up while he was waiting, the last thing he’d done to prepare for this awful goodbye, so it took barely a minute to go from rolling the condom on Lars’s dick to sliding down until he was fully seated. God, he didn’t evenwantthe damn condom, he wanted to feel Lars fill him up but he couldn’t stand having to talk about what came next with come leaking out of him.
“How are you—? Why—? Fuck—” And then Ryan started moving, and Lars didn’t say anything coherent or English, mostly sounds and babbled Swedish.
Even though he’d planned not to rush, he couldn’t stop himself. He rode Lars at a brutal pace, losing himself in the steady rhythm of fucking himself while Lars held onto his hips in a tight grip, panting like he was barely holding on. Ryan could feel the strain in his muscles already, the tight coiling deep in his gut, his balls tightening, each exquisite sensation of pain or pleasure driving him heedless towards the edge, an edge he was almost scared to reach because what happened after?
Then Lars managed to change the angle and hit his prostate, and “after” became too abstract of a concept to care about. All that mattered in the whole world was this: the man beneath him, inside him, and sharing this.
