Page 131 of The Trade Deadline
The high of winning Game Three was followed by the crushing overtime loss of Game Four. The team had dug deep and still came up short, and now they were on the brink. They headed back to Cincinnati knowing that they could be eliminated in any game, and it made the flight somber.
Despite knowing the odds, Lars really thought they could do it. He wasn’t giving up—none of them were—but it now felt like the Cup wasjustout of reach. The Pythons were good, but the Crabs had had their number all season. The Otters were better than both of them, and it would take everything they had to hold them off even one more game.
Maybe more than they had. Lars had been here before with the Prowlers. Facing elimination against a team they had no business beating. Even if they won, they’d have nothing left in the tank for the Conference Finals.
He’d promised Ryan he’d get the Crabs to the playoffs. Maybe he should’ve considered what would happen when they got there.
There’d been talk in Baltimore about how getting the Wildcard shot was victory enough, and then winning a single series had exceeded everyone’s expectations. It was setting the stage for the team’s future blah blah blah. It was a positive spin that felt hollow. He didn’t want to settle for less. It’d been instilled into him from a young age that he should always aim for the top.
But he also had to deal with the reality of the situation. Unless the hockey gods decided to send some puck luck their way, they were playing on borrowed time.
His head fell back against his seat and he stared at the ceiling. There wasn’t much chatter, and he suspected their thoughts were along the same lines as his. All he could hear was the fan blowing above the seats in front of him.
He missed Ryan. Lars had never much cared who he sat next to or if he sat alone while the team traveled, but Ryan had spoiled him. Worse, he knew how good things could be and that they’d never get it back. Ryan wasn’t coming back to the Crabs. It wasn’t as bad as when Lars left the Prowlers, but he sensed the Crabs had burned that bridge with Ryan. Lars didn’t blame him; he wouldn’t want to go back to a team that hadn’t thought he was worth keeping for the playoffs.
But theyhadtaken care of Lars. As much as he tried to pretend his outburst hadn’t happened, it had, and the Crabs as an organization had closed ranks around him. The media hadn’t asked him any questions about the Prowlers (or his sexuality), even though he was sure there was nothing they wanted to talk about more. That was a mandate from the GM if he’d ever seen one, and he appreciated it. He hadn’t figured out what he wanted to do with being openly gay, but he sure as fuck didn’t want to deal with it during the playoffs.
With two years left on his contract, Lars would stay in Baltimore.
Which meant next year, wherever Ryan ended up, it wouldn’t be with him.
It was with that grim prospect in mind that he grabbed his phone and headphones, put on his loudest playlist, and drowned out his thoughts for the rest of the flight.
* * *
“You’re not coming?” Lars tried not to pout, realized that might actually help him, then did it more.
Mormor tsked. “I came to two games already. You both did well, and I’m glad I got to see it with the children. But this is an elimination game. Emotions are high. You might be upset at the end, or your brother is upset. I don’t want to be happy for one while the other is hurting. I stay home, and we all have time to calm down from excitement or sadness.”
She was right. One of them would win, and she’d be happy for them; one of them would lose, and she’d be there to console them. Granted, a loss would be more upsetting for Lars, but he knew he’d be obnoxious if the Crabs won and that would only make Anders more annoyed about another trip to Baltimore.
“I’ll be watching, Lillen.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll be cheering for you both, and proud of you regardless. You’ve been playing very well this year, and this whole series you haven’t fought your brother once.”
The last part wasn’t exactly true. There’d been some pushing and shoving on the boards and in front of the net, but compared to their usual levels, they were playing a clean game. Lars could’ve elbowed his brother in his newly healed nose and he didn’t. He was glad Mormor had noticed.
“I really want to win,” he confessed.
“I would be worried if you didn’t. As good as you are, you don’t control the game. Your team might lose and you’ll have to let that go. Play the bestyoucan, and I’ll be proud of you.”
“And if I play like shit and we still win?”
She bopped him on the head. “Then I will be happy for you to have a chance to do better. Lillen, I know how well you play and I expect to see it. Win or lose, I’ll tell you what you did wrong.”
He laughed and gave her a hug. Overall, he wasn’t sure how much he liked playing against the Otters, but seeing Mormor so often was definitely one of the perks.
* * *
What was that saying? Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong? That was how Lars felt at the start of the third period. The Otters and the Blue Crabs were scoreless still, a tied elimination game that would leave both teams exhausted whenever it ended. Especially if it went to Overtime. Or Double Overtime. Or Triple. Fuck, that would be awful.
In the first period, the growing welt on his lower back was testament to the shot he’d blocked. Stupid Anders and his stupid hard shots. Stupid wingers not covering the point. Stupid Lars deciding to block it.
In the second, Lars had gotten a juicy chance to score on a delayed penalty call. Jake had set him up for a one timer backdoor…and his stick had broken. The shot had gone harmlessly to the corner, and one of the Otters had grabbed the puck for a whistle.
And since apparently bullshit came in threes, his bad luck streak continued. Apparently he hadn’t learned his lesson earlier, and he decided it would be a good idea to put himself between a shot and the goal. It wasn’t Anders, which made him think it was a reasonable idea. Ryan lined up for a shot as he entered the zone, and Lars stupidly got in the way. It hit him low, and he was relieved it hadn’t hit any exposed skin.
Then his left leg went out from under him and he hit the ice.
When he tried to get back up and fell over whenever he tried to put any weight on his left leg, his heart sank. The skate blade had broken off when the puck hit it. He was stranded in the defensive zone.
