Page 71 of The Trade Deadline
“You could have a whole home gym in here,” Ryan said dumbly.
“Why would I need a home gym? I can just go to the rink.” He offered a paddle to Ryan and let him pick a side. “Ready?”
“You’re not as good at this as you are at actual hockey, are you?” Ryan asked dubiously. Of course he would be. Heownedan air hockey table.
Lars shrugged. “I’m only okay. You’ll be fine. My niece and nephew beat me all the time.”
“Do youletthem beat you?”
With the flick of a switch, the table began to hum and shake slightly. The bright green puck started to glide along the surface. “Only when it looks like they’ll be upset if I win.”
Recalling the small children at the Otters game, Ryan suspected that was nearly every time. “If I get upset, will you let me win?”
“Not a chance.”
Lars easily scored the first goal. Ryan wasn’t used to being tipsy, and his hands weren’t quite on the same page as his head. Ryan was able to block the second almost-goal and then soon found a rhythm. It wasn’t hockey in any way he was used to, but once he let his mind drift, his reflexes were up for the challenge. There was clearly some technique involved, because Lars scored or nearly scored every time he could corral the puck, turning innocuous recoveries into dangerous plays that kept Ryan on his toes.
By the time his half-beer had faded, they were tied. Ryan had worked up enough of a sweat that he had to take off his sweatshirt and throw it over to the lonely sofa. He’d been having so much fun, he’d almost forgotten why he was here in the first place.
Until he scored to put him in the lead, and Lars lightly suggested, “We could always up the ante.”
Ryan licked his lips. “What did you have in mind?” His throat was thick, his voice raspy, and he was glad he didn’t have to mask it. They both knew where this was going, what they both wanted. It was freeing, not to have to hide behind words like “friend” and “teammate.”
Lars spun his paddle in his hand, looking up through his too-long hair as he batted his eyes and said, “Strip air hockey?”
He had no idea what he expected Lars to say, but it wasn’t that. It was so on-brand, he was more surprised at himself for not guessing than Lars for suggesting it. “I notice you waited until after I took off my sweatshirt to suggest it.”
“You still have your shoes on.” Lars lifted a foot in the air and dramatically pointed at it, awkwardly balancing against the table. He wiggled his bare toes for emphasis. “Look at me! You’re already four points ahead!”
“It’s your table!” Ryan protested. “Youshouldhave a handicap going in.”
“You’re beating me right now.”
“Fair,” he conceded, “but youcouldbe hustling me. Playing down your talents to trick me into agreeing to this. You’ll have me naked in five minutes.”
“While I would very much like you naked in five minutes,” Lars said as he licked his lips, “do you think I’m capable of playing down my talents? I play to win.”
“You admitted to letting your niece and nephew win, FYI. You’re not making a compelling argument here.”
Lars frowned, the“shit he’s right”clearly evident in his thoughts.
“It’s okay,” Ryan said with a laugh. “I’ll play. I think I can handle it.”
They dropped the puck and immediately Ryan scored. It was almost as thrilling as scoring in an actual game, especially when he was rewarded with Lars taking off his t-shirt and dropping it to the ground. Then he was too busy staring across the expanse of Lars’s naked torso, the hairs leading down his abs and the well-toned but lean muscles, that Lars scored on him seconds later. Annoying, since he’dseenLars without a shirtdozensof times before. It was only the context that made it different now.
“Don’t get too excited,” he grumped. “It’s just a shoe.”
“But your foot is very sexy.” Lars made a show of looking under the table to see it. “Can’t wait until I get that sock off, too.”
“You gotta score two more times before you get to see my toes.”
And then he did. In rapid succession. One, two, three.
“You’re a pain, you know that?” Ryan said as he pulled off his second sock. They were even now, except for the shirt.
Ryan pulled the disk out of his goal and considered if he even wanted to win this game.
Neither of them gave up a point for the next five minutes, the nonstop back and forth not enough for either of them to score. None of the tricky bounces or changing the pace or the weird spin Lars sometimes used did anything. The few times one of them nearly scored—the bright puck teetering on the edge of the goal—the other would slam their paddle down, just in time to hold it in place.
