Page 62 of The Trade Deadline
“Thanks,” he said and self-consciously tried to ignore that he was drenched in sweat. Lars was too, of course, but he mostly glowed after a workout while Ryan felt like wet play dough.
“You’re always the first one in the gym,” Lars commented while Ryan chugged his shake, “and the last one out. Are you even going to have time to shower before dinner?”
Plenty of time to shower and jerk off if I’m quick about it.
“You haven’t showered yet either,” Ryan said.
“Yeah but I barely broke a sweat.”
And you smell like oranges. I smell like ass.
What the hell iswrongwith me?
They rode up in the elevator together. It was big enough that Ryan could almost find the space to escape Lars’s citrusy pull, but the walk to their rooms revealed they were neighbors, one too-thin hotel wall between them.
Still time to jerk off, he thought as he turned on the scalding water,just gotta be quiet about it.
It took the edge off his horniness, but Ryan didn’t trust himself. During dinner, he managed to seat himself by the Ivans and thankfully had a terrible view of Lars at another table. If he wanted to stare, he’d have to turn his whole body and make it incredibly obvious. It didn’t do much to drown out the occasional sound of Lars’s laughter, but it was enough of a barrier that he figured he could last the night.
To reward himself for his responsible choices, Ryan allowed himself to drift toward Lars on the way back to the hotel. Warmth continued to pool low in his belly, but the night was so close to being over that Ryan indulged. What was the worst that could happen?
When his hotel door was in sight at the end of the hallway, Ryan breathed an honest-to-God sigh of relief. He was almost safe. But then he swiped his card to get inside, a “good night” on the tip of his tongue, and he turned to find Lars not heading to his own room but standing right behind him.
“Wha—?”
“Xbox, remember?” Lars shouldered his way past Ryan into the suddenly miniscule hotel room. “I’ll be Sweden this time and you can be America. Or the Crabs.” He bounced on Ryan’s still-pristine bed, and Ryan had a moment of praying his imagination wouldn’t move him under the covers.
“Right,” he said slowly. He had said that, hadn’t he? Should he pretend to be too tired? Feign a headache?
Stop being an idiot. Get your dick under control and play Xbox with your friend.
In your bed…
STOP.
“Wanna help me set it up?”
It was fine. Ryan knew it would be. They shared a bag of chips from the mini bar and sat on opposite ends of the queen-sized bed and shit-talked each other. It was relaxing and a great end to a day where they’d spent six hours on a plane. Ryan could even look forward to doing this again throughout the season, because look how easy it was.
It was so easy, he didn’t notice how things slowly shifted. An hour in, they were resting against the headboard. Another half hour and they’d somehow drifted closer, shoulder to shoulder as they played Threes. Ryan didn’t know how long after that it changed again, with Ryan’s head barely propped up on a pillow and Lars only slightly more upright beside him as they simmed games in Franchise Mode to see how long it would take to win the Crabs a Cup while Ryan told him who to trade and how to adjust the players’ stats to swing things in their favor.
“You should just trade me,” Ryan mumbled, the words garbled around a yawn. “It’s a decade in the future and we can’t make it to the finals.”
“I’ll trade myself before I trade you,” Lars said with more vehemence than a video game warranted. “You’re better than me, anyway.”
“Bullshit.”
“The game says otherwise.”
The game seemed to at least think Ryan was more consistent, the decade of play giving him fewer injuries and a basically constant point total while Lars suffered two season-ending injuries, a suspension, and declining production.
After another failed playoff run, Lars made a disgusted sound and tossed aside the controller. “I give up. Real hockey’s easier.”
“Agreed.” Ryan turned off the TV, the faint electric buzz the only sound in the room. That was when Ryan fully realized how close they were, with Lars leaning over him where he rested on his elbow. Hypnotizing blue eyes stared down at him, pinning him in place. They stayed like that, frozen on the cusp of sweet disaster.
Ryan should do something. It wouldn’t take much to break the spell and diffuse the tension between them. He didn’t, though.
Lars didn’t, either. He leaned down more and more, a gradual dip to invade Ryan’s space. He licked his lips, and Ryan’s eyes darted to track the small peek of pink, then trailed down Lars’s neck and settled at his pulse. He watched it flutter, listened to Lars’s breathing and found his matched. They were in sync, moving together as Lars closed the last few inches and Ryan leaned up to meet him.
