Page 45 of The Trade Deadline
Thompkins gave him a once over, like he’d never really seen Lars before. Understandable, since most people only looked at said resume and assumed he and other “superstars” were interchangeable. A glimmer of appreciation shone through, and Lars was glad that Thompkins was starting to understand him.
“I’ll keep you updated on lines, then,” Thompkins said. “Good talk.”
Lars went back to his stall, wondering if Thompkins would seriously consider what Lars thought were very valid points, or if he’d fall back to the status quo. Unfortunately, Lars worried his opinion of Thompkins’s coaching might drop drastically if he ignored Lars and they didn’t make the playoffs. Of course, if he took Lars’s advice and they didn’t make it, Lars would lose all credibility.
He looked at Ryan, cheeks rosy and hair sweat-damp, and remembered his promise.
Guess we’ll just have to make it.
* * *
Lars took his now customary seat next to Ryan on the plane and watched with fascination as Ryan spent the whole flight to Billings working out names and tickets, coordinating different factions of the Russell clan so that the sister who didn’t want to get married didn’t have to sit next to the meddling aunt, and the nephew who hadn’t made the football team wouldn’t be near the nephew who had. Never having imagined a large family could be so complicated, Lars was impressed Ryan knew so much about them all despite living hundreds of miles away. That he was so accommodating was less surprising.
In the tunnel before warm-ups, Lars hopped from foot to foot with the same nervous anticipation he got when he knew Mormor was in the stands. He hadn’t figured out how, but he was going to make sure Ryan scored tonight. Not an easy task since they’d never be on the ice together, but he could at least do his part to assure a win. He got the impression from Ryan that his family was only casually interested in hockey and more invested in Ryan doing well than in the Mustangs.
As he stepped onto the ice, he scanned the crowd for Ryan’s family, not even sure he’d recognize them if he saw them. There must be a ton of dark-haired, dark-eyed people to choose from?—
He found them almost instantly, first by hearing the cacophony of cowbells and cheers that sounded as soon as Ryan hit the ice behind him and then seeing the signs. The front row was taken up by people holding up signs that together spelled “WE LOVE YOU RYAN ??.” It was adorable, especially the heart one held up by two women he assumed were Ryan’s grandmas.
Ryan skated over and fist bumped each and every one of his nieces and nephews through the glass, ranging from teenagers to a younger girl still in her mother’s arms. Because it was too dang cute to watch Ryan, Lars’s attention shifted to his family. There were a lot of Blue Crabs jerseys and a few from other teams, presumably from Ryan’s previous teams, and a few Team USA ones. Those caught his eye. Ryan was about his age, so no Olympic participation. That meant Juniors, and theoretically one of the years Lars also played. He worried briefly that they had in fact played against each other and he’d overlooked Ryan back then the way everyone else seemed to have since then. But then a worse realization dawned on him.
Some of the Crabs jerseys his family wore…had the number 14 on them. Most of them, actually. Ryan was #75, hadalwaysworn that number in Baltimore as far as Lars knew. Except clearly he had been #14, too. Players didn’t just randomly change numbers, which meant…
“Jävla skit,” he cursed. He’d felt like a jackass about the Brian incident. On top of forcing him to change numbers, this made it so much worse. No wonder Ryan had taken so long to warm up to him.
Lars could barely focus during warm-ups, going through the motions with less and less success. It was so bad a few of the guys shot him concerned looks and raised eyebrows. It only got worse once the game started.
“You feeling alright, Nilsson?” Thompkins asked after Lars had managed two bad turnovers in one shift.
“Huh?” Lars snapped his attention to the coach, tried to process the words, and finally managed an, “I’ve been better.” It didn’t seem to instill his teammates with much confidence.
“You’re kind of embarrassing me,” Ryan joked during the first intermission. He’d taken the spot next to Lars while Tomas did an interview. “My family wanted to see the great Lars Nilsson play, and instead you’re here playing like ass.”
Lars managed a weak smile. “Sorry.” He gulped. “You’re playing pretty good, though. Bet they’re proud of you.”
He blushed and looked away bashfully. “I’m doing okay,” he admitted. “It’d be nice to score one, though. Kinda promised my niece I would.”
“The small one?”
Ryan blinked at him. “Yeah. You saw them?”
“There are no less than one hundred Russells in the building. If I were blind, I would’ve noticed them.”
“They are kinda loud,” Ryan said, beaming. Lars wondered what that was like, having a family without the drama, the anger, the bitterness. “I’m kinda glad I don’t play for the Mustangs. It’s easy to get hyped when they only see me play in person once a year.”
“No,” Lars said. “They’d be excited every time, I can tell.”
Ryan didn’t argue, which was proof enough.
Lars did moderately better in the second and third periods, but it was hard to rally much effort when he still felt like an asshole. Even if his play was lackluster, he managed to not get scored on, which was the best he could’ve hoped for. Ryan’s line was doing considerably better, driving play and generating shots with very little defensive zone time. It was fitting that he got the nod when the game went to overtime. Ryan, Jake, and Pavel took the ice and scored a whole fifteen seconds in. Ryan didn’t get the goal, but it was Jake scoring off Ryan’s rebound that got them the win. Lars was fairly certain the only people cheering in the stands were Ryan’s family, but they wereloud.
“Drinks on me, boys!” Ryan said as he reappeared in the locker room after doing a post-game interview, returning like a conquering hero.
The bar was a few blocks from the arena, still packed with patrons who’d come to watch the game and those stopping by to drown their misery before heading home. Ryan led the way to a room towards the back that was slightly less full but still teeming with people. As soon as they spotted him, a crowd of Russells (easily identified by their jerseys) raised their arms and cheered loudly. Ryan was taller than most of them, particularly his sisters, but his height offered him no protection as he was enveloped in a crowd of hugs, noogies, and bruising slaps on the back.
Lars ignored the brief impulse to insert himself among them and stay in Ryan’s orbit, and instead stuck with the Blue Crabs. He soon found himself with a beer in one hand as a shot was thrust into the other. Lars normally didn’t do hard liquor unless it was completely drowned in sugar, but he was feeling the right amount of lonely and sorry for himself that he gladly downed the awful drink (and then immediately chased it with half his beer). He let a teammate sling an arm around his shoulder and lead him to where they were drinking. He sipped his seemingly bottomless beer—magically replaced before he finished it—and let their conversation flow over him without hearing a single thing they said.
His insides were comfortably warm and his brain foggy when he next caught sight of Ryan. And the bastard looked fantastic.
