The Trade Deadline

A.L. Heard

The Trade Deadline

Copyright © 2024 by A.L. Heard

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people or events is coincidental.

Front Cover Art by Veronica

For information on commissions and to view more of her artwork, visit her on Instagram @sailorlun2

ISBN: 979-8-9911881-0-4 (ebook edition)

ISBN: 979-8-9911881-1-1 (Paperback edition)

Contents

Prologue: Juniors

1. Lars

2. Ryan

3. Lars

4. Ryan

5. Lars

6. Ryan

7. Lars

8. Ryan

9. Lars

10. Ryan

11. Lars

12. Ryan

13. Ryan

14. Lars

15. Lars

16. Ryan

17. Lars

18. Ryan

19. Lars

20. Ryan

21. Lars

22. Ryan

23. Lars

24. Ryan

25. Lars

26. Ryan

27. Lars

28. Ryan

29. Lars

30. Ryan

31. Lars

32. Ryan

33. Lars

34. Ryan

35. Lars

36. Ryan

37. Lars

38. Ryan

39. Lars

40. Ryan

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About A.L. Heard

Prologue: Juniors

Ryan

Ryan should’ve gone home when his team was eliminated.

It’d been an honor to participate as a member of Team USA in the World Junior Championship and represent his country. He’d secretly hoped to be selected and worried he wouldn’t make the cut—there was a lot of young American talent and he knew the coaches tended to favor some of his compatriots more than him—and he’d been very openly stoked to get the call. He’d gotten to center the second line, play on the Penalty Kill, and even gotten a shift on the second Power Play unit (not his forte at all, but he enjoyed the opportunity). It’d been amazing, a real dream come true to play hockey at this level.

Except that they’d sucked.

Hard.

Despite a team of undeniably skilled players, Team USA had barely managed to cobble together two whole wins. On paper they were fantastic; on the ice they were a mess. No line chemistry, a new system to learn, coaches who didn’t make adjustments when things weren’t working, unnecessary favoritism, and stacked competition that didn’t have any of their internal issues. Ryan would take his two goals, three assists, and perfect PK record and go home happy.

Most of his teammates hadn’t had the same attitude. They’d seen only the failures and been too frustrated to stay. They’d packed their bags, maybe said goodbyes, and hightailed it back to the States.

On some level, he got it. A lot of them would probably get invites to Olympic teams later in their careers. This was just a disappointment they’d rather put behind them; they were already looking ahead to the next big thing. Ryan wouldn’t get those future invites. He’d made this team because of the age restriction, period. On a team open to all American-born players, old and young, he would never make the list. So he’d stayed in Switzerland to prolong the experience for a few more days. He’d watched the other teams compete for medals, enjoyed the excellent fitness facility, and basically just soaked it all in.

And now, as he stood awkwardly in the corner of a hotel lobby where Team Sweden was celebrating their gold medal victory over Team Canada, he almost wished he’d left.

It was just embarrassing to have to constantly a.) explain who he was (big bruise to his ego to realize only a handful of people remembered him) and b.) justify his continued existence as an American.

“Who are you again?”

“Didn’t you guys get knocked out, like, a week ago?”

“Oh! We played you guys. Don’t remember you.”

And a series of similar comments in Russian and Swedish that were likely just as disparaging as the ones from the Canadians. The only people who vaguely remembered him were ones he’d seen at clinics and exhibition games back home, which would be fine except he knew just about everyone here. Their names and their backgrounds, their position, and, for the centers at least, he knew if they were a righty or lefty. He knew them…and he was invisible.

As he stewed in self-pity and nursed an awful-tasting beer (why did adults drink this stuff? gross), he watched the easy camaraderie between the other players with an envy that almost hurt.

“You’re American, right?”

Ryan jumped at the sound of a deep voice to his left. He managed not to drop his beer as he turned to find himself face to face with none other than Lars Nilsson, star center for Team Sweden. Ryan hadn’t seen him up close—their teams didn’t face each other in the round robin and luckily they hadn’t been stomped by Team Sweden on their path to gold—but he recognized the long blond hair and intense blue eyes.

“Uh, yeah,” he finally said. “I’m American.”

Lars nodded, cheeks rosy and gaze a little glassy. He had a plastic cup in his hand filled with an alarmingly pink drink. “I love Americans,” he purred as he stepped closer. “Very hot, and not as stuck up as people say they are.”

“Uhm…” Ryan instinctively tried to back up, hit the wall, and then just about short-circuited when he realized his and Lars’s chests were brushing together. In the middle of a lobby of other hockey players. Most of them were as drunk as Lars, but there would be enough sober and, more importantly, enough bigoted ones that their proximity could make things…uncomfortable. “Thanks?” he managed, then tried to step away from Lars crowding him into the corner. “You guys played really well that last game. I was a little worried for you after you went down in the first but⁠—”

Lars cut him off. “It was a very good game,” he agreed dismissively. “Why are you hiding over here? Come meet my teammates and have some fun. We can find you a better drink than” —he reached out and took the lukewarm bottle from his hand, his face wrinkling at the German name— “whatever this is.”

Ryan had finally put a foot of space between them. “Look, I don’t⁠—”

“I’m Lars, by the way.” He shuffled both their drinks to his left hand so he could offer his right.

“I know who you are,” Ryan muttered but shook his hand. “I’m Ryan.”

“Well, Ryan. Let me get you a better drink.” He never gave Ryan a chance to refuse, taking their joined hands and leading him to the bar. They weaved easily through the crowd, mostly because everyone recognized Lars and stepped out of his way. Oh sure, there were plenty of congratulations and pats on the back, but they must’ve seen Lars was on a mission because no one stopped them until they’d reached the bar.

“Two strawberry daiquiris,” Lars said with a wide, pleased smile that made Ryan think he must’ve garbled the word “daiquiri” on earlier orders. “Extra rum.”

Ryan didn’t remember how to talk until the drink was placed in his hand, a plastic cup with a bright orange straw, and Lars grinning stupidly at him.

“Thanks, but I don’t, uh…” He blushed, fully aware there was no way to say he was too young to drink back home so he'd never had rum without completely embarrassing himself. “Cheers,” he mumbled instead and held up the cup. He was already feeling the half a beer he’d drunk, too; this was such a bad idea.

“Skål!” Lars knocked their cups together so roughly Ryan almost lost his grip, then the Swede very happily threw back the cup and drank half of it in one go.

Belatedly, Ryan took a sip of his own drink and winced at the too-sweet flavor.

“Good, right?” There was a dimple on one side when he smiled, giving him a mischievous, boyish look.

“Mmm,” Ryan said noncommittally. It was definitely a drink. With alcohol. Given the state of the other players and their growing entourage of fans, that seemed to be enough. Maybe he should go to his room before things got too rowdy. Ryan wasn’t a partier and he didn’t really have anything to celebrate. The last thing he needed was a hangover right before going home and getting jetlagged. “Look, thanks but⁠—”

“You’re very handsome.”

Ryan’s brain momentarily shut off. He didn’t just hear that, right?

“This whole place is full of handsome guys.” Lars gestured with a sweeping hand across the lobby, almost smacking a painting off the wall. “And you’re still the handsomest here.”

Okay, so he’d definitely heard correctly. He gulped and stared at Lars with wide eyes.

For the first time since Lars had rescued him from the corner, he frowned. “Oh,” he said sheepishly. “Are you not gay? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. I got ahead of myself and⁠—”

“You aren’t wrong,” Ryan interrupted and holy shit, where did that come from? How strong was the rum if he was openly admitting this to a stranger in the middle of a crowded lobby like it wasn’t a piece of himself he completely ignored most of the time? “I mean,” he said in a rush, “I’m not, like, completely gay. Mostly gay. Kinda gay. Gay enough?”

God he was an idiot.

Lars looked relieved. “Phew! It wouldn’t be the first time I made an ass of myself, but honestly I don’t think I’d ever be more disappointed than if I found out you were straight.” He gave Ryan an appreciative once over. “What a waste if you were.”

This was surreal. One of the top NHL prospects, a World Juniors gold medalist, a complete charmer (apparently) and hottie (confirmed), was hitting on him of all people. A nobody from a losing team who hoped to get drafted before the last round. Weird that this would be the highlight of his time in Switzerland, but he’d take it.

“Yeah?” Ryan tried a shy smile. He wasn’t good at flirting. Hell, his few one night stands had been from women (and one memorable guy) aggressively taking the lead after meeting him at a rink. Puck bunnies who didn’t care if Ryan was an awkward, uncharismatic, sweaty mess.

The point was, he had no fucking clue what he was doing.

Lars didn’t seem to mind. He slung his free arm over Ryan’s shoulders. “Definitely. I have a nice room. No roommate. Good bed, very comfortable. Very big. Room for one more.”

He could smell strawberry on Lars’s breath, strangely inviting. With him pressed against his side, Ryan wondered if he’d taste like daiquiris too. He licked his lips. This was probably a bad idea, long term. Aside from getting off tonight and having some fun to bookend his trip, he didn’t see any good coming from this hookup.

“I— I don’t— Uhm, maybe—” he stuttered. Why did he have to be such a dork?

“If you don’t want to,” Lars said seriously (if not quite soberly), “then we can stay down here and enjoy the festivities.” He leaned impossibly closer, his lips brushing Ryan’s ear as he whispered, “But I promise to make it worth your while. I’m very good.”

Ryan whimpered. He hoped the music and chatter were too loud for Lars to hear him, but then he chuckled, a low rumble Ryan felt more than heard, and he knew there was no point in denying it. “I want to,” he managed. “To go upstairs. With you.”

Lars winked at him and pulled him towards the elevator. Ryan looked around, saw no one was paying them any attention, and figured to hell with it. He wanted to find out what Lars Nilsson tasted like, consequences be damned.

NHL Teams

THE EASTERN CONFERENCE

Atlantic Division

The Boston Militia

Buffalo Bears

Carolina Reapers

Motor City Racers

New England Nor’Easters

Ontario Ice Owls

Quebec Fleurs-de-lis

Toronto Terrors

Metropolitan Division

Baltimore Blue Crabs

Brooklyn Bootleggers

Florida Pythons

New Jersey Kings

New York Rough Riders

Ohio Otters

Philadelphia Gliders

Pittsburgh Riveters

WESTERN CONFERENCE

Central Division

Albuquerque Turkeys

Austin Rangers

Chicago Storm

Houston Pirates

Manitoba Aviators

Minnesota Mountaineers

Montana Mustangs

Tennessee Outlaws

Pacific Division

Bay Area Brawlers

British Columbia Cougars

Calgary Cowfolk

Edmonton Mounties

Los Angeles Devils

Nevada Scorpions

Orange County Mallards

Portland Prowlers

Chapter 1

Lars

Seven Years Later

“Lasse, what the fuck did you do?”

Lars winced. When his agent had called, he’d answered automatically. He hadn’t really thought about why Max might be calling him in the offseason. Now he regretted picking up, because the last thing he needed right now was to be chewed out.

At least I’m alone. He looked around his condo, sparsely furnished since he never had anyone over. What was the point of extra seating if no one would ever use it? As usual.

“I don’t know what they told you⁠—”

“They said they caught you and a male trainer in the locker room. They were somewhat more graphic in relaying that information to me.”

Another wince. Or maybe a grimace. Lars was glad this wasn’t a video call, because he wasn’t sure he liked what his face was doing. “Okay, so that might’ve happened, but I swear it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“It doesn’t sound good,” Max said sternly. “This shouldn’t be a big deal, I get that, but you know how their management is. I warned you when you signed that first contract with them that you’d have to keep your private life private.”

Lars remembered that conversation all too well. He’d been so focused on hockey his rookie year, he hadn’t had time to fool around. When he’d been offered a longer, more lucrative deal, Max had warned him that while the city of Portland was very accepting, that was a different beast from the NHL and more specifically the Prowlers. The words “discreet” and “careful” were thrown around so many times that to this day they reminded him of Max’s warning.

“I know,” he said, feeling and no doubt sounding like a chastened child. “I’m sorry.”

“They’re pretty adamant that if this goes public, they’re going to spin the power imbalance angle and pin it all on you. A superstar player taking what he wants from someone in the organization who can’t say no to him. It won’t look good, Lasse.”

The blood drained from Lars’s face. He didn’t play into that particular “superstar” stereotype (at least he hoped he didn’t), but it was a tempting one for fans to buy into. The spoiled player with an ego who used his status to bully people. He heard that storyline all over the league, and the press loved to run with it.

Definitely lucky this wasn’t a video call; Lars wanted to punch someone. “It— I would never— Max, I swear⁠—”

A loud sigh came through, followed by Max’s placating, “I know, but that’s what they’ll do. It’s Portland. They know the fanbase would support a gay player, so they’re going to have to spin it in a way that makes you the bad guy. That’s of course if you’re willing to come out, which I assume is still a hard no.”

Lars suddenly felt dizzy and had to sit down. This was a lot to take in. He definitely didn’t want to be out. If they could keep this quiet…that was what everyone wanted, right? He could barely hear over the rushing sound in his ears, but he was aware that Max was still talking and tried to tune back in.

“The Prowlers were very clear they want zero to do with a gay or bi or anything else player right now. They don’t want it hitting the media and being a ‘distraction from hockey’.”

Max used the voice he always used when he was quoting Portland’s General Manager Rob Mackey, a no-nonsense man in his seventies who’d been in hockey probably a decade longer than he should’ve.

When his coach had stumbled in on Lars and that trainer half-naked and enthusiastically making out, he’d seen the grim set of his mouth and known he was in trouble. He’d been caught by coaches before when he was younger, and they’d excused it after warning him not to be so reckless. Apparently his fellow Swedes were a lot more forgiving than Rob Mackey’s staff, because he’d been told to go home and stay there until they’d “talked it over.”

“So what? I promise to keep my mouth shut and be more discreet and we pretend it never happened?” he asked hopefully. Not that it would be that easy. The coach would look at him differently, and Lars wouldn’t be able to respect him as much now that he’d gone running to Mackey. But he’d deal with that later.

Max didn’t answer immediately, and Lars had a sinking feeling in his gut. “They want to trade you.”

“What!?” Lars sputtered. “They can’t do that. I have another two years on my contract and a no trade clause. They can’t.”

Portland had drafted him seven years ago, and after a stellar rookie season where he won the Calder, he’d signed an eight year deal. He’d made sure that no trade clause was in there, because there was no fucking way he wanted to be moved to another team unless it was under on terms.

“I know,” Max said, “but they implied it would be very uncomfortable for you to remain in Portland and that you should agree to a trade. They’ll happily buy you out if that works better, but we still need to get you a team.”

“Very uncomfortable.” Belittling comments, reduced minutes, worse linemates, healthy scratches. Lars could easily picture the scenario in his head as the team did their best to drive him out all while tanking his value as a player. If he left now, after a 50-goal season, both he and Portland had leverage to make this a mutually beneficial send-off.

All he had to do was agree to leave the place he’d called home for the last seven years. The only place he’d called home since he left Sweden.

Fuck, did he mess up…

Though maybe this was for the best. There were no guarantees his new team, whatever it was, would be more supportive, but now he knew for sure Portland would never be. Long term, he'd always have to be in the closet, and as comfortable as he currently was hiding that part of himself from the world, eventually he might meet someone he didn’t want to hide.

“Fine,” he said through his teeth. He started pacing up and down the short hallway from his living room to his bedroom. All around him were mementos of his career so far, going back to youth hockey, then Team Sweden, and mostly with the Portland Prowlers. There were pictures of him and the Cup he’d helped them earn his second season after a drought of two decades, plus the second they’d gotten three years later. He’d helped them do that…and to them he wasn’t even worth the potential bad press of being gay. “Get me a new team.”

“Where?” Max asked, papers shuffling on the other end of the line. “Nevada and LA have been sniffing around for the last couple of years. Or Calgary, if you’re thinking Canada.”

“No,” Lars said immediately. He felt raw, only able to see what he’d lost. There was no way he could stay out west. If he was going to start over, he was going to do it properly. “Eastern Conference.”

“Oh.” Max briefly sounded thrown but went with it amicably enough. “I haven’t done as much scouting out that way, honestly. You and most of my guys are here, but I’ll be happy to look into it.” A pause before a very tentative, “You know, I could probably get you top dollar with Cincinnati.”

Lars stopped midstep. “Absolutely the fuck not,” he growled. Cincinnati was his older brother’s team, and if he wasn’t playing under the Tre Kronor, he sure as fuck wasn’t playing with Anders. If there were another team in Ohio, he’d refuse that, too. North America was too big of a continent for him to end up in the same state as Anders Nilsson.

“Okay, no problem.” Max sounded a little disappointed, but he knew better than to push. “I’ll work my magic and get back to you with some offers in a couple days. Maybe sooner, if there’s a juicy one.”

He wondered how many zeros on the end of his salary it would take for Max to consider it “juicy.”

“Great,” he said, then before Max could hang up, he quietly asked, “What about Andy?”

“Who?”

“The trainer. Did they…did they fire him?”

“I didn’t ask,” Max said with a carefully neutral tone. Lars knew that tone well. It’d gotten him a few extra mil from Portland and a great sponsorship deal with CCM.

Right. He should’ve thought about consequences before letting his hands wander. And if they were perfectly fine making Lars uncomfortable to force him out, they’d have no qualms about doing the same or worse to Andy.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Max said with a resigned sigh. “I could pull some strings and make sure he gets something lined up if he needs it.”

A huge weight lifted from his chest. One less thing to worry about, at least. “You’re the best, Max.”

“I know. Now sit tight and try not to cause any more trouble. And maybe start to pack.”

“Right,” Lars said, knowing Max had already hung up. He dropped his hand and stared in a daze. Shoulders slumped, he took in the condo he’d been so proud to buy when he was nineteen. He hadn’t expected to abandon it at twenty-five.

What a fantastic start to his seventh season.

* * *

Early the next morning—6 a.m. his time, painfully early for a Saturday during the off season—Lars put on some coffee, hyped himself up, then pulled up the contacts on his phone.

His grandma picked up after the second ring, sounding incredibly pleased. “Lasse?”

“Mormor.” He wasn’t happy about making this call, but he was always glad to hear her voice. “How are you?” he asked in Swedish. He hated being on a team without other Swedes, leaving his native language to go unused like a childhood relic.

You’re not on the Prowlers anymore, he reminded himself. Maybe your new team will have someone you can talk to.

He wasn’t going to hold his breath on that one.

She made a noise that conveyed both “very well, obviously” and “life is always a challenge at my age.” “My day is always better when I hear from you, Lillen.”

Lars rolled his eyes. He’d been lillen, “little one,” since he could remember, and the nickname hadn’t changed even when he hit six feet at fifteen. Of course, he secretly enjoyed the nickname, which only his grandma was allowed to call him. Or not so secretly, since she used it often.

“Good! Then I don’t have to share my news with you, since I’ve already made your day.” He could practically hear her scowl over the phone and laughed. “I’ll be moving closer to you.” Probably. She currently lived in Ohio with his brother’s family, and anywhere in the Eastern Conference was bound to be closer than Oregon was.

This was greeted with a silence he couldn’t decipher before she slowly asked, “You’re changing teams?”

Part of why he’d had to psych himself up was he wanted to frame this as completely positive to his grandma. She and his grandpa had raised him, and he didn’t want to worry her with the drama he was escaping. Even if he was pissed off about it, he would make it a Good Thing if it killed him.

“Yeah. I wanted to be closer to you. I only get to see you twice a year.”

“How much closer? This is a big continent. A few hours closer and you’re still too far to visit. I won’t go on a plane again, you know this, Lillen.”

He knew all too well how much his grandma hated flying. It’d been enough of an ordeal to get her to move to the States to begin with, since doing so had pretty much guaranteed she’d never return to Sweden. Having your daughter die in a plane crash did that to people.

“I don’t know where yet. My agent’s still working on it, but it’ll be somewhere out east.”

“So you’ll play your brother more.” Her tone was harder now, more parent than grandparent. “I don’t like it when you play him. Too rough. Too much fighting. It upsets the children.”

“The children” were Anders’s kids, who most definitely weren’t upset by it. They loved seeing their dad and uncle go at it and would happily text him with clips afterward. What she meant was “it upsets me,” and he felt a pang of guilt over it.

Not enough to be nice to his brother, but, well, no one was perfect.

“I’ll be nice,” he lied. “I’m always the nice one, anyway. You should tell Anders to lay off me. He’s bigger, he could really hurt me. He’s old and should retire soon. I’m young and need to stay healthy.”

“Lars,” she warned. His actual name. Yikes, he hadn’t heard that one since he gave his brother a black eye a few years ago in a pre-season game. He better stop teasing.

“Sorry, Mormor,” he said. He was sorry for upsetting her, at least. 

She grunted in a way that said you better be, then asked, “Do we dislike the Prowlers now? Should I burn my jerseys?”

“They’re signed! You could at least sell them. One of them is game-worn, you could make a lot of money off of it.”

Especially if you did it now, before the news hits that I’ve left. I don’t think Portland fans will be very happy with me…

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said. “Are we happy about this or not?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, not giving a chance for hesitation to give away his decidedly mixed feelings. “We’re happy about it.”

A considering pause before she said, “Good. I will be happy to have you visit more. Your visit last month was too short. All you did was go on runs and play video games.”

“That’s not true. I read that book to you and helped you make dinner. I was a very good grandson, you said so yourself.”

She mumbled something unintelligible, which he took to mean she’d conceded. “You will visit for Christmas, then. You’ll be closer, so no excuses.”

He made a face. There was no way out now. “Fine, I’ll come for Christmas. But not Thanksgiving.” He’d already have to deal with playing Anders more often during the season; he didn’t want to see him more during his free time.

“Pssh,” she said dismissively. As a Swede, she’d never been big on Thanksgiving. Sometimes she’d used it as an excuse to get Lars to visit, but since the holiday meant little to her, she never pushed too hard. “Am I allowed to tell your brother yet?”

“No, I want it to be a surprise,” he said with a huge grin. In his head he was laughing like a cartoon villain as he imagined his brother’s reaction to the news. That was a definite silver lining in all this: getting to score on Anders more than twice a season. Even at the expense of pissing himself off, he’d take that trade-off.

“Lillen,” his grandma said with a long suffering sigh, “what will I do with you?”

“Wear my new jersey when I come to town?” Not once had she worn either his or Anders’s jerseys when they played each other, always opting for a nameless Team Sweden that helped him pick her out in the crowd.

“You are a troublemaker.”

“I try.” His coffee maker beeped at him. Time to start the day. “I have to go work out. Take care of yourself, Mormor. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. Good luck this year. Will you win the Rocket Richard again?” The Maurice “Rocket” Richard Trophy was awarded at the end of each season to the NHL player who’d scored the most goals. Lars had won it twice and been a contender for it every year, sometimes only losing by a single goal.

“Depends on the team, probably. I’ll call when I know more, okay?”

She hummed her approval. “Hejdå, Lasse. Be good.”

“Hejdå, Mormor.”

Chapter 2

Ryan

“RJ?”

Ryan looked up. He’d been in the middle of getting the barbell ready for some deadlifts when Coach Thompkins had interrupted. That usually wasn’t the best sign, getting singled out to talk to the coach. Especially not during optional pre-season training and conditioning.

“What’s up?” he asked as casually as he could.

Thompkins nodded towards the doors that led to the offices a floor above, not to the player meeting rooms and locker rooms Ryan was used to. “Got a minute? Charlie wants a word with you.”

Shit. Charlie Monroe was the General Manager of the Baltimore Blue Crabs. If Ryan had been nervous about a one-on-one with Coach, it was nothing to how much he dreaded a talk with the GM.

“Sure.”

The two-minute walk was excruciating. Ryan filled it with useless chatter because that was the easiest way to avoid actual thinking. He asked Coach about his summer, how the wife and kids were doing, if he’d gotten any new suits for this year, if he was looking forward to starting the season with a homestand instead of travel. Every question was focused on Thompkins, his jokes aimed to make him smile or laugh and hopefully leave the impression that Ryan was a Good Guy, definitely worth keeping on the team and in the lineup.

Ryan really, really wanted to stay with Baltimore.

Not because of Baltimore itself, per se. He liked the city well enough, even if it didn’t snow much in the winter and was too humid in the summer. It was his longest stint with a single team, though, and he wanted to stay. He’d been drafted by the Austin Rangers, played a year with their AHL team before being unceremoniously moved from team to team as they tried to clear up cap space for star players or a more robust defensive line. He’d landed in Baltimore two and a half seasons ago, and his contract was up at the end of this season. He was really hoping to make a case to stay.

If they were meeting with him now, though, maybe he should’ve been making that case already.

They stepped into the office and Ryan was immediately assaulted with the Maryland-ness of it: a long window with a clear view of the harbor, a Maryland flag in the corner, a retro Crabs jersey made to look like Old Bay, and of course more Blue Crabs memorabilia than should feasibly fit in such a confined space. There was so much going on, his eyes couldn’t help from jumping from one thing to the next, never settling long before something else caught his attention.

“RJ!” Monroe greeted him warmly, snapping Ryan out of sensory overload. He stood up from his desk and came to shake his hand, motioning for both him and Thompkins to take a seat while he leaned against the front of his desk and crossed his arms. “How was your summer?” 

“Good.” A pause. Normally, he’d butter Monroe up the way he’d tried with Thompkins, but he was starting to worry it was too late. Was he about to hear he needed to pack his bags and start looking for a new apartment? Anxiety made him shift his focus elsewhere. “I actually spent a month doing some clinics up in Vancouver to work on my face-offs.”

Monroe beamed at him. “Atta boy. You’re my best face-off guy. Keep it up.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

Monroe nodded, then his brow furrowed and he grew serious. “So I don’t know if you’ve heard the news yet” —Ryan’s heart sank— “but we’ve been in talks to get Lars Nilsson. We just signed him this morning, actually. Real exciting stuff.”

“Oh.” That was…literally the last way he’d expected Monroe to finish that sentence. Nilsson was a great center, definitely star caliber. Getting him on the Blue Crabs would be great for the team. And while Ryan had his own personal baggage associated with Lars Nilsson, no one knew about it except him and Lars, so he had absolutely no clue why Monroe and Thompkins had singled him out for a meeting. “That’s great.”

“It is great,” Thompkins agreed. Ryan turned his attention to him, wondering when this would start to make sense. “The thing is…he’s pretty adamant about keeping the number 14.”

Oh. Oh. Was that what this was about?

Ryan had a 14 on the corner of his team branded t-shirt, his last name RUSSELL on the collar. If Nilsson wanted to be 14 here, that would mean Ryan had to give it up.

“So…you want to give me a new number and give mine to Nilsson?”

Ryan hadn’t gotten to choose his own number since he entered the NHL and had worn a different one for each club he’d played for. He’d been assigned 14 when he got here and wasn’t particularly attached to the number so much as the jersey it was on.

“Would you mind?” Monroe asked with a pinched expression. Ryan wasn’t super clear on the protocol here, but he got the impression he could actually say no and they’d let him keep the number.

…aaand possibly alienate his GM, his coach, and his new teammate/former hookup in the process. All for a number he didn’t care about.

I kinda care about the principle of it. If it were someone else, would they be asking? Do they assume I'll say yes?

He pushed the thoughts aside. It didn’t matter, because he was going to say yes.

“It’s fine,” Ryan said with an almost genuine smile.

“We’ll get you squared away with a new number ASAP,” Thompkins promised.

I don’t get to pick? He almost said it out loud but bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself. What number would he even pick? He’d have to think about it, and that was about as embarrassing as them picking for him.

After he’d been drafted and they hadn’t given him the option, he’d pretty quickly learned his place. He wasn’t the type of player who had room to be attached to a number. He was lucky they made a show of asking him, and he should be relieved they were talking about people joining the team instead of him inevitably leaving it. Small win in the grand scheme of things, right?

“Awesome,” Ryan said half-heartedly. “Hey, when do you think La— Nilsson will be arriving?”

Thompkins looked to Monroe, who shrugged.

“He’s on the way,” Thompkins said. “I expect he’ll show up within the week, but since we haven’t spoken yet, I don’t know when he plans on officially coming in for training and promos.”

“Promos?” Ryan dramatically made a face and the other men laughed. The social media team was friendly enough, but they were incredibly dedicated to their jobs, which usually meant a lot of pictures and interviews. Before Baltimore, Ryan hadn’t been used to having a camera on him at all times. Hell, he wasn’t really used to it now, but at least he’d grown to expect it. They’d already snapped a few pics of him and some of the rookies in the gym, happily posting about each returning player’s appearance to fuel the fanbase’s excitement for the upcoming season.

“It’s not that bad,” Monroe said with a chuckle.

“It definitely is,” Thompkins countered. As GM, Monroe could escape most of the fanfare by hiding in his office. Thompkins had it almost as bad as the players. Since he had to show his face at games and practices, his every coaching decision was praised when the team did well and under intense scrutiny when they didn’t. Sometimes Ryan felt bad for him, since Ryan could usually get away with a smile and an apology that conveyed some degree of lol I’m just a dumb hockey player, don’t blame me.

Of course, Thompkins was also the one responsible for Ryan’s shift lengths, so he couldn’t feel too bad.

“I don’t know what RJ’s complaining about, though,” Thompkins continued. “The camera loves him. He gets more requests than anybody to participate in events, just for having a pretty face.”

Certainly not for his playing! seemed to be implied. Ryan laughed anyway. He could be offended when he had a new contract signed.

They chatted a little longer, Ryan’s heart not in it, before they let him go back to the gym. He felt he’d done a pretty admirable job of not freaking out as he finished an abbreviated version of his workout. He even managed not to sound constipated when he chatted with some of the other players who were there and told a joke to the training staff on his way out that got a few laughs. In all the ways that mattered, he resembled a fully functioning human being.

It was only once he locked himself in his car that the cracks started to show.

Lars Nilsson was going to be his teammate.

Lars Nilsson, NHL All Star and darling of Team Sweden would be playing with him. Here. In Baltimore.

Lars Nilsson, whose dick he’d had his hands on and whose lips he’d kissed and whose accent could still get him half hard if he listened to his interviews, was someone he would have to interact with on a daily basis in less than two weeks.

“Okay,” he said as he finally turned the car on. “I can do this. I can so do this.”

Who was he kidding? He couldn’t do this.

This was going to be so awkward, right? They’d have to dance around the fact that they’d hooked up and seen each other naked. Then they’d have to have that painful talk where they both agreed it was way in the past and not a big deal, except it would be weird as fuck in the locker room. And on plane rides or bus rides if they had to sit next to each other. Oh god, or when the team went out to drink together. Ryan would have to stay away from strawberry daiquiris (a guilty pleasure since Juniors) and hope Lars did the same, or⁠—

Or what, Ryan? he scolded himself. Or nothing. You’re making a big deal out of this when it doesn’t have to be. It really is ancient history, even if he is still painfully hot. You can be professional. You have to be professional. You want to stay on this team, remember? Don’t be a dummy.

“Don’t be a dummy,” he repeated out loud. He backed out of his spot and repeated the mantra over and over under his breath as he drove home. Maybe it’d sink in.

* * *

Spoiler: It didn’t sink in.

He was even more freaked out by the time he got home, the car ride doing nothing but giving him zero distractions from worst case scenarios. After he abandoned his car in the parking garage, instead of heading up to his fifth floor apartment, he made a beeline for the fourth floor and knocked on the door directly beneath his.

The door opened a crack, then swung open. Before he could get a word in, Ryan was enveloped in a bone crushing hug.

“Bro, what’s up?” Tanner let him go and pulled him into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind them. “How you been?”

“Good,” Ryan said automatically, then dropped his head. “Ugh, no, bad.”

Tanner nodded sagely, his shoulder length sandy hair bobbing with the movement. “Should’ve figured, if you were visiting me. Want some weed?”

“No, thanks.” He plopped down on the large leather sofa that took up half the living room, well away from the nest of blankets and the abandoned game controller in the middle.

Tanner gave him a disappointed look, as if Ryan had ever taken him up on that offer. “Beer, then?”

“Can’t. It’s preseason. I gotta get back into shape.”

Tanner eyed him skeptically. “You have a six-pack.”

“Right now it’s more of a two-pack.”

“That’s still way more pack than most people. Besides, I thought preseason wasn’t until August,” he said with a pout.

“It is August.”

“Is it? Shit. Time flies.” As lucky as Ryan had it playing in the NHL and making a decent salary, Tanner had it better. He’d created some app while he was still in high school, sold it to the highest bidder, and had retired to a life of video games and weed at the ripe old age of nineteen. He was twenty-three now, well set in his ways. Which included being chronically unaware of the passage of time. “Hey, you’re usually too busy to come chill when you're training. What’s up?”

“So remember how I mentioned that time in Switzerland?”

“With the hot blond guy?” Tanner tumbled back into his blankets and reached under the couch to grab a bong. “ ‘course I remember.”

“Well, turns out we’re going to be teammates.”

Tanner had just taken a hit and immediately started coughing. “Shit,” he managed between gasps. “For real?”

“For real,” he confirmed and let his head fall back against the couch. He stared up at the ceiling.

“You think it’s gonna be weird? Like, what if he’s still into you? Or you find out you’re still into him?”

Among other worries. “We work together. It could get really awkward, and I don’t want one night from seven or whatever years ago to jeopardize my job here.”

“That stinks. What are you gonna do about it?”

Ryan turned to Tanner, looking incredibly sympathetic but also ridiculous in his Captain Crunch t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Unfortunately for Ryan, there was no one more put together or adult to talk to about this. 

“Nothing. What’s there to do? I don’t want to talk to him about it, because that’ll make it weird for sure.”

“For sure,” Tanner agreed. He took another hit from his bong as he considered Ryan’s predicament, then he lit up. “I know! You should get laid preemptively so you’re not all wound up when he gets here.”

Not a bad idea, except⁠—

“I don’t do hookups in town.” He’d learned years ago that while he was attracted to women, he preferred men. Sleeping with men was…challenging. There wouldn’t be any issues with the Blue Crabs—there never had been before—but he wouldn’t be in Baltimore forever and some clubs were weird about that. Even if he stuck to women, it got messy too close to home. The anonymity of being out of town was the only way he felt comfortable approaching anyone.

Tanner wilted. “Shit, I forgot. Unless you wanna take a road trip up to Philly or⁠—?”

“No. Bad timing.” The only thing worse than being there when Lars showed up was not being there. Plus he had to train; he’d let himself get too lazy over the summer. “Sorry, but thanks for trying.”

“Well…” Tanner floundered for a moment. “You’ve seen him since then, right? It shouldn’t be too bad.”

Ryan grimaced. “Sort of. We’ve crossed paths a few times during games. We’re both centers so sometimes I go against him in the face-off.”

Lars had never spoken to him, so locked into the game that he seemed to be oblivious to the other team. At first Ryan had waited for them to make eye contact and…something. A wink? A shared smile? A joke about Geneva? He hadn’t really thought it through on his end, and kinda hoped Lars would take over. It was a half dozen games before he picked up that Lars legitimately didn’t care who was playing against most of the time. Every face-off, he never took his eyes off the puck.

Probably why Ryan had lost a lot of those face-offs; he’d been too busy staring at Lars.

“And he hasn’t said anything before?”

“Nope.” He let the word pop as it left his mouth. It didn’t do much to make him feel better, but it felt nice.

“That’s great!”

“It is?” Ryan frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“You’re worried it’s gonna be weird, but the guy has already proven he’s chill about it. So no problemo, you just follow his lead. Do the hockey things.”

Tanner Greenwood has attended exactly one hockey game in his life, and that was when Ryan first moved in. Ryan was trying to make a friend and Tanner was attempting to be supportive. Turns out he knew absolutely nothing about hockey, nor did he seem inclined to change that. But he was the biggest Ryan Russell fan outside of his home state of Montana. Ryan appreciated the enthusiasm.

“I’ll do the hockey things,” he said. No specifics needed. “But what if⁠—?”

“No, dude. No what if’s. Just do your thing. You’re both the same hockey thing, right?”

This was actually an issue that Ryan was avoiding at the moment: one more center meant someone got pushed out of the lineup. Probably one of the younger players on a 2-way contract with the AHL farm team, which would suck. There was some hope, since their previous first line center had retired, but still, it put more pressure on Ryan to play well so that he kept his spot on the team over one of their up-and-coming draft picks. Someone equal to Lars’s talent.

When he joined the league, Ryan had been that up-and-comer who’d been overlooked and pushed out; he knew firsthand it was a shitty position to be in.

Instead of explaining any of this to Tanner, he just nodded.

“So you shouldn’t even have to hockey at the same time very much. See! Easy peasy. Worrying for nothing.”

He echoed Ryan’s earlier pep talk, which did help settle his nerves. He didn’t necessarily buy that it would be “easy peasy,” but he had been talked down from doomsday scenarios.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Anytime, bro.” Tanner handed him a controller. “Wanna play?”

Ryan powered it on, ready to let his worries disappear under hours of mind-numbing first-person shooters. “Sure.”

Chapter 3

Lars

Lars didn’t know shit about the Baltimore Blue Crabs.

Yes, he’d played them twice a year every year, but he hadn’t actually paid any attention to them. Most of his time was spent focusing on Western Conference teams he saw all the time and had to compete with for playoff positions. By February, he couldn’t give a shit about the East, not until the Stanley Cup Finals.

Which was an excuse that was fine when he’d been in Portland. It was a shitty excuse now that he’d officially signed off on the trade and was on a flight to Baltimore.

When he’d first been drafted by the Prowlers, he’d spent hours going through the team history and learning the roster so he’d know his teammates before actually meeting them. He’d been a little overzealous about it, but he’d been young and determined to make his mark, to prove he deserved being a first round pick.

To prove to Anders that you could be good and still care about your family.

Now he was simply too mentally worn out to make the effort. He’d flipped through posts on the team’s social media accounts, getting more of a vibe for the club and fanbase than learning anything substantial. He wasn’t ready to put 100% of himself into another team after the way he’d been treated by Mackey. What was the point of all that extra, non-hockey effort when he could be pushed out like he didn’t matter? They wanted him to play hockey and win games, which he was confident he could do without memorizing stats on his future teammates.

Current teammates? Whatever.

When he arrived, he wanted nothing more than to sleep for the next week, but there was a driver waiting out front for him, ready to take him to the team’s facility. Like an idiot, he’d agreed to the suggestion when he’d spoken briefly to Coach Thompkins, and he wasn’t enough of a dick to change his mind now.

He allowed himself a whole thirty seconds of hiding behind a pillar, mentally preparing himself for what he hoped wasn’t a total shitshow, before plastering on his best smile and walking confidently toward the car.

* * *

The Blue Crabs’s facilities were…fine. Not nearly as nice as what he’d had in Portland, but they were clean and well kept even if there weren’t any of the extra bells and whistles he’d kind of assumed were part of any team’s space. He didn’t look around too much, afraid to let even a trace of disappointment curdle in his gut.

A chatty assistant babbled about the upcoming training schedule as she walked him past the rink, the locker rooms, the gym, up some stairs, and through a corridor of offices at the very far end of the building. The walls were lined with photographs, some new and flashy while others had an old, grainy quality that depicted players long gone. The few that pictured the Stanley Cup were among the more weathered photos; Lars tried not to think about that.

“Here we are!” She stopped abruptly at a large oak door with the nameplate Charlie Monroe. She knocked and opened the door without waiting for a response. “Mr. Monroe, Mr. Nilsson’s here.” And then she disappeared before Lars had even gotten a chance to step into the room properly.

“Good to meet you!” Charlie Monroe stood from his desk, grinning widely as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. They shook hands and Lars uncomfortably took a seat across from him. “How are you enjoying Baltimore so far?”

Lars shrugged. He hadn’t seen much on the drive from the airport. “Baltimore” was still an unknown quantity, something he could only vaguely remember from previous visits. 

“It’s fine,” he said, then offered an almost charming smile. If he weren’t so tired, he might’ve been able to put in a bit more effort; as it was, he was happy just to keep his eyes open.

Monroe nodded, thankfully unoffended by his new center’s apparent apathy. “Always an adjustment. We’ve got some people who can help you get settled in, if you need help finding a place or⁠—”

“I have a place,” he said. He’d never stepped into the apartment he’d found online and had all his stuff shipped to. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if his stuff had arrived; like any road trip, all he had was his gear and whatever he could fit in a suitcase. But the place existed and there was hopefully at least his couch there, waiting to give him a place to crash.

“Good,” Monroe said, and then, sensing Lars wasn’t interested in small talk, changed tacks. “We’re still in optional preseason training. Only a few guys here, mostly the North American players.”

If Lars remembered the roster correctly, that was more than half of the Baltimore Blue Crabs. They didn’t have many European-born players, at least not ones they chose to feature on social media posts, and he wondered if that was by design or accident. There certainly weren’t any other Swedes, which only served to make him feel even more isolated. “When am I officially expected to start?”

“Week and a half. I’ll get you the schedule. If you’re up for it, we could get you some interviews with our media team ahead of that.”

He left the offer hanging, and Lars was glad it sounded like an actual offer instead of an order framed like a request.

“I’d rather not,” Lars said. “Obviously, I’ll have to talk to them eventually, but…”

But I haven’t figured out what I’m going to say. How can I explain leaving the team that drafted me? How do I avoid sounding bitter about it? How am I supposed to stomach saving face for that dickhead Mackey?

“That’s fine. No rush. It’d be great to get your face out there in a Blue Crabs jersey, but we’ll let the rumor mill do its work generating interest before we do an official reveal.” Monroe hesitated before casually adding, “Robert told me why he wanted you gone.”

Lars bristled, suddenly more awake. “That fucker,” he growled under his breath.

Monroe held up both hands. “I wanted to be up front with you. I couldn’t understand why I was getting one of the league’s best for such a good deal. I’m an idiot like that, looking a gift horse in the mouth, but I worried there was an injury or drinking problem or something they were trying to hide. Mackey and I go way back. My dad used to work with him in Toronto, so I figured if I asked, he’d tell me the truth.” A pause. “And he did.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Lars said automatically. “I got careless, but I really can keep my personal business out of⁠—”

“You’re right,” Monroe interrupted. “It won’t be a problem, because I don’t care. Granted, I’d prefer it not to be with a member of my staff, but your sexuality is a non-issue here. And I don’t mean in that bullshit ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ kinda way. You wanna be public, then be public and you have our support. You don’t want it to be public, then don’t. I’m not here to micromanage anything my players do, and Coach Thompkins doesn’t care what his players do off the ice so long as they perform on it.”

Embarrassing as it was, Lars’s jaw had dropped and he was openly gaping at Charlie Monroe. The words, the carte blanche to be himself in any capacity he wanted, didn’t compute. Even Team Sweden, who’d loved him for his play and for being his father’s son, had made it clear that he had to keep in line. Drunken flirting and they could look the other way; being openly gay was not an option.

“I don’t…” He swallowed and tried again. “Are any of the other players…?”

“Some current and former players are out among the team, but I don’t think any of them have made any public declaration or anything like that. They know they can, but the league and the public aren’t always as…supportive as they should be.”

Don’t I know it, he thought.

“Well, thank you.” Lars didn’t know what else to say.

“You’re welcome. Wanted to clear the air, make sure we understood each other.”

“I appreciate that,” he said, and he meant it. As humiliating as he thought it’d be to have the incident in Portland known to his new boss, he was glad to know where they stood. More importantly, he was glad he didn’t have to tiptoe around everyone here. “I don’t know what I’ll say about the trade. I don’t want people to know the details, but I feel like I have to make an excuse or lie, and I don’t want to do that either.”

“My advice?” Monroe leaned forward across his desk. “Don’t lie. Say you needed a change of pace, which I think you’ll find is true. You weren’t in a rut by any means, but sometimes a player of your caliber needs a challenge. You won for Portland, and now you can help us win.”

That might work. Frame it as his competitive nature wanting a challenge. And the Blue Crabs were definitely a challenge. They hadn’t won a Cup in some forty-odd years, their one and only win coming within a decade of the team’s founding. They’d come close a few times (maybe…he’d have to double check the team’s history to be sure), but the team had seen some rough times, to put it mildly.

They’d been trash, if he was being honest.

“I’ll do my best to help the team,” Lars said. Because he was feeling charitable to Monroe right now, he added, “But I don’t see a Cup coming this season.”

Monroe stifled a snort. “I’m not expecting miracles, Lars. Making the playoffs would be enough of a change of pace for us. But this might be a discussion to pin until January, maybe late November at the earliest.”

Was Charlie Monroe even real? Lars didn’t think it was possible for a GM to be so laid back, so nonchalant about the team’s chances.

“So you don’t want us to win the Stanley Cup?”

“Make no mistake, I want that damn Cup. I want it each and every year, but I didn’t get where I am by being anything but a realist. This team’s been in a rebuild phase for too long with nothing to show for it. Not bad enough to get high draft picks, not good enough to make the playoffs. I’m telling you this because you seem like the kind of player who can handle it, but there’s pressure on you here. You specifically. I can get some real traction going for us if you do well here, draw in some more talent to help bolster the roster. So you get out there, you score some goals, you win us some games. But I don’t want you to think it’s Stanley Cup or bust. You’re not a failure if you don’t get it this year or next. Keep that in mind.”

“Yes, sir.” He wasn’t sure about the rest of it, but Lars liked knowing there was a spotlight on him. He did his best work when he knew his team trusted and depended on him.

“I know you’re probably beat, but I’d love to give you a tour of the facility.”

Already in a better mood than he’d been in for over a month, Lars gave in. “Sure.”

* * *

Again, Lars was underwhelmed by what he saw. There was nothing bad, it just lacked in small ways. No barista making coffee and protein shakes to order. No ping pong table in the player lounge. No fancy murals of the team winning the Cup.

Well, that last one wasn’t really fair. And he could do something to inspire a change on that front.

They ended at the gym where about a half dozen guys were in the middle of working out. Some were on treadmills, zoned out to the world, while the others were huddled around the squat rack and talking loudly. When they noticed Monroe approaching, their chatter died down.

When they recognized Lars, their jaws dropped.

“Morning, boys!” Monroe said happily. “News hasn’t officially hit yet, but welcome your new teammate. Lars, meet Jonathan, Peter, Morgan, Ryan, and Connor.”

And then they were shaking hands while Lars tried desperately to remember names and faces. Johnny. Pete. Morgan. Brian. Connor. Maybe this was a bad idea—he was too fucking tired for this interpersonal stuff. He needed to make an escape before the treadmill guys realized what was going on and he had more names to deal with.

“Nice to meet you,” he said with a crooked grin that probably went nowhere near his eyes. “Can’t wait to play with you guys this season.”

They shook hands, four of them looking at him in wide-eyed awe. Less so Brian, who looked bored. Lars was used to a lot of different reactions when meeting other players, and honestly the star-struck ones made him the most wary. They didn’t quite view him as a person, with expectations that could only be shattered. It usually didn’t last long if they actually played with Lars, and the hero worship became something more…normal. Easier for Lars to navigate, anyway. He was also used to compliments, used to people seeing him as a challenge, and used to pretty much everything except boredom.

“I’m sure you wanna talk his ear off,” Monroe said as he put a hand on Lars’s shoulder and started steering him back the way they’d come, “but I’m going to need to steal Lars away. There’ll be plenty of time to get to know him when training officially starts.”

The disappointment Lars saw on their faces was in direct contrast to the relief he felt as he was guided out the door. Before he left, he turned back. He didn’t know why, couldn’t explain where the impulse came from, but without meaning to, he stole a glance over his shoulder. Four of them were still looking his way, talking excitedly, and the guys on the treadmill were starting to realize something had happened.

Brian had his back to the door, carefully loading the squat bar and getting ready for a set. It was like he’d forgotten Lars had even been there. Or more likely, didn’t care.

Huh.

Again, a new feeling took root in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know what it was yet, but Monroe was talking and the air was getting colder as they neared the rink. Later, after a nap and a shower and at least two thousand calories of food, he could figure it out.

* * *

The apartment wasn’t bad. The main plus was that his stuff had arrived, the moving company having left most of it in boxes but getting the bigger pieces like his bed and couch in the correct room, if not the best spot. In a few weeks, maybe it’d start to feel like home.

The apartment itself was much like the pictures he’d seen online: a large, open concept living space with the original brickwork visible on one half while sleek, modern lines filled in the rest. Large windows looked over rooftops to give a hint of the bay, but mostly just other expensive apartments and high-end shops. He’d get blackout curtains eventually, but for now it was a good reminder that he wasn’t in Portland.

The kitchen was updated—which Lars appreciated, even if he didn’t plan to use much more than the microwave and fridge until he’d settled in more—and the high ceilings made it feel bigger than it was.

Bigger than his old place, that was for sure.

The lone bedroom was huge, with a massive closet that might actually fit all his awards and mementos, and a seriously nice bathroom that looked incredibly inviting. If he weren’t afraid he’d fall asleep on the wooden bench, he’d take a hot shower and ease some of the tension out of his shoulders. But his bed was calling his name, even if he couldn’t find his sheets and had to settle for wrapping himself in his big down comforter.

When he next opened his eyes, the dwindling afternoon light was gone, replaced with darkness and the glow of streetlights floors below. He pulled the blanket tighter around him and tried to go back to sleep, but the strangeness of the new space wouldn’t let him. With a sigh, he reached blindly for his phone where he’d dumped it on the floor and hoped he could settle himself with some mindless scrolling.

It didn’t work. He ended up on Instagram where the Blue Crabs had posted a vague hint that something big was coming, and he winced. Lars knew better than to read the comments, just like he knew better than to check the Prowlers’ page to see if they’d mentioned his leaving. Instead, he clicked on the Blue Crabs’s page and started looking through it with renewed interest. He had a few names now, and he saw a few of them in the posts from last season. Connor and Morgan were defenseman, it seemed, and Johnny and Pete were young forwards with a few posts about milestones they’d achieved like “first career multi-goal game” and “first overtime goal.”

Brian, though? There were a ton of posts about him. He seemed to be a fan favorite, and Lars could see why. He was definitely attractive, the captions filled with heart eyes and fire emojis that were more than earned. Short brown hair framing coal-dark eyes, a chiseled jaw, kissable lips, and a smile that would make anyone melt. The few videos of him showed he was a decent player (not up to Lars’s caliber, he noted, then rolled his eyes at how snobby that sounded), the type of grinder who could win you those hard fought games you maybe had no business winning. They referred to him as RJ, which okay, weird, but Lars knew plenty of players acquired weird nicknames that they didn’t really have any control over. Some things just stuck.

As Lars stared at the pictures (and there were a lot, more than any other player except the goalie), he couldn’t help but wonder why this guy gave exactly zero shits about Lars joining the team.

Lars’s finger hung over the tag to Brian’s (RJ’s?) personal account, but he drew the line at clicking it. He was already obsessing a dangerous amount, especially when he had zero interest in checking out his other teammates. Hadn’t he just gotten himself unceremoniously kicked off a team for not being able to control himself? No, he’d leave Brian alone and focus on hockey. Shouldn’t be too hard, since it seemed like the guy wanted to do the same.

Pity, though. He was really good looking.

The Blue Crabs Roster

FORWARD LINES

Tomas Novotny #30 | Lars Nilsson #14 | Jake Campbell #25 (C)

Jordon Foster #25 | Ryan Russell #75 | Pierre Lauren #93 (A)

Nikita Ivanov #17 | Ivan Petrovich #65 | Peter Berg #81

Johnny Carr #8 | Cameron Funk #19 | Kyle Fritz #43

DEFENSE LINES

Pavel Vlasic #2 (A) | Dylan Richards

Rupert Swanson #9 | Dmitri Sokolov #52

Morgan Hayes #44 | Connor Carter #12

GOALIES

Vladislav Voronin #33

Logan Stewart #51

Chapter 4

Ryan

Ryan woke up in his bed alone, which was honestly a pretty normal state of affairs for him, but the bed felt strangely empty. For a moment he was thrown, expecting someone to be there and disoriented when there wasn’t. Before he fully regained consciousness, Ryan was thrown back to a hotel room in Switzerland seven years ago.

It hadn’t even been his room, which had made it all the more confusing to wake up and find Lars gone. Not just gone for coffee or breakfast or even a shower, but gone gone: his bags packed and gone, no sign of him except for some crumpled sheets and the musky smell of day-old cologne. Ryan had been fearful enough of getting caught that he understood the rash departure, figuring Team Sweden had an early flight home and Lars had needed to book it. Leaving Ryan to sleep saved them both an awkward goodbye, and it made it easier for their night together to go unnoticed.

In the present day, it was surreal waking up and reliving that long-forgotten moment again. Seeing Lars yesterday must’ve shaken it loose, a suddenly raw wound he’d thought had healed. He didn’t like where that might lead his mental game at the start of the season; he forced himself out of bed so he couldn’t dwell on it.

All things considered, he actually thought his first time seeing Lars again had gone pretty well. He’d said maybe three whole words without stuttering, hadn’t blushed, and had made eye contact. All around a huge win.

…and a relief that Monroe had dragged Lars away before an actual conversation could take place.

Still, it was a confidence boost that Ryan sorely needed. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to having to do it regularly, but knowing he could was important.

It turned out, Ryan had worried for nothing, which became more apparent two days later when Lars joined them for conditioning. He was wearing a Blue Crabs tee that was too big for him (and maybe a little stiff judging by the way he kept pulling at the collar), a Team Sweden hat that earned him some mock boos, and shorts that were definitely short. He looked good, too good, and Ryan began to have doubts. Until Lars actually stopped by to talk to him between sets.

“Hey, Brian!”

Ryan looked around, wondering who Lars was talking to. No one else was at the weight rack and, come to think of it, no one on the team or on staff had a name even close to Brian. Well, no one except…

“Me?” he asked while pulling out his earbuds because nuh uh. That hadn’t just happened.

“Yes.” Lars flashed a smile that made Ryan's stomach flip uncomfortably because he knew that dimple too well. The whole mouth, really, but he was trying very hard to forget that. “Nice to see you again, Brian.”

Okay, he hadn’t misheard. Lars Nilsson actually thought his name was Brian. Considering he’d once very enthusiastically (and loudly) called him Ryan at Juniors, that meant he definitely didn’t remember him.

Ryan didn’t like that. He hadn’t particularly liked when he’d thought Lars would remember him, but this was way worse. Possibly because it took him completely by surprise. It was actually better, given all the worst-case scenarios that would never happen now. But yeah, huge blow to his ego. He might need to go on Injured Reserve.

Maybe Lars just had a really good poker face?

“We’ve met,” he blurted out before he could think better of it, then wanted to smack himself. He was in the clear, what was he doing!?

“Yes,” Lars confirmed. “When Monroe introduced us the other day. You’re a center, right?”

Not a hint of that “we had a one night stand and we’re going to pretend it never happened” energy. God, he really didn’t remember.

“I am,” he said, and then like a weirdo just stopped. Ryan was normally a perfectly functioning human being who could carry on a conversation with a brick wall if need be. He’d had teammates who were shy, teammates who didn’t speak English, teammates who didn’t particularly like him (and ones he hadn’t much cared for, either), and never had any of those stopped him from politely making small talk.

Right now he sounded like a total dick.

Lars, thankfully, seemed blissfully unaware. “I always like to know the other centers, even though we never get to play together. We drive the team, right? Good to be on the same page.”

For sure! would be his normal go to, followed by some bullshit he didn’t necessarily believe about how overlooked their contributions were. Instead, he said, “I guess.”

Finally, Lars seemed to sense Ryan was…well, Ryan didn’t know what he was right then, but it wasn’t a good thing and it wasn’t worth anyone’s time to talk to him. He felt like a computer who was struggling to keep functioning with a million programs open, begging for a reboot so he could maybe process something again.

“Well,” Lars said, taking a step back and hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “I need to get back to it. Look forward to seeing what you can do on the ice.”

“Same,” Ryan managed. That was at least slightly positive, even if his tone sounded like he’d like nothing less. Then Lars actually turned around, and for a whole two seconds, Ryan made the mistake of watching him walk away. Those shorts did wonders for his ass⁠—

Nope.

He tried to fall back into his workout, putting the music all the way up and willing his body to pump enough adrenaline through him that he wouldn’t be able to think. Maybe he went at it a little harder than usual, because soon a trainer came over, tapped him on the shoulder, and told him to take it easy for the rest of the day.

“Can’t have you injured before we start,” she joked.

“Right, sorry.” He was such a mess.

On the mats reserved for stretching, he found Peter Berg sprawled on the ground and scrolling through his phone.

“Hey, Bergsy.” He offered the younger player a fist bump as he sat down next to him and started stretching. “Ready for it to get real?”

“Always,” Peter said. “Unreal getting Nilsson, right? We’re gonna light up the scoreboard.”

Peter was a winger, and while it might be technically possible that he’d be on a line with Lars, Ryan thought it unlikely. He’d mostly gotten bottom-six minutes last year and still hadn’t gotten a look at either Power Play unit. Not that Ryan would be the one to bust his bubble.

“I bet you will.” He paused, relaxing into a quad stretch, before he asked, “Did he remember your name?”

Peter beamed. “He did. Called me Petey and everything.”

Great, so it was just Ryan he couldn’t remember. “You hate being called that,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, but he’s Lars Nilsson. He can call me whatever he wants. Besides, he doesn’t know that.”

Ryan switched legs. He didn’t know why, but he said, “He thinks my name is Brian.”

Peter made a face. “That stinks.” A pause, as he considered Ryan. “You don’t even look like a Brian.”

“Thanks?”

“I wouldn’t let it bother you. No one uses our names but Monroe. He’ll learn you’re RJ ‘round here, and then we won’t have to worry about any random Peteys or Brians.” Peter looked over to consider Lars, who was at the far end of the gym surrounded by three players and a trainer as he did what looked like an impressive amount of weight on the bench press. “He’s also foreign, right? Probably not a lot of Brians or Ryans in Sweden.”

Ryan really appreciated that Peter was taking this seriously. Normally Ryan would laugh it off. Everything Peter said was true, after all. The problem was he and Lars had history, and part of him was pissed it meant absolutely nothing to Lars. Irrational? Probably. Ryan couldn’t claim he remembered the names of everyone he’d slept with, but he was confident he’d recognize them. Maybe.

Ugh.

The rest of the day, Lars’s attention seemed to land on Ryan more often than anyone else. It was weird, turning around and finding Lars in his space offering polite, completely inane comments. He offered to spot Ryan no less than three times and asked for restaurant recommendations, of all things (Ryan couldn’t tell if he’d put together a coherent response to that one; it'd caught him off guard and he only knew restaurants through their delivery), and he never seemed to be far away.

On one hand, Ryan was empathetic—moving to a new team was always hard as you tried to find your place there—but on the other, it was weird. Why had Lars latched onto Ryan specifically? Ryan had gone out of his way to show he had zero interest in conversation with Lars (yes, he was still annoyed about the Juniors thing, sue him), and while it was only the younger guys who were star struck, everyone was obviously more welcoming than Ryan.

He assumed Lars would grow bored of Ryan’s lukewarm sentiment, especially when they got onto the ice. Maybe Lars was making an effort because he’d mistakenly thought Ryan was one of the better players. Ryan knew he looked good in the gym and it might give the impression he was a higher caliber player than he actually was, but once they started doing drills and working on systems, it should become clear he was middle of the pack.

During the drills, he pointedly ignored Lars even when he took a knee next to Ryan during the run through of a new Penalty Kill setup. Whatever Lars’s interest was with him, Ryan couldn’t afford to slack off during practice. He needed to give 100% effort at all times, or if unable to, he had to show he was focused and trying. His mistakes couldn’t look like they were from a lack of commitment to the team but just errors he would work out of his system by the time the season started.

For a couple hours, he lost himself in the game. He’d always been able to slip into hockey and shed his mental burdens. He’d escaped school, his sisters’ drama, his shitty part time jobs that barely covered his gear, his general feelings of inadequacy—all of it had disappeared when he’d hit the ice. And yeah, he’d maybe let it become a coping mechanism whenever he was stressed (which was a bitch of a cycle, given that most of his stress these days was job-related and it was his unfortunate choice of careers to pick hockey), but there was no denying how damn good it felt.

He did well, he thought. Maybe a little rusty with the team play—the clinics he’d attended over the summer were mostly about individual skills with only a few opportunities for scrimmages or mini-games—but he’d pick that back up by the end of the week. Coach Thompkins would probably have some notes for him moving forward; he’d have to remember to ask for some if Thompkins didn’t approach him about it. All in all, a good start, and he was satisfied.

When they stepped off the ice, though, he once again felt the weight of Lars’s gaze. His cheeks heated up and he did his best not to look at him. As much as Lars’s attention had bothered him before, he wasn't ready to face the friendliness becoming indifference as he realized Ryan wasn’t where he should focus his effort.

In the locker room, Ryan rushed to his stall to get undressed and escape this fiasco of a second meeting (okay, fiasco was pushing it, but he still wasn’t happy about it and wanted to go home to wallow a bit). He joked around with his stall neighbors, hoping that by pretending to be normal he would be. When the team playlist was handed to him for his turn, well, there was really only one choice if he was pretending to be his usual self.

“Born in the USA” flooded the room, the Americans jumping up to sing off key and taunt their non-American teammates, which triggered a brief playlist war between the Americans and Canadians. Back and forth they traded songs, complete with loudly shout-singing the choruses at each other until Coach Thompkins interrupted Ryan and Jordan’s terrible rendition of “Party in the USA” to remind them they needed to actually go home and rest or their next practice would be nothing but suicides.

Rosy cheeked and laughing with his buddies, Ryan realized he'd totally forgotten about Lars Nilsson…until the moment he sat back down to take off his shoulder pads and saw Lars eyeing him curiously.

Maybe all the America stuff jogged his memory? He hoped not. Belatedly remembering Ryan would be more awkward, since it would require Ryan to admit he’d never forgotten and knew Lars had.

“See you tomorrow, Brian!” Lars said with a friendly wave as they headed to their cars.

Ryan couldn’t help it, he smiled back. The guy was completely clueless, but at least he was nice. Even if sex with Ryan was so terrible he’d blocked it out, Lars wasn’t a dick like some of the “star” players Ryan had played with. Small win, right?

Lars Nilsson Rocking the Blue

Abigail Cunningham, The Baltimore Sun

With the addition of Star Caliber talent to the roster, are the Blue Crabs expecting to make positive changes to the team?

THE BALTIMORE BLUE CRABS are a beloved part of Baltimore despite being a middling team that hasn’t made the playoffs in over five years. Fans flock to the arena 41 times a year to support the Crabs despite their lack of success, the same way they have since the team first came to the city fifty-two years ago. Baltimore’s love for their hockey team has been unconditional, never demanding more than the occasional win or a good fight.

“We haven’t had a real star since Strohmeier in the ‘80s,” Donald Ehrlich, a lifelong Crabs fan, lamented. “There’s a reason we haven’t gotten the Cup since I was a kid.”

But things might be changing in Baltimore. When trade rumors stated circulated about Lars Nilsson, no one dreamed he’d come to Maryland. Nilsson is a Swedish forward who first drew notice as a teenager playing in the Swedish Hockey League and then for his game winning goal in the World Junior Championship right before he entered the NHL draft. For years, Baltimore fans have dreaded when the Portland Prowlers come to town because of how dominant the team has been with Nilsson on their first line. Just last season, he was tenth overall in points and seventh in goals.

Now Nilsson is officially a Blue Crab.

The move comes as a surprise to Prowlers and Blue Crabs fans alike. There had been no rumbles of dissatisfaction from either Portland or Nilsson, yet the center was spotted by fans at the Baltimore facility wearing a Crabs practice jersey. Official word didn’t hit the news circuit until this morning, shocking the hockey world.

“Sometimes you need a change of pace,” Nilsson told reporters. “I did what I set out to do in Portland, and I want to challenge myself by trying to help another team build that success. I feel like I’ve become complacent the past few years, assuming I’d be in the postseason and not working the way I should be.”

Although he’s continued to be productive, it is true that many have noticed Nilsson has been less creative in his play lately. While it might seem drastic to change coasts, sometimes that’s what a player needs to avoid losing relevance. The concern might be whether Nilsson can be satisfied with a team that doesn’t perform. The Blue Crabs have barely broken .500 the past four seasons; will Nilsson pack his bags again if that trend continues?

Usually these big trades happen in faraway cities and usually to Baltimore’s detriment; it’s almost surreal to have it happen here and in our favor. I, for one, look forward to what Nilsson does for the team. Here’s hoping we make the playoffs behind our new Swede.

Comments: 

rocktheclaw: playoffs?? the crabs are a joke. too bad no one told Nilsson

lowtide5hole: debby downers are almost as bad as all the bandwagon fans we’re gonna gain this season. let people enjoy things

ProwlersPack14: dude’s a traitor. leaves an actual contender for some loser team out east that wouldn’t know what the cup is if it bit them in the a**

CastOCrabs: so excited!!! one of my fav players, huge fan!!

commishjake: his brother is better

lowtide5hole: dude’s a beast can’t wait for the home opener

CrabbyMatty: Damn guess I’m getting a new jersey XD

rocktheclaw: same. already got a tre kronor one for him, psyched to see him in blue and red! sveriges stolthet! 👑👑👑

iheartrj14: Ugh I have to get a new one — did you hear they took 14 and gave it to him?? Wonder if they’ll redo the number on my Russell one for free 

commishjake: you’ll need a new username too 

lowtide5hole: the real question is what number they’ll give Russell — maybe his number from Juniors?

OldBayOlderCrab: Suspicious AF but I’ll take it

(View 51+ more replies)

Chapter 5

Lars

Lars stood in front of the mirror, unsure how he felt seeing himself in the blue and red jersey. He wouldn’t say he missed the Prowler’s purple and silver, but he wasn’t used to the powder blue and maroon combo. He’d worn blue before for Sweden and red for Frölunda, yet the combination and shades rendered his reflection unfamiliar to him. He knew who he’d been on his former teams; who would he be on the Crabs?

Gingerly, he touched the large crab emblem on his chest. He’d always found the logo strange—what do crabs have to do with hockey?—and a tad cartoonish. Almost like something a child would draw. He smiled fondly, remembering when he’d drawn pictures of his dad when he was a kid. He’d gotten pretty good at drawing polar bears, the mascot for the Toronto Terrors. The comparison made him instantly fond of the slightly deformed crab.

After the overly aggressive, werewolf-like creature he’d worn with the Prowlers, he kind of liked this swing in the opposite direction. Maybe this really wasn’t a team that would cast him out for imagined sins.

He tapped the crab once more, then left the small dressing area.

“Looks good on you,” a photographer said. In his experience, photographers always said that and he’d grown numb to the praise. “I’ll just do a few shots for promos and then let you get back to your team.”

“A few” was clearly in the hundreds, because again and again the lights flashed and he was put into different poses with different props. These weren’t his hockey gloves, wasn’t his stick, was barely even his smile as the time stretched on and on. He’d been through this dog and pony show before—he was subjected to some version of it every season—but this time his nerves were less up to the task. He just wanted to play. He wanted to learn this team so he could help make them a contender. He wanted to show the Prowlers what they’d lost.

He wanted to see Brian again.

It was an errant thought, so wholly unexpected that his plastered-on smile faltered and the photographer had to gently remind him they were almost done. Why did he want to see Brian again?

Yes, he was attractive. Like, really attractive. Dark eyes you could fall into, brown hair just long enough you could give it the slightest tug, and the kind of deep voice you knew sounded good moaning your name. So Lars had certainly noticed him and would continue to, but he’d had plenty of attractive teammates before. Even before the situation in Portland, Lars had a rule about fooling around with teammates. Too many ways for things to go poorly. Generally, he didn’t even consider players from other teams as potential hookups because there was always the potential they’d end up on the same team. His attraction to Brian was irrelevant.

It was the way that he ignored Lars that intrigued him.

Lars was used to attention. Ever since he was in Mites, people had been watching his play. As he’d gotten older and moved up, he couldn’t escape the expectations of his coaches and his teammates, who sometimes looked at him with the same sort of rose-tinted glasses that fans did. It’d only gotten more pronounced in the NHL, with players trying to ingratiate themselves to him. Why, he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like Lars made the lines and he honestly didn’t care who was on the ice with him; he trusted them all equally.

Even the ones without an agenda were friendly with him. The other “superstars” didn’t want to create unnecessary drama—there had been plenty of rivalries created and perpetuated by the media—and since Lars himself tried to be polite to everyone (well, except Anders, but he could hardly be faulted for that), that was more or less what he got back. Occasionally there was someone who tried to antagonize him, usually an enforcer or young defenseman on another team trying to make a name for themselves, but Lars was good at ignoring it.

Brian’s outright indifference…that was new. And for no reason Lars could pinpoint, he wanted to make Brian like him. He wanted a real smile and an actual conversation where Brian said more than three words at a time.

What a stupid thing to care about, given his life lately. Maybe he was fixating on this because it was a small, irrelevant obstacle that made the challenge of starting over on a new team seem more manageable. That was it, he decided. It wasn’t even about Brian.

The idea comforted him as he went through the rest of the day. Media days were exhausting. Aside from photos, there were interviews and then more photos, this time in gear and on the ice. Videos, too. He was used to bearing the brunt of it as a “fan favorite” and had more or less learned to dissociate during the never ending parade.

Which became a lot harder when he and Brian were paired together for a lot of the on-ice videos. Lars wasn’t expecting to be with other centers, but he soon gathered that while everyone assumed Lars would be popular, Brian really was an actual favorite in Baltimore. It also put into stark contrast the bubbly way he spoke to the reporters and photographers compared to the disinterested way he spoke to Lars.

“Make sure to get my good side,” Brian said with a flirty wink to the photographer. The male photographer.

He laughed. “All your sides are your good side, RJ. Just ask my wife and daughter. They’re your biggest fans.”

Brian flashed a lopsided grin. “You’re just trying to butter me up so I’ll smile.”

“Honest to god, you’re their favorite. Thanks for those signed pucks last season, by the way.”

“Well, they’re my favorite fans. Don’t think I forgot that peach cobbler your wife made for the team. I’ll sign ten more pucks if it gets me that recipe.”

It went on like that for several more minutes, Lars skating in awkward circles while he waited. Part of him hoped that maybe Brian’s good mood would carry over to Lars, but when they had a chance to talk, nothing. It was left to Lars to ask a hesitant, “Are you looking forward to the preseason?”

Brian looked at him quizzically down his perfect nose before saying, “Sure.”

And that was it.

The only time Brian was “friendly” was when he’d blindside Lars with a completely random question. As they left the ice after the photo shoot, he asked, “Do you like Toblerone?” with a weirdly knowing look. Like he was about to find Lars’s answer equally disappointing and amusing.

Feeling like it was a test—every interaction with Brian felt like a test—he thought carefully before saying, “That Swiss triangle chocolate? Not really. It’s too hard to bite into.”

And yes, there it was. Amused disappointment.

“Why?” Lars quickly asked. “Do you?”

Brian bit his lip adorably. “I like it better fresh,” he said and walked away.

Honestly, what the fuck?

* * *

Unable to leave well enough alone, Lars stewed in his annoyance. It was easier to place the blame on Brian than to wonder why he felt a compulsive need to make Brian like him. He could easily imagine his brother calling him spoiled and narcissistic, which only made things worse. He was not spoiled—he worked hard, dammit—or narcissistic—he had a healthy appreciation of his strengths but recognized his faults. This was a Brian thing, not a Lars thing. It had to be, since Brian was friendly with the coaches and their teammates, the barista and other staff, every other person in the whole damn facility⁠—

He cut himself off before he got too worked up. They were in practice, and Lars needed to focus. While he’d been accepted enthusiastically overall, he still wanted to prove he was worth the hype. During drills, he actually tried instead of going through the motions. When they did edge work with the skating coach, he didn’t even complain. He was a model player, exactly the type he’d been as a kid that made his coaches shower him with praise.

It bothered him a little that Brian matched him, move for move. He was technically better at skating and mechanics, though not as fast or agile and seemed a little less…creative? Confident? There was some intangible difference that Lars couldn’t pinpoint, something that gave him the edge when he and Brian went head to head. It was kinda fun, actually, but after the fifth time he beat Brian outright, he noticed the other forward’s brow furrow in frustration.

Oh.

When they were split into teams for a scrimmage, Lars decided to investigate a sinking suspicion about why Brian didn’t like him.

On the bench, he scooted over to where Jake Campbell—veteran right winter and current captain of the Blue Crabs (inexplicably nicknamed “Soups” by the team)—was chewing his mouthguard and watching their white team fend off a Power Play from team blue.

“Is Brian upset I took his spot on the first line?” he asked.

Jake’s face scrunched in confusion. “You mean RJ? First line?” A slight laugh. “He’s always been second or third. If he doesn’t like you, it’s got nothing to do with hockey.”

Second or third line? Weird. The other options for center that he’d seen were decent players but either young and still developing or old and ready to retire. Brian was a clear standout among them. In fact, everything he’d seen suggested Brian was one of the best players on the team, period. Anyone with eyes and any hockey sense could see it, but this wasn’t the first time he’d encountered casual resistance to the idea that Brian was a capable player.

“Why wasn’t he first line?” Lars asked. He hoped his accent hid his surprise.

Jake shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. RJ’s great. Nicest guy in the world.” Lars ground his teeth. “But he’s…” He paused, apparently couldn’t think of the right word, and gave up. “He’s just not first line material.”

Jake was likely going to be on the top line with Lars, and yes, if he were in Jake’s position, he’d choose himself over Brian, too; that didn’t mean he wasn’t the best option pre-Lars. Why wouldn’t they want Brian on their line?

Lars turned back to the game where Brian—“RJ”, he’d have to get used to that—was weaving in and out of the attacking Power Play unit, killing time more effectively than if he’d dumped it. He then managed to send a stretch pass to one of the other players hoping for a breakaway. On the resulting play, the winger got a decent shot off and the opposing goalie had to cover. It was textbook…and all because Brian was doing what he was supposed to.

Yet their teammates were banging the board and shouting at the winger and goalie for the awesome play. Even Brian, who skated over dutifully for the resulting face-off, fist bumped his winger and patted his shoulder, like the shot on goal was the most impressive part. When the Penalty Kill ended (successfully), Lars jumped the boards and stepped in front of Brian as he returned to the bench. Brian scowled and opened his mouth to say something, but Lars quickly cut him off.

“Nice job on that kill.” He patted Brian’s helmet. “Perfect pass.”

Brian stiffened, almost like he was angry. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. When he tried to move around Lars, Lars physically blocked him off.

“Really. It was a beaut. I see why they trust you on the PK.” He spoke as earnestly as he could, hoping his actual appreciation for Brian’s role on the team might soften the blow of another center in the pecking order.

Brian’s shoulders relaxed minutely. “I’m surprised they don’t have you on the kill.”

Lars’s chest constricted. Was this a real conversation?

“Me?” He laughed. “I’m garbage at defense stuff. They tried it in Portland and I always try to get a shorthanded goal and get my team burned. Can’t turn off the offense long enough. They’d rather go empty net than have me out, I promise.”

I’m not trying to take this from you.

“Oh.” And then, small and shy, he gave Lars a genuine smile. Not as bright and hammed up as he usually flashed, but it reached his eyes all the same.

Lars was wondering how he could keep this going (would he finally satisfy his curiosity enough to move the fuck on from obsessing?) when a whistle blew.

“Nilsson! Get over here!” Thompkins yelled. “Don’t make me give this face-off to Soups.”

“Please don’t,” Jake grumbled loudly, earning laughs from the team.

“Coming.” And then with a final look at Brian, he skated off, letting their shoulders brush as he went.

Chapter 6

Ryan

After the locker room song battle, Ryan got confirmation that Lars 100% didn’t know him. It was actually kind of a relief, because it gave him some piece of control in the situation. He wasn’t the guy who’d had a one night stand with Lars Nilsson after his team had a shitty performance, and he wasn’t the guy whose former hookup was now on his team. He was a guy who knew a secret about his teammate that might help him gain an advantage. The advantage he chose to take? Amusing himself at Lars’s expense.

He hinted at Juniors in little ways, now secure that Lars would never make the connection. Once every few days, he’d slip in a question.

“Is your favorite color gold?”

“No,” Lars said seriously, if not without an adorable furrow between his brows. “I like green.”

Or, “Where did you play before the NHL?”

“I played for Frölunda HC and Team Sweden,” he said with a proud smile, and Ryan had to cut him off before he could direct the question back at him.

And once, boldly, “Have you ever been to Switzerland?”

“Yes! I was in Geneva for a few weeks the last time I played Juniors. Why?” A suspicious, calculating look made Ryan think he’d finally gone too far. He needn’t have worried, because Lars asked, “Are you Swiss?”

When he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing, Ryan wondered if he was being mean. It wasn’t as though it hurt Lars because only Ryan knew what he was doing, but it did wonders to ease his nerves. And he had a lot of anxiety about Lars’s appearance on the team, so he needed what little help he could get.

He decided it was maybe a little mean and he’d stop if anyone else noticed or if he thought it bothered Lars.

Satisfied, he plotted his next few questions and was delighted each time Lars answered as truthfully and obliviously as ever.

* * *

“He’s kind of a loner, isn’t he?”

Ryan looked up. Vorny, their goalie, was eyeing Lars.

Ryan shrugged and went back to untying his skates. Lars had complimented him at practice, which was messing with his equilibrium. Sure, teammates told him he did well, but that was during games, not practice. And it was Lars. There was nothing Lars could do or say to him that he wouldn’t (unfortunately) overanalyze. He wished he was as blissfully unaware of their hookup as Lars, because ugh.

“He’s new,” Ryan said as he wiggled his left foot out of his skate and flexed his toes. “It’s hard being the new guy.”

Ryan was speaking from experience. While Vorny had probably been the new guy on teams at some point, he was going on season five with the team who’d drafted him in the first round and had him playing as the starter most of his rookie year. Being the new guy wasn’t an experience Vorny had contended with in a while.

“I suppose,” Vorny conceded. “Is it true he calls you Brian?”

Ryan did his best not to make a face and tried to force his expression into a lopsided grin instead of whatever his actual reaction was. “Doesn’t he call everyone by their first name?”

“Yes,” Vorny agreed with a hint of disapproval. “I don’t like it. No one says my name right. And your name isn’t Brian.”

Both true—Ryan wouldn’t even attempt to say Vladislav Voronin if he could help it—but he was trying his best to keep his personal feelings about Lars out of the equation when it came to their teammates.

There was a slight pause where Ryan debated the wisdom of speaking versus keeping his damn mouth shut, but in the end, he was too nice not to say it. “Aren’t you guys going out tonight for drinks? Why don’t you invite him?”

Vorny hummed in consideration. “Not a bad idea.” He stood abruptly. “Come with me. We’ll ask him.”

“Me?” Ryan also stood up, but not as a call to action; he had to take off his hockey pants, and he did so with undue concentration. “What’s this gotta do with me?”

“He likes you,” Vorny said, and it was rather unfortunate that it made Ryan blush. It was absolutely not true or Lars would remember him, but he couldn’t exactly say that. Lars had consistently talked to Ryan more than anyone else for whatever reason, so he understood why Vorny would get the wrong impression. “You don’t have to go drinking,” he assured Ryan, misunderstanding his apprehension, “but if you stand next to me when I ask, I think it improves the odds, yes?” And then without waiting for a response, he grabbed Ryan by the arm and marched them over to where Lars was pulling on his shirt.

“Vorny!” Ryan protested. He tried to pull away, but the goalie’s grip was like a vice. He’d have to put his whole body into breaking free, and that would only make it more awkward.

Vorny, of course, ignored him and only let go once they were right in front of Lars, blocking his escape from the locker room. He looked up at them through his lashes, light brown with flecks of blond at the end, and raised an expectant eyebrow.

“We’re going drinking,” Vorny said, Russian accent suddenly ten times thicker. “You will come with us.”

Lars’s gaze darted between them. “Just you two?”

Vorny shook his head. “Whole team.” A pause as Ryan nudged him. He sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “Most of team. RJ doesn’t drink.”

Lars frowned and fixed his attention on Ryan. “Doesn’t drink?”

“Not during the season,” Ryan clarified. They hadn’t technically had any games, but they were well into training and Ryan wouldn’t touch alcohol again until maybe Thanksgiving when his sisters talked him into a few glasses of wine so they could shit talk their parents, aunts, and uncles in the basement den.

“His body is a temple,” Vorny deadpanned, his lips curling as he repeated the running joke. He shot Ryan a disapproving scowl before turning back to Lars. “You will come with us,” he repeated, this time more a threat than an invitation. “We will meet at the Rangoons in Fed Hill at seven. The skate tomorrow morning is optional, so we can drink as much as we like.” A sideways look at Ryan. “Or as little.”

Lars nodded as he considered. “And you’ll both be there?” he asked. He kept his focus on Vorny, who did the same, and Ryan suddenly felt like he was a bargaining chip in some weird poker game.

“If you will be, then he will be,” Vorny agreed.

“I—” Vorny elbowed Ryan before he could finish.

“Then I guess we’ll both be there,” Lars eventually said with a business-like nod.

“Good,” Vorny said, then pointedly shooed Ryan away before he could argue.

“I don’t want to go,” Ryan whined. It wasn’t the socializing—he frequently went out with the guys, both in town and on road trips—or even the drinking. They’d overdo it for sure and tease Ryan for abstaining, but that generally didn’t bother him and he’d long ago accepted that his role on most teams was to babysit drunken teammates who forgot how to order an Uber. He was just…tired. Drained. The amount of energy he put into practice, plus the added mental gymnastics of the Lars situation, had him in Tanner’s apartment most evenings eating takeout and falling asleep to the sound of video games.

“And yet you will,” Vorny said. He patted Ryan’s shoulder and walked away. Ryan had no way to back out without looking like a weasel. Great.

He caught a glimpse of Lars leaving the locker room, blond hair a damp mess from his shower. Once out of sight, Ryan vividly recalled the younger Lars he'd met at a hotel bar. His hair wasn’t long anymore, and all of the baby fat had melted away, but he hadn’t quite escaped the boyish twinkle to his eye. Heart suddenly in his throat, Ryan resigned himself to going to Rangoons.

* * *

Ryan sipped his soda and watched Vorny and the Ivans (Nikita Ivanov and Ivan Petrovich, forwards on the same line that also seemed to come as a duo off the ice) at the pinball machine. All three held the top scores, their places marked by their last initial and jersey number. Well, usually they had the whole leaderboard. Tonight they’d come into the back room reserved for the team and found, to their dismay, that three of the top ten places now belonged to a mysterious ASS. They’d be there all night until they reclaimed the spots. Even if it meant bribing the owner into manually resetting the machine.

Vorny was cursing in Russian as the other two nudged the machine to tilt it to help him when a large figure sidled up to Ryan.

“What are you wearing?”

Ryan turned and found himself almost nose to nose with Lars. Ryan tensed and wished he were a pinball nerd so that he wouldn’t be alone with Lars. This wasn’t a rink; he couldn’t hide behind hockey here.

“Huh?” he asked a little too gruffly.

“That.” Lars pointed to his chest. “What is that?”

He got lost in Nordic blue eyes before he snapped himself out of it and looked down. He was wearing a light blue Hawaiian shirt with a crab pattern; his hands clenched fistfuls of the fabric under the table.

“Oh. I’ve got a bunch of crab-themed clothes. This is my favorite,” he said, surprising them both with his honest answer and even more when he expanded with a self-deprecating, “I don’t know what I’ll do with it all if they trade me.”

“Why would they trade you?” Lars asked, way too serious. If he hadn’t figured out by now that Ryan was a nobody on the team, Ryan didn’t really want to get into it now.

“Did you find this place okay?” He expected some push back from the subject change, but Lars either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“It’s close enough to my apartment that I walked here.”

That didn’t surprise him. Rangoons was a high end sports bar in a swanky part of town. Of course Lars would’ve picked a place nearby. A couple other guys from the team were within walking distance, mostly the younger ones with no families and healthy contracts.

“The hostess nearly fainted when she saw me,” Lars said with a pleased little smirk. “Hard to find a real sports bar where they recognize players.”

“Yeah,” he said. And then because he felt like an ass for stopping there, he added, “They play every Baltimore sports game here. You should see them during football season.”

“Portland doesn’t have football. Will I have to learn?”

Ryan snorted. “No.” Just this morning, that was where he would’ve stopped; when he just kept going, he wondered if someone had spiked his soda. “You don’t have to, but it’ll impress the fans if you mention literally anything about the other teams.” He spotted their server coming over, his eyes wide and eager as he zeroed in on Lars. “You gonna get a strawberry daiquiri?” he blurted out.

Lars perked up. “Do they have those?”

“No,” Ryan said as their server arrived. “Lots of beer, though. Like, lots.”

“One hundred different beers on tap,” the server confirmed. He looked like he wanted to ask Lars for his autograph, but didn’t. That was one thing the Rangoons had going for them over other places in town: the staff never treated them any differently than other patrons. “Need a recommendation?”

“Something light,” Lars said dismissively, his eyes never leaving Ryan.

“And three orders of rangoons,” Ryan added. It was his one cheat food, and they were delicious. He’d ordered knowing the smell would attract Vorny and the others, who would then steal most of them.

Once they were gone, Lars asked, “I thought rangoon was just the name of the bar.”

“It’s also a dish. Crab rangoons. Fried crab and cream cheese. You’ll love ‘em. It’s their specialty. Plus, y’know.” He gestured between his shirt, the two of them, and their teammates.

“Names are hard,” he said slowly. “Things aren’t like that in Sweden. Or maybe I don’t know English well enough to understand them. Like Jake. Why does everyone call him Soups? Does he really like soup? Or is he like Superman or something?”

Ryan stifled a laugh and pulled out his phone. “Like the soup,” he said as he held up an image of a Campbell’s Soup can. “Campbell.”

Lars’s eyes went wide. “I’ve seen that.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed, though he had no idea. “That’s more a cultural thing. Your English is great.” Better than it was seven years ago.

“Better than it was when I started,” Lars echoed his thought. “Being in the States helps, but I still need help.” The server returned with Lars’s beer and another soda for Ryan, and a quiet settled between them as they sipped tentatively at their drinks. Ryan considered whether he should make an excuse to go home or disappear to the main bar for a bit until more people arrived, when Lars asked, “Why does the team call you RJ?”

Ryan had the weird impulse to lie. As much as it had annoyed him (read: pissed him off) that Lars didn’t remember him and couldn’t even get his name right, he kind of enjoyed that Lars called him Brian. He didn’t like that he liked it, because it either meant he enjoyed an excuse to feel superior to Lars or he liked the weird flutter it caused in his chest whenever Lars said it. He never wanted to figure out which it was, so it was probably for the best he just got this over with.

“Because those are my initials.”

Lars frowned, this adorable pinch between his eyes. “Initials? What does it stand for?”

“Ryan Junior.”

“Ryan?” Lars’s head jerked back like he’d been slapped, his cheeks coloring the same rosy tinge as when he went all out at practice and was breathless from exertion. 

Ryan nodded grimly.

Lars buried his face in his hands and moaned. “I’ve been calling you Brian like a jubelidiot.” He peeked through his fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I…” That was complicated. Ryan wondered how much to share when Lars abruptly sat up straight and sighed.

“No, I understand. You’re too nice and didn’t want to embarrass me.” He reached across the table top and squeezed Ryan’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

And he looked genuinely sorry. Embarrassed, too. He stared at Ryan earnestly, like everything hinged upon Ryan forgiving him for what was an honest mistake (and admittedly a common one—it wasn’t the first time someone had called him Brian).

Ryan sat there, jaw dropping, because what? People like Lars Nilsson didn’t apologize to people like Ryan. Or if they did, they didn’t really care if they were forgiven.

“It’s okay,” Ryan assured him and actually meant it.

“It’s not, but thank you.” Lars removed his hand, leaving Ryan’s shoulder feeling cold and bare. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You don’t have to—” The server stopped by and dropped off three platters of crab rangoons. Ryan took one and pointed with his chin that Lars should do the same. “They’re better warm and you gotta be quick or⁠—”

“Food!”

Vorny, the Ivans, and two other teammates Ryan hadn’t noticed rushed the table. Lars quickly grabbed two and held them close to his chest protectively as the rest disappeared far too quickly. With the growing crowd, Ryan was able to lose the weight of Lars’s attention. He even escaped to play darts while Lars stayed at the table, and Ryan managed to keep his distance the rest of the evening. They didn’t say another word to each other, but occasionally their eyes would lock across the room and every time, Ryan could hear the promise as clearly as he had the first time.

I’ll make it up to you.

Instagram: Team Favorites

[Transcript from an Instagram Reel featured on @bmorebluecrabsnhl. During the reel, players are walking from the locker rooms towards the practice rink. They’re stopped at the door to the ice, a microphone appearing from off screen.]

Caption: It’s that time of year! The preseason has started and your Blue Crabs are hard at work. Today at practice, we asked them some very important questions 🦀🦀🦀 #crabcrew

Narrator: What’s your favorite color?

Jake Campbell, Right Wing and Team Captain: Blue.

Pierre Laurent, Right Wing and Alternate Captain: Blue.

Pavel Vlasic, Defenseman and Alternate Captain: Red.

Lars Nilsson, Center: Green.

Vladislav Voronin, Goalie: Blue.

RJ Russell, Center: Uhm…

Narrator: Do you need me to repeat the question?

RJ Russell, laughing: No, it’s just…this is a lowball question and I’m going to be the annoying guy who says I don’t have one.

Narrator, also laughing: Yeah, it’s only worse from here.

RJ Russell: Do I have to pick one?

Narrator: Yes!

RJ Russell: Uh…what’s everyone else saying?

Narrator: I can’t tell you that!

RJ Russell: They’re saying blue, aren’t they? Boring, man. I’ll go with…red.

[The video shows a summary of the players’ answers next to an image of their face, then starts over with a new question.]

Narrator: What’s your favorite sport that isn’t hockey?

Jake Campbell: Football.

Pierre Laurent: Baseball.

Pavel Vlasic: Soccer.

Lars Nilsson: Soccer.

Vladislav Voronin: Soccer.

RJ Russell: Like to play or to watch?

Narrator, laughing: Either.

RJ Russell: I like to watch football but I’d rather play basketball.

[Another summary screen before the process starts again.]

Narrator: What’s your favorite seafood?

Jake Campbell: Crab.

Pierre Laurent: Sushi.

Pavel Vlasic: Crab cakes.

Lars Nilsson: Crawfish. They’re my favorite. Anything with crawfish.

Vladislav Voronin: Pozharsky.

RJ Russell, pointing at the camera: Crab rangoons.

[Another summary screen, then the final round of questions.]

Narrator: What’s your favorite animal?

Jake Campbell: Dog.

Pierre Laurent: Dog.

Pavel Vlasic: Dog.

Lars Nilsson: I’ve always liked cats. We had a pet cat when I was a kid but…but never anything else.

Vladislav Voronin: Lion.

RJ Russell: This feels a little bit like a cruel question after that last one. Like I’m supposed to say crabs, right? But I just said I like to eat crabs, so I just…I feel a little set up.

Narrator: Like you trusted me⁠—

RJ Russell: Yeah, I trusted you, and you just pulled the rug out from under me. But I’ll go crabs. Gotta respect the claw.

[A final summary page that fades into a Blue Crabs logo.]

Chapter 7

Lars

When his phone buzzed, Lars didn’t even look at the name as he picked up. It was 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning; only one person would be calling him.

“God Morgan, Mormor.” He turned on speakerphone so he could continue mixing his oatmeal. Brown sugar or jam today? Both. Always both.

“Why haven’t you played yet? I want to see you play with this new team.”

“It’s the preseason,” he said patiently. “I haven’t played a full preseason since I was a rookie. I’ll play at the end, I promise.”

She grumbled unintelligibly while he scooped a spoonful of strawberry jam into his bowl. They both knew she knew this, but it was part of the ritual they went through each September. It was her way of leading into whatever she really wanted to say about the team or the league or his upcoming schedule.

“These Blue Crabs don’t have a good record. I don’t know why you picked them. Anders says ego but Amanda thinks it’s the money. Is it good money?”

“It is.” It was actually the same money, since the Crabs had merely absorbed his contract, but that wasn’t relevant. He stirred in two giant spoonfuls of brown sugar more aggressively than necessary as he imagined punching Anders’s stupid face. “It brings me closer to you,” he deflected.

“And your brother, so I know it’s not that.” Then mercifully, she returned to her earlier thoughts. “I watched them play Toronto. Your Crabs didn’t do so bad. They don’t score enough. They should play you.”

“They will.”

“The young players, they are too fancy. They need to settle down.”

“Most won’t be in the lineup in October. They’re being fancy on purpose. They’ll play better when it matters.”

“Every game matters,” she scoffed. “There are some good players, though. The goalie will steal you three games at least. Your defense is good but they will not help you score.”

“Not all defensemen like to play risky,” Lars muttered under his breath.

“Anders is not a bad defenseman because he gets goals. His team likes it. Not everyone plays defense like your father did. The Prowlers relied on the defense scoring, and I’m worried you’re used to that. You’ll have to be mindful of how your style fits into this team, Lillen.”

“I know, I know. It’s coming together in practice.”

She hummed in approval. “Good. I don’t want to see you struggle on a bad team just for more money. I know you, it would frustrate you.”

It probably would. He’d left teams as a kid because of it, though maybe now that he was older⁠—

The idea of never lifting the Cup again made him grind his teeth. No, he hadn’t grown out of it.

“That Russell,” his grandma said, “he’s a good one, too. He and the goalie are the best so far. Make sure they don’t get sick or injured.”

Lars’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, remembering how much of a jackass he’d been.

Of course Ryan hadn’t said anything about Lars getting his name wrong for two solid weeks. Ryan was a people-pleaser, compulsively nice to a fault. Lars had thought Ryan didn’t like him, that he was an exception to Ryan’s good cheer, but it was actually just Lars being an idiot, calling him the wrong name over and over, and Ryan was too damn nice to say anything and too uncomfortable to be his usual bubbly self.

But they’d cleared the air, had an actual conversation where Lars didn’t feel like Ryan was secretly judging him, and now he could put his strange fixation with Ryan behind him.

Except since Rangoons, he’d been no less drawn to Ryan that he’d been to Brian. Lars still spent too much effort trying to talk to him, especially now that Ryan would give him actual responses instead of one word answers.

“Yes, Ryan is pretty good.” A pause, questions and concerns bubbling up inside him that he’d been ignoring for nearly a month now. “Is he one of the best on the team?”

“Of course,” his grandma said immediately. “Only you and the goalie are better. He’s not as fast as you, but he looks stronger. And he’s not as fancy, which suits him better. If they don’t make you play, why do they make him play?”

So it wasn’t Lars seeing something that wasn’t there. His grandma hadn’t grown up watching hockey, not even when her daughter had married star defenseman Mats Nilsson, but she’d taken to the sport like it was her job once he and Anders started playing. She kept up with the league and would often talk to Lars about his team and how she thought he was playing. Often she’d spotted some of his injuries before the press, like when he’d played through a sprain in the playoffs three years ago, because she had a good eye.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was her lillen. She probably noticed if he played with a cold.

But the fact that she’d spotted talent in Ryan when the rest of the Blue Crabs—Ryan included—seemed dismissive of his skill meant something, right?

“They don’t seem to think he’s very good,” Lars admitted. “I don’t understand it.”

His grandma was quiet as she considered. “I haven’t paid much attention to him before,” she admitted. “You both have played against him, so if he didn’t make an impression before…” She trailed off and he could imagine her shrugging. “Your team might know something you don’t about him.”

Or maybe they don’t see him clearly, he thought to himself. To his surprise, he actually voiced it and with more annoyance than he’d expected.

“Ha!” his grandma laughed. “You like him. Now I understand. You’re worried you don’t see him clearly.”

He didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know exactly what she meant. “I don’t like him, Mormor,” Lars protested. “He’s a teammate. I can’t like teammates.”

“You can like them, you just shouldn’t pursue them,” she corrected. “Even if he is very handsome.”

“Mormor…”

“You can be friends, though. It would be good for you.”

Lars rolled his eyes and took a big bite of his oatmeal, smacking his lips loudly, to buy himself some time to think. This was an old argument. Most of Lars’s friends were ones he’d made years ago in Sweden from playing together. They were still close, but the friendships were maintained through texts and summer visits. Each season he’d play against a few of them, and that might involve a dinner here and there, but his regular, in-person friendships were…lacking.

He’d had friends on the Prowlers, sort of. Guys he hung out with, like he had with the Blue Crabs at Rangoons, but often it had felt forced. Still, he would’ve gladly talked with any of his old teammates. He was confident they didn’t want to talk to him anymore. After news had gotten out about the trade—released by the media or maybe the coach had told them, Lars had no idea, except that he hadn’t said it—he’d gotten a string of calls he ignored and texts that amounted to variations of “what the fuck.” He’d offered generic apologies with no explanation, and soon the messages had grown sparse. He was unceremoniously removed from the group chat, and that was that.

Undeterred by his silence, she went on. “He would be a good friend. Good players who are underrated, they are hard workers.”

“So he’d be a good influence? I’m not twelve anymore.”

“Are you sure? I see how long your hair’s gotten over the summer. You wore it that way when you were a boy. You need a trim.”

He ran a hand through his hair self-consciously. It was getting a little long, admittedly, but more from neglect than style. “Get a friend. Get a haircut. You have any more advice for me?”

“Get another Cup.” When he laughed, she waited patiently until he’d stopped before she asked, “When do you come to Cincinnati? Amanda said you would come two times during the season instead of one.”

“Not until late October, then again in March, I think.” Lars always took a perverse sort of enjoyment in playing against his brother. He usually played well against Anders, and as a plus he got to see Mormor, Amanda, and the kids. It also left him emotionally and physically drained to put so much of himself into a single game, especially when it was an otherwise completely unremarkable, unimportant game. His teammates on the Prowlers often tried to rile him up more beforehand, which had helped fuel his competitive side…and led to him being way too upset if they lost.

“Hmm, still far away. I’m glad I won’t have to stay up late to watch your games anymore, though. I don’t know why this country needs so many time zones.”

“How are the Otters doing? Have you watched any of Anders’s practices?”

“I don’t tell him what you tell me about your team. I won’t share secrets,” she chided with amusement. “But Anders looks good. I was worried he would want to retire soon, and I don’t know what he’ll do with himself when he does.”

Seven years older, Anders was thirty-two and definitely nearing retirement age. His contract went through the rest of this season and then another two, though Lars suspected he wouldn’t look elsewhere if the Otters didn’t re-sign him; the family was too well settled in Ohio. He also agreed with his grandma: what were the Nilsson men without hockey? Their dad had worried about it, he knew; he just hadn’t gotten far enough to need to figure it out.

“Maybe he’ll coach,” Lars said without much interest. He didn’t much care what Anders did, except that he secretly did, if only because he’d miss their rivalry games.

“The children don’t want to play. He doesn’t want to commentate.”

“He’s boring, anyway.”

She heaved a loud, long suffering sigh. “I feel sorry for you, Lasse. When you realize how mean you have been to your poor brother, you’ll feel terrible.”

Like he hadn’t heard that before. He was pretty sure he was immune to feeling bad for Anders and always would be, but he understood why it upset her so he changed topics. “Did you enter any fantasy hockey leagues this season?”

“Yes, with my cousins. They’ve made some terrible picks,” she said with pure delight, and then explained in detail which of his distant relatives had chosen which of his distant colleagues and how his grandma had contrived to have both Anders and Lars on her team. “And I got that Russell,” she said conspiratorially. “They won’t see him coming.”

Chapter 8

Ryan

The last preseason game was out of town, though luckily only a bus drive up to Philly. Ryan knew better than to care about the team’s record or even the score of individual preseason games, focusing instead on his own play. He’d shaken off the summer rust and was doing pretty well with his face-off percentages. Granted, he wouldn’t know for sure how he was doing until he was playing against regular rosters.

This last one though…it was rough. Philly was a very big, physical team and they took every opportunity they could to lay into the Crabs. Ryan got boarded twice and narrowly dodged a high stick in the face-off. It didn’t help that he scored in the third, earning him a slash to the back of the leg from the goalie.

“I already scored,” he muttered under his breath as the ref argued with the other team’s captain about who was serving the penalty. “What’s the point?”

Except to be a dick. As usual, he kept that part to himself. He might not like Philly or their goalie, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility of playing there. He liked to stay on friendly terms with everyone he could, just in case.

The goalie heard him and came out of the crease to sneer. “To make sure you think twice next time.”

“Next time’s about to be in about ten seconds,” Lars said as he skated over, fresh from the bench. This was only his second game in a Blue Crabs jersey, and he admittedly looked good with the powder blue shoulders of their away jerseys bringing out his eyes. It also didn’t hurt that he was brimming with confidence. He hadn’t scored yet this game (or at all as a Crab), but he was leading the team in shots and shot attempts. And he’d pulled off a between-the-legs move that had made even the Philly fans oooh and aaah before booing.

Undaunted, the goalie rounded on him. “Go back to the west, Nilsson.”

“Why would I want to do that? The goalies here, so much easier to score on. I’ll get the Rocket this year for sure. No wonder I only got it twice before.”

“You— you little— you haven’t even scored⁠—”

Lars pointed at the scoreboard. “Ten seconds after puck drop. Count it.” Then he winked.

The goalie went red and drifted forward until one of his teammates put himself between the two and started whispering in French to him. Freed from having to deal with a pissed-off goaltender, Ryan started to head off the ice; Lars tapped him with the blade of his stick.

“You okay? Looked like that hurt.”

“Huh?” Oh right, the slash. “It’s fine,” he said dismissively. It wasn’t. The goalie had gotten him right where he didn’t have any pads. He’d have a hell of a bruise tomorrow if he didn’t already, but what was the point of telling Lars that?

Lars looked at him skeptically. Normally Ryan would be gone by now, teammate reassured and job temporarily done, but he lingered, unsure why. They stood there, saying nothing until finally a pair of teenagers with shovels skated by and the ref whistled for everyone to line up. Embarrassed, Ryan rushed back to the bench and accepted congrats for drawing a penalty. No one else asked if he was okay, he noted.

On the resulting Power Play, Lars was both wrong and right. Ryan tried not to count down ten seconds, because no one was that good, but he couldn’t help it.

1 second.

Lars won the puck straight back to Pavel and they set up. 

2 seconds.

Back down to Lars who’d moved to the boards. 

3 seconds. 4 seconds.

He stickhandled it away from an attacking player and read his options.

5 seconds.

He faked a shot then passed to Jordy Foster at the point.

6 seconds.

Jordy passed it back to him.

7 seconds.

He took the shot.

8 seconds.

The goalie stopped it but couldn’t control the rebound.

9 seconds.

Jake was up front scrambling for the loose puck in the crease. Lars rushed in to help⁠—

It hit the back of the net at exactly ten seconds after the drop, though it was Jake who officially got the goal. Still, Ryan buzzed with excitement as Lars waved a scolding finger at the goalie and skated over to join the others for a line of high fives.

“Got you a goal,” he said a few minutes later when he sat down next to Ryan.

“You didn’t even score that. That was Soups. You can’t count that.” He blushed despite himself. He might be over Lars forgetting him and getting his name wrong, but he sure as hell didn’t want to be drawn in by his charm again. Fool him once and all that.

“Yes, I can.” And darn it, Lars’s smile really was charming. “It went exactly as planned, and as the mastermind behind that plan, I deserve some credit. Don’t you think they learned a lesson about slashing you?”

“Probably,” Ryan admitted. He bit his lip to try and stop himself from saying anything else. It’d been so easy before when he actually had been annoyed with Lars; now he couldn’t seem to shut himself up. As if on cue: “Thanks for defending my honor, then. But if you’re looking to make up for messing up my name for several weeks” —Lars visibly deflated— “then that’s not gonna cut it.”

“We got five minutes left, people!” Coach Thompkins shouted so loudly Ryan jumped. He turned his attention to their coach to see him glaring at the other team’s bench. “Let’s close out this win and go home. Don’t get sloppy. The only thing I hate more than overtime is fucking preseason overtime.”

When Ryan turned back, he expected their conversation to be over. After all, it was joking around with a teammate on the bench to pass the time between shifts. Instead, he found Lars with a look of grim determination.

“I’m working on it,” Lars said. “I’ll figure something out.”

Suddenly uncomfortable with the weight of Lars’s gaze, Ryan squirmed. “Well, if you can get the Crabs to the playoffs, that’d be a good start.”

It was a joke. Obviously he was joking. Bruised ego aside, Lars didn’t owe him anything. Ryan was 100% over the name thing (and would never bring up the Juniors thing because yikes). It was just words he said to be funny and make Lars relax again.

“Deal.” Lars took off his glove and held out his hand expectantly.

Ryan stared at his hand like it was dripping toxic waste. “Huh?”

“The Crabs make the playoffs this year and you forgive me.” He wiggled his fingers. “Deal?”

“You can’t be serious⁠—”

“I have to go on the ice in about three seconds, so please shake my hand.”

Ryan hesitated but then figured what the hell. He shook off his glove and shook Lars’s hand, warm and clammy and strong. “Deal. If the Crabs make the playoffs, I’ll forgive you for everything,”

If Lars picked up on the weight behind that “for everything,” he didn’t comment. He didn’t have time to: they barely had time to shake hands before Cameron “Funksy” Funk jumped onto the bench and it was Lars’s turn to head to the ice one last time. Ryan watched him skate off, stuffing his hand back into his glove so he could forget what Lars’s hand in his had felt like. He’d forgotten it once before, after all. He could do it again.

* * *

“You scored a goal, bro!” Tanner wrapped Ryan in a big hug, making Ryan wince; he’d managed to hit every single bruise Ryan had gained in Philly. Maybe even created a few more. He pulled away and gave a feather light punch to Ryan’s shoulder. “Nice job.”

Ryan allowed himself a little swell of pride. It was nice to get the tally, even if it had earned him a slash and wouldn’t even count in his overall point total. Scoring just…felt good, plain and simple. Always had. It was enough to push him through all the other crap that came with playing at this level (or any level, really).

“Thanks,” he said. “Did you watch the highlights?”

Tanner didn’t watch games, but he’d set up alerts on his phone to tell him whenever Ryan scored. Sometimes he watched the highlights or game summaries, or listened to podcast excerpts that talked about it; more often, though, he asked Ryan to tell him about it instead. Ryan knew perfectly well that his renditions were basically meaningless to Tanner, but he liked that Tanner listened attentively and with enough enthusiasm that it didn’t matter that he had no idea what it meant to deke or backhand or to do a wraparound.

“I did!” he said with a pleased grin as he pulled Ryan into the apartment and kicked the door shut. “Beer? I know, I know, you’ve got hockey, but I picked up some non-alcoholic stuff that I thought maybe you’d like.”

“Oh,” he said, touched. “Sure.”

Tanner put an ice-cold, fake beer into his hands as they settled onto the sectional. Ryan didn’t think anything of it when Tanner pulled up the game vs Philly instead of a video game and started scrolling to Ryan’s goal in the third. They’d done this a few times when the descriptions of what Ryan did were confusing or when Tanner didn’t understand what had gotten the announcers so worked up. Ryan easily fell into explaining what he’d done once Tanner hit play, and he only realized the trap he’d fallen into after the video kept going.

Ryan watched with growing embarrassment as Lars trash talked the goalie, watched Lars check on him, watched Lars point to the bench after Jake scored, and, worst of all, he watched as the camera showed them talking and shaking hands on the bench. Okay, no, the worst part was listening to Blue Crabs commentators Zach Martin and Mickey “McHockey” Hoack speculate about him and Lars.

“He promised him a goal after that slash,” McHockey was saying with his thick Canadian accent. “No doubt about it.”

“Not often you see centers buddy up like that,” Martin said. “Right? Usually you do that for your winger or your D, not —”

“You do it for any teammate, any time,” McHockey said with a harrumph. He’d played for the Crabs in the ‘80s shortly after the team was founded. He’d been drafted by them, played ten seasons, and then never felt the need to leave Baltimore. “It’s a good sign, seeing Big Nilly bonding with the new team.”

No one on the team called Lars “Big Nilly,” but McHockey was creative with nicknames. Not all of them stuck among the players, but fans liked them.

“RJ is pretty outgoing,” Martin said. Since he often did intermission interviews with the players, he knew what they were actually called. “No surprise that he’d be one of the first to make friends. Some of the younger players I’m sure are a little starstruck.”

Again, McHockey scoffed. “Of course they respect Nilly. He’s a great player and a great addition to the team. It’d be great if he took Junior” —McHockey’s awful name for Ryan— “under his wing. He could really help him live up to his potential.”

“RJ is a consistent producer,” Martin said diplomatically; Ryan winced at the polite way he avoided saying he disagreed and that Ryan had already maxed out his potential.

“See, look at that camaraderie on the bench. Nilly could really help Junior up his game, use all his experience to⁠—”

“I believe RJ is actually older. And has played for more teams.”

“Well,” McHockey said dismissively, “Big Nilly will help ‘im bring his game to the next level. This is the duo this team needs.”

Lars and Ryan shook hands, Ryan with a stupidly dreamy expression as Lars skated off. Mercifully the cameras followed Lars, the actual star, and Ryan disappeared from frame.

Tanner paused the game and turned a terribly hidden grin to Ryan. “So how’s it going with your old flame?”

Ryan took a swig of his beer and wished it did have alcohol. There was a reason he’d avoided talking to Tanner about Lars, and he didn’t like that the scene they’d watched made it seem like they were more buddy-buddy than they were.

“It’s not like that,” he said.

Tanner raised his hands defensively. “Like what? I didn’t say it was like anything.”

“Old flame…it’s not…we didn’t…I mean, we did, but…” Ryan buried his face in his hands and groaned. He liked it better when he was the only one who knew about this. Why had he ever opened his stupid mouth and told Tanner he’d slept with Lars? “He doesn’t remember,” he said into his palms, the words trapped there with him.

“Doesn’t remember? Remember what?” When Ryan dropped his arms and raised his eyebrows, Tanner gasped. “He doesn’t remember you?”

Ryan shook his head. “Like he’d never seen me before. He actually called me Brian for like three weeks before I got around to correcting him.”

“Bro,” Tanner scolded. “I know you’re not good at sticking up for yourself⁠—”

“I am!”

“You’re not.”

“I guess I don’t⁠—”

“See! You just gave in! I mean, I am right, but c’mon. Anyway, a teammate getting your name wrong for even a minute is 100% a time you can correct them. You let that shit go on for three weeks?”

Ryan shrugged. He didn’t have an excuse for that one. It was honestly a small grievance in the grand scheme of things, and he knew it wasn’t because Lars didn’t care. Lars had gone out of his way to show that he didn’t think Ryan was unworthy of knowing or anything. It’d been a genuine mistake.

“Wait, I’m confused.” Tanner looked back to the TV screen. “If you two aren’t rekindling an old fling, then what the fuck was all that?”

“Uhhh…nothing?” Admittedly, there was something going on. He didn’t understand it, but Lars had latched onto him in a way he hadn’t with anyone else on the team. Despite the unfortunate Juniors incident (non-incident?), Ryan did like talking to Lars. But he was fairly certain there was nothing romantic or sexual going on. He’d seen Lars in action, and knew he was forward when he was into someone. Even if he’d learned to be discreet, the energy was wrong.

“Nothing?” Tanner asked skeptically.

“I think he needs a friend,” Ryan said. “He’s new to the team and that hasn’t happened to him in seven years. We’re the same age, we play the same position, and I happened to be there the first time he met anyone on the team.”

“So he imprinted on you and you’re the one stuck with the awkward sorta-ex wanting to be your bestie?”

“It’s not that awkward.” Saying it out loud, he realized it was true. It had been weird and uncomfortable, but Ryan hadn’t felt that around Lars in a while. “It’s kinda nice, actually. Like…” He struggled to pin it down, knowing Tanner would wait while he figured it out. “No one else on any team I’ve played with has ever taken an interest in me. Like, as a person. It’s not like they exclude me or are rude or anything, but they are specifically interested in hanging out because we’re teammates. Once I leave, we’ll talk when we play against each other, but the connection is hockey.”

“But Lars sees you,” Tanner said knowingly. “And he likes you.”

For now. Maybe once they got into the regular season, Lars would see him framed by hockey like everyone else.

Ryan grabbed his beer from the coffee table and drank it aggressively so he wouldn’t have to answer.

“It’ll be good for you to have someone you don’t have to perform for,” Tanner said. He switched the TV back to his Xbox. “Wanna play Fortnite? I ordered from that burger place you like.”

He hated when Tanner did that. Said something insightful that shook up Ryan’s bullshit, then let it go just as easily as Ryan could choose whether or not he cared to deal with it. Normally he opted not to, but the information would sit in the back of his head for months, begging for acknowledgement.

“Sure. I don’t have practice tomorrow. I can play for a bit.”

Tanner was already loading the game. “No practice? You should text Lars and hang out.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Okay, but you should. You could invite him over here and we could play. Do you think he smokes weed?”

“I have no idea. And no way. I can’t bring him around you when you’re high.”

“I could be not-high.”

“Could you, though?”

Tanner made a face. “Yeah, good call. Turn on the controller, Player Two.”

Chapter 9

Lars

It was the fifth game into the regular season and Lars still hadn’t scored. Counting his two preseason games, that was seven games in a row without a goal. Lars hadn’t had a dry spell this long since…ever? He didn’t like it.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. He was playing pretty well if he said so himself. Ten assists said he was definitely out there pulling his weight, and he’d shot on goal enough that he was beginning to think someone in Portland had cursed him.

“Just bad luck,” Coach Thompkins said grimly when Lars took a shot that was blocked up front. It’d still trickled through and gotten all the way to the goal line before it’d stopped dead. It’d just sat there, taunting Lars until the goalie casually covered it like he had all the time in the world. Not like Lars was an elite goal scorer or anything.

Given current evidence, maybe I’m not.

They were in Toronto, which was always a hard matchup for Lars. It was his dad’s team, and he hated playing in their arena where his dad’s number was hanging in the rafters. It also meant Mormor wouldn’t be watching. The banner hung behind the Canadian and American flags, so he was more or less forced to stare at his dad’s legacy at the start of every game. It was unfair to compare the careers of people playing in different eras, especially when one had died young, but any time people did feel like comparing Lars to his father, it always ended with questions about what his dad would think about his youngest being a forward instead of a defenseman like him. Anders, though. Mats obviously would’ve been proud of good ol’ Anders.

It was a lot of baggage to deal with in a single game, only made worse by his lack of production.

He stewed in his frustration for a whole period before he let it go. He’d had dry spells before, and he never let it slow him down. There were bound to be growing pains starting with a new line on a new team in a new division in a new conference. People did it all the time, and he hadn’t given them enough credit before.

Ryan scored in the third, a beautiful backhand after he forced a turnover as Toronto tried to clear it. The whole team whooped and whistled in appreciation—the late tally putting them a comfortable three goals over the Terrors—and were equally vocal about it in the locker room.

“Three goals,” Jake said with a crooked smile as he patted Ryan on the head. “That makes you goal leader so far. Beating Nilsy. First time in your careers, right?”

The whole team laughed like it was the greatest joke they’d ever heard. Lars didn’t know if the barb was meant for him or Ryan, but he didn’t appreciate it either way. Lars could take the chirping and have it wash right over him; he could see Ryan’s eyes dim and his smile falter and knew, for whatever reason, Ryan couldn’t forget it as easily.

“I’m biding my time,” Lars said loudly to draw the attention away from Ryan. “Lull all the goalies into a false sense of security, then get a five goal game and catch up.”

The rest of the guys laughed, a few throwing rolled up balls of tape at him. Lars playfully swatted them away. He caught Ryan’s eye and winked. Finally, the last of the tension disappeared and he relaxed.

“I think,” Vorny said, “we should go out to celebrate.”

“Late flight tomorrow,” Jake agreed. “Time for some good, old-fashioned team building.”

Lars added his enthusiastic agreement—he could really use a chance to blow off some steam. Everyone else he could’ve predicted, with the younger guys enthusiastically agreeing while some of the older ones bowed out, but he was a little surprised to see Ryan was on board. Ryan had put up such a fight when they’d gone to Rangoons in the preseason that he’d seemed like the type who avoided late nights out. People pleaser that he was, he seemed focused on taking care of himself a touch more.

They stopped by the hotel to change, then argued about bars versus nightclubs before deciding on a sports bar within walking distance to the hotel. The place was huge, with pool tables and dartboards and a few other games Lars didn’t recognize. The front area was a bar with long high top tables, and after standing around ordering beers, they were finally able to snag one.

He tried to talk to everyone a little. He was still getting a feel for the team, and he always found the informal settings were better. Often it helped him understand why his teammates were doing what they were doing on the ice, so he prioritized his linemates. That was probably why he couldn’t quite finish and score yet, since a lot of their opportunities got flubbed by miscommunication or bad timing. Lars was well into three beers and had worked his way through most of the team by the time he finally allowed himself to seek out Ryan.

Was it weird that Ryan was his favorite? Or that he had a favorite? He hadn’t on the Prowlers. There were of course people whose company he preferred, but at the end of the day, he didn’t have a best friend on the team. Not that Ryan was his best friend on the Crabs, he reminded himself. Or even his friend, really, since they never talked outside of work. He had Ryan’s number from the group chat, but he’d never figured out a reason to text him separate from everyone else. But the point was now was a great chance to make Ryan his friend.

Lars was a friendly, chatty drunk. He knew that. He made really good impressions on people when he was buzzed, and he could use that to his advantage. Ryan seemed to be immune to Lars’s charm, probably because he was way more charming, so Lars should definitely find him and⁠—

Ryan was gone.

Lars made a few rounds of the bar to be sure. Their table was covered in half eaten appetizers but distinctly Ryan-less. He wasn’t playing pool with Johnny and the other young players. No one was at the dartboards, so that was an easy no. Another pass by the bathrooms—nothing—and he went back to the table.

“Where’s Ryan? RJ?” he asked as he tried to balance on an annoyingly high stool with not quite enough seat.

“He was chatting up a blond at the bar,” Jordy, one of the left wings, said without looking up from his phone. “Maybe they went back to the hotel?”

“Oh.” Disappointment curdled in his gut, which was expected; the jealousy that followed hit him even harder. The jealousy was so out of left field it left him raw in its wake. When had that happened? That was…it was…

Really inconvenient.

Maybe it was a completely platonic type of jealousy⁠—

“Was she hot?” he blurted out. So no, not platonic.

Jordy put down his phone and eyed him for a moment, the furrow between his brow making Lars freak out. Oh no, had he figured out that Lars maybe was into Ryan? Shit shit shit.

“It was a guy,” Jordy said with a mix of warning and forced calm.

A guy.

Ryan had gone back to the hotel with a guy.

I’m a guy! he thought unhelpfully. 

Luckily he was sober enough to address Jordy’s concern (and noted that he had been willing to go to bat for Ryan if Lars had been a dick about it).

“I don’t care that RJ’s gay.” Well, that was becoming increasingly not true, but Jordy didn’t need the clarification.

Jordy must’ve believed him, because he instantly relaxed and smiled. “Good. And he’s not. He’s bi.”

Lars nodded. “Does he pick up people often on road trips?”

Jordy shrugged. “Every now and then. He’s one of the few single guys on the team, and he’s probably the nicest, so he does pretty well. Doesn’t hurt that he’s good looking.”

“Bet it doesn’t,” Lars agreed. If he were smart, he’d change the subject from anything other than Ryan. Unfortunately he’d had one beer too many beers to be smart about anything. “Hey, can I ask you something? About RJ?”

It looked like Jordy was bracing again. “Sure.”

“He’s a good player, right?”

He frowned. “Yeah.”

“Like, one of the best on the team?”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far⁠—”

“You should,” Lars said matter of factly. “He is. I’ve played with a lot of really good hockey players, and he’s up there. It’s weird that no one else sees it. I mean, he’s on a line with you and you guys get a ton of zone time and points. You don’t think he’s a big factor there?”

There was a pause. “I mean, he’s pretty good at face-offs…”

“Yes!” Lars emphatically. “He’s incredible at face-offs!”

“Better than you.”

“Much better!” he agreed, pleased. “You should tell him that.”

“Yeah, I probably should,” Jordy conceded. “He tells me all the time I’m doing a good job. Pay it forward and all that.” It seemed like he was about to drop it, but he hesitantly asked, “Is he really that good?”

“RJ is an amazing player. I’m glad I don’t have to play against him anymore.”

That was only half true. He’d admittedly not noticed much of Ryan before he’d come to the Blue Crabs, if at all, but that was likely due to the different conferences and their lines not matching up often. If Ryan had been on the first line, he might’ve crossed Lars’s radar. But Lars was glad his face-off percentages wouldn’t drop going up against him and that he wouldn’t have to get around him on the PK outside of practice. If they ever did play against each other in the future, Lars now knew what he was up against and wouldn’t take that matchup lightly.

Jordy didn’t seem to know what to do with this information, but they were both saved from having to answer by Jake’s arrival. The captain slung an arm around Jordy’s shoulder and slurred his way through appreciation that they’d made it out, that they were both playing great, et cetera. Taking the unintended hint, Lars grabbed a big glass of water. They got on the topic of their upcoming homestand, and once Lars asked if there’d be more team outings, Jordy took over. He went on happily about the team’s usual haunts and activities, with Jake occasionally offering incomprehensible stories about shenanigans the team had gotten up to the last time they’d been there.

Lars let them talk, cradling his water as he digested what he’d learned.

Fact one: Lars was into Ryan. Which…honestly not a surprise. He should’ve seen that coming. Ryan was unfairly hot, he was funny and nice, and he was a great hockey player. In isolation, any of those traits might be ignored, but together, Lars had never stood much of a chance.

Fact two: Ryan was bi. He had no idea what Ryan’s type was, but there was a teeny possibility that Lars might be it. This didn’t have to be an unrequited-crush-on-a-straight-teammate territory. Except…

Fact three: They were teammates. Even if Ryan liked him back, they couldn’t do anything about it. Lars wasn’t willing to risk his place in Baltimore on a fling, no matter how open-minded their General Manager might be. If he left the Blue Crabs too quickly, it could kill his career.

So that left him with the unfortunate task of nipping this in the bud. It’d snuck up on him already, but if he quashed any romantic feelings now, he’d be fine. This wasn’t the first time he’d had a crush on someone he played with (though thankfully he hadn’t had to deal with it since he was fifteen in Gothenburg). Lars could handle this.

Excusing himself from the table, he made his way to the bar to close out.

Briefly, he entertained the thought of finding his own hookup. That was usually the best way to get over someone, and he could use the distraction, but the idea made his stomach roil. Monroe had told him the team would be cool with his sexuality, and seeing that Ryan was openly out was heartening, but that didn’t put him in a place where he felt comfortable being so exposed. Anyone in hockey knowing him like that gave them a sort of power that he didn’t like them having. Look what had happened in Portland: his being gay could be turned into a weapon in the wrong hands. As nice as Jordy was, Lars wasn’t about to hand him a knife and hope he didn’t stab him in the back.

If he were being honest, he also didn’t want a one night stand right now. It sounded exhausting. He was tired from hockey, he was tired from drinking, he was tired from travel and had to get on a plane tomorrow, and he was just…tired. He wanted to crawl into his hotel bed, fall asleep to an audiobook, and hopefully not dream of brunet teammates with soft brown eyes.

Instagram: RJ Mic’d Up!

[Transcript from an Instagram Reel posted on @bmorebluecrabsnhl featuring highlights of when Ryan “RJ” Russell was mic’d up during a home game vs the Boston Militia.]

In the tunnel before the game:

RJ: You ready to get it, boys? (He bangs his chest against his linemates Jordan Foster and Pierre Laurent, then the goalie Vladislav Voronin.)

RJ: You gonna score for us tonight, Nilsy?

Lars Nilsson: I’m trying, but I broke my stick in practice today so…

RJ: Shit, that’s a new twig?

Nilsson: Yeah. I don’t like how I taped it. 

RJ: Well, don’t score or you’ll have to tape it that way every time.

Nilsson, laughing: You’re just trying to stay ahead of me in goals.

RJ: Obviously.

On the ice during warm-ups:

RJ: (Singing “We Will Rock You” while skating through teammates and doing stretches. A puck shoots by his head.) Watch it!

During the game, before a face-off:

RJ: How’re the kids?

Ref: Good. One started high school last month.

RJ: For real? High school? I remember when you brought ‘em to that game a few years ago. They were both like this tall. (Holds out his hand to his chest.)

Ref: That was five years ago.

RJ: Dang. Time flies. The younger one still doing tennis?

Ref: Unfortunately. Lessons are expensive.

RJ: Cheaper than hockey, though, right?

Ref, laughing: Yes, thank fuck. You gonna line up for this face-off or what?

RJ: You gonna drop it on my side for me?

Various moments during the game while RJ is playing:

RJ, getting hit into the boards: Ow.

RJ, blocking a shot: Ow.

RJ, after trying to get an icing waved off: Ahhh I’m tired now. Shouldn’t’ve done that. Shouldn’t’ve done that. Gotta skate back. Ugh.

Joel Krew from the Boston Militia: Fuck off, Russell.

RJ: That’s not very nice. I’m mic’d up, y’know that? Everyone’s gonna hear you being mean to me. 

Joel Krew: They’re gonna hear my fist hitting your face if you don’t knock it the fuck off.

RJ: Knock what off? I’m just playing. Your guy was the one whacking my stick. Tell him to knock it the beep off.

Joel Krew, laughing: Did you just say beep?

RJ: I told you, I’m mic’d up. Gotta set a good example for the kids.

Joel Krew: Is that why they picked you? You the only hockey player who doesn’t curse?

RJ: I mean, probably.

Different clips strung together of RJ on the ice and the bench:

RJ: Dang it.

RJ: Shoot.

RJ: Fridge.

RJ: What the heck was that!?

Louis Ponts from the Boston Militia: (a string of bleeped out expletives)

RJ: I think that was kinda uncalled for, but same to you, bud.

On the bench during the game:

RJ, after a save: YEAH, VORNY! He’s so talented.

RJ, after a breakaway: GO GO GO! SHO— Aww, that was a close one. Dang it. That would’ve been sick.

RJ: Look, they’re doing the wave. Look, look. It’s coming around. Get ready…now!

RJ: Sorry on that pass. I sent it too far ahead of you.

Jordan Foster: No, it was perfect. Sorry, I wasn’t going fast enough. I was gassed. My fault.

RJ: Nah, bro. I’ll get you next time.

RJ, after Nilsson scored: Heck yeah! Was that—was that off his butt?

Pierre Laurent, laughing: I think so.

RJ: Did he just score with his butt?

Laurent: That would be a helluva first goal, no?

RJ, fist bumping Nilsson as he skated along the bench: Was that off your butt?

Nilsson: It was.

RJ: Nice. You know you gotta redo that awful tape job all season now, right?

Chapter 10

Ryan

Ryan didn’t regret his hookup in Toronto. He’d worked off some energy and had felt good and relaxed for a solid week afterwards. It was rejuvenating and had spurred a three game scoring streak.

That it helped distract him from the growing place Lars held in his life was an added benefit.

After talking to Tanner, he decided it did make sense to view Lars as a friend. It seemed like they both could use the connection, and it was easier to work on this new relationship than to try and shift the ones he already had. For better or worse, their other teammates already had their views of who Ryan was to the team and to them, and he wasn’t interested in fighting an uphill battle to change that. Besides, Lars wanted to be his friend.

So instead of avoiding Lars and keeping distance, on a Friday afternoon after practice, Ryan decided to bite the bullet and just…go for it.

“Hey,” he said to Lars as he took a seat next to him in the locker room. Most of the team had cleared out to the showers or left already, so it was easy to snag a spot next to Lars as he finished putting on his shoes.

Lars immediately abandoned his shoe and sat up straight, his face brightening. “Hi.”

“So, I’ve got a favor to ask you.”

“Stop scoring goals? I’m halfway to catching up.”

“Oh, I’m actually going to need you to score twice as many. You promised me the playoffs, and if the team is relying on me as top goal scorer, we’re doomed.”

Lars’s face dimmed. “Ryan⁠—”

“This is actually way more important than the playoffs, anyway.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Youth hockey.”

Lars sat there, staring at Ryan like he was expecting a punchline. When he realized Ryan wasn’t going to expand, he eventually asked, “What about it?”

“I’m glad you asked,” he said with his best salesperson voice. “So the Crabs sponsor a few local programs, and I volunteer whenever I can, and I promise to coerce other players from the team to stop by. It really motivates the kids and I can offer you beer and pizza to sweeten the deal if kids aren’t your thing.”

Lars stared at him blankly. “Youth hockey? Here?”

Ryan couldn’t help but bristle. He forced aside bad memories from Juniors. “What, in America?” he said and couldn’t quite keep the warning note from his voice.

“No, I mean.” Lars gestured vaguely to their surroundings. Even in the locker room, there were no less than three Maryland flags in plain sight. No doubt more lurked in places Ryan simply hadn’t noticed. “Here.”

“Maryland’s growing its program,” Ryan said carefully. It wasn’t nearly as robust as what he’d known growing up in Montana, but even in the past few seasons he’d been involved, he’d seen growth.

“It’s just…so warm here. Does it even snow?”

“Sometimes.” And then all the schools close down and I’m trapped in my apartment because the roads are for shit. Not at all like Montana.

Lars didn’t seem convinced. Ryan didn’t blame him. It was Maryland, a state that only avoided being called southern by virtue of being forced to fight for the Union. It wasn’t Montana or Sweden or a place that looked like it understood ice. Still, there were more bizarre cities with teams. If Texas could have an NHL team, you couldn’t fault Maryland for trying to develop young players.

As if sensing this was a hill Ryan was completely willing to die on, he shrugged and said, “Sure. When?”

“Really?”

“Did you expect me to say no? Yes, I’ll come.”

“Was it helping the kids or the beer that got you?”

Something flitted through Lars’s expression, so fast Ryan couldn’t pinpoint what he saw. “Obviously helping the kids.”

“So I don’t need to get you a beer?”

“You do. To recover from the kids. I have a niece and nephew. I know children are monsters,” he said conspiratorially.

Ryan laughed. “Ohh, I know. I’ve got plenty of nieces and nephews. The hockey kids are pretty good. They’ll be too in awe of you to act up. They’ll be showing off like crazy, though.” He stood up. “Bring a Crabs jersey, a stick, and skates. Expect lots of autographs and pictures, but we’ll be on the ice for at least an hour.”

Lars nodded solemnly. “I’ll be ready. And then you take me out for beer. And you have to drink one.”

“That’s not⁠—”

“Just one. I’ll get you a protein shake to make up for it.” His blue eyes were wide and pleading. He was kind of adorable, a treacherous thought Ryan immediately quashed.

“No promises,” Ryan said. He knew if Lars batted his baby blues at him again, he’d cave. He didn’t need Lars figuring that out, though. “I’ll text you the deets.”

* * *

They met in the parking lot of a rink just outside of the city proper. There weren’t any camera crews or handlers there to shepherd them around, only some parents and families who eyed the two of them with unabashed interest.

“Is this really the right place?” Lars sounded nervous as he waved to a couple teenagers not-so-surreptitiously taking their picture. “Where is everyone?”

“This is it,” Ryan promised. “Like I said, I volunteer. This isn’t a press thing. The kids’ll be inside getting dressed. C’mon, I’ll introduce you to the coaches.”

The facility had two rinks, one currently taken over by figure skating lessons, and the other getting zambed before practice. The coaches welcomed Ryan warmly and then nearly fainted when they saw Lars.

“Lars Nilsson!” the older one said. “I saw your daddy win the Cup! Spent a month’s pay for those tickets!”

Lars’s smile was perfect despite it not quite reaching his eyes. “I was there, too. Can’t remember it, though.”

“You must’ve been what? Seven?”

“Three,” Lars said with an edge to his voice Ryan had never heard before. “So what do you need from us?”

The younger coach took over, explaining the drills they hoped to do. The kids were Mites, no older than eight, and were mostly working on their skating with the puck.

“And they’d probably love to see you two shoot,” the coach added with a wink. “I bet I could find some of the older goalies who’d love a chance to stop an NHL player.”

“I don’t know if I could take it if they shut me out,” Lars joked.

“I can tell you nothing will delight them more than to stop even one,” he said. “C’mon, let’s see who we can find.”

While they looked for a goalie, Ryan caught up with the other coaches. He asked about their tournament schedule, about the returning kids from last season, and whether they needed any gear or funds he could help them with. Last year he’d managed to get the Blue Crabs to sponsor the teams’ jerseys, and hopefully he could convince Monroe to do something similar this year.

By the time they’d hashed everything out, warm-ups were almost over. They got on the ice in time to see the kids trailing behind Lars like ducklings.

“Let’s play follow the leader!” he called. “I’ll go first. Follow Uncle Lasse, okay?”

He picked up speed and went around the circles, the kids happily trailing behind. When he pivoted and switched to skating backwards, half the kids fell over. Lars weaved through the coaches, losing more kids as they crashed into each other, laughing in delight. After a few minutes, the coaches whistled for the practice to officially start.

As usual, Ryan was another set of hands to help the kids. Lars ended up more as a cheerleader, encouraging kids whether their shots went in or not. During a water break, Lars found his way over to Ryan.

“This is fun,” he said with a wide grin. His cheeks were rosy and his loose hair fell across his face. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Any time. Though I have to ask…Lassie?” Ryan asked, unable to hold back a smirk. “Like the dog?”

Lars quirked his head in a not-undog-like tilt. “What dog?”

“Lassie. Always saving Timmy from a well or bears or whatever. I dunno, I never watched the show.”

“Show?”

“Yeah.”

“About a dog named Lasse?”

“Yeah.”

Lars frowned then shrugged. “It’s what everyone in Sweden calls me. Family and friends.”

There was a moment, brief and electric, where Ryan thought there was an invitation in Lars’s explanation. It was almost on the tip of his tongue to ask if he could call him that, but he chickened out. Then the kids were clamoring for their attention, and the moment had passed.

“Shootout! Shootout! Shootout!” they chanted with a wild look in their eyes that gave him serious Lord of the Flies vibes.

They ended up breaking the group into two teams, Ryan and Lars each taking a group to work with them on their shooting skills in preparation for a competition at the end of practice. Ryan showed his group a few of his preferred shootout moves and had them practice, while it seemed Lars was more concerned with showing his group his favorite post-goal celebrations. The Mites didn’t have any goalies at practice that day, and the promised teenagers arrived. They were good sports, letting most of the younger kids score on them much to their excitement.

“Time for Coach RJ and Coach Lars to show us what they got!” one of the coaches said, earning delighted squeals from the kids and a lot of phones coming out from the parents.

“So…” Lars whispered at center ice. “Are we taking it easy on them or playing for real?”

Ryan watched the goalies, who were grim faced and determined. “Hard at first, then adjust. Make it look good, though.”

“I always do,” Lars said with a wink.

They didn’t actually need to be concerned: the goalies rocked it. Even when they were trying, they each only made two of their six attempts. The kids whooped loudly for every save as much as every goal, and Ryan was grinning ear to ear through the obligatory photo shoot at the end.

“How often do you do this?” Lars asked after they were finally rescued to the safety of the coaches’ office.

“Maybe once a month if we’re in town. Why, you coming back?”

“I might…” A lazy smile washed over his face. “If the beer is good.”

Ryan hoped he wasn’t blushing. “You really not going to let that go?”

“Of course not. One beer at Rangoons and any crab-related food you think I need to try as a Marylander.”

Ryan snorted. “I’ve been here a couple years and I can’t claim I know anything about crabs. But they’ve got good crab cakes, so maybe we start with that.”

They shared crab cakes and beers at Rangoons while recounting their favorite parts of the practice. It had been fun, just like Lars said, but this…shoulders bumping and knees knocking together under the bar and leaning in to laugh in each other’s space…this was the best part of Ryan’s day.

Chapter 11

Lars

Beer with Ryan was a bad idea.

Not because anything happened or Lars did anything stupid, but because Ryan was really cute when he was relaxed. Clearly a lightweight, he’d been happily chatty after only a few sips. If Lars was looking to overcome a crush on him, seeing him waving his hands animatedly talking about his volunteer work with children was not the way to do it.

But he was trying to be friends with him, so the outing had been a success on that front. Now they had their own text chat.

thanks for the beer.

anytime you need another player to help, let me know

but my price might go up to two beers

as long as I don't have to drink any of them

lassie

Lasse

Lasse??

so not like the dog

no.

He’d left it at that, satisfied that he’d opened things up and even gotten Ryan to call him Lasse. Granted, he would’ve preferred to hear it in Ryan’s alcohol-warmed voice, but he wasn’t complaining.

When the Mites team posted pictures of the practice and tagged them, Lars saved the one of him and Ryan talking at center ice. Ryan looked confident and content; Lars looked completely smitten.

* * *

His shoulder hurt. It wasn’t an actual injury (he hoped). Some bruising from an awkward fall after a hit. He’d have to sleep on his left side for a bit. The real trouble was that it made it harder to shoot. He winced on every follow through, the pain enough that he hesitated with every shot, opting to pass even when it was the worse play.

Lars’s struggles weren’t isolated: the whole team was struggling tonight. A few mistakes early in the game quickly spiraled into sloppy play after sloppy play. The game was a disaster, already a 1-5 loss that hopefully wouldn’t get worse.

It did get worse. With less than a minute left in the game, Pavel the defenseman lost an edge when he dove to keep the puck in the zone. It led to a 2-on-0 that, despite an inhuman effort from Vorny, resulted in another goal. It didn’t help that they were playing New York, a divisional matchup that they’d probably regret come April. There were a lot of slumped shoulders and downcast gazes as they marched back to the locker room, Lars included.

“Tja, det sög,” he muttered under his breath. By the time he finished changing and got home, he was sure the loss wouldn’t sting, but he hadn’t much enjoyed it.

“What’s that?” Jake asked as he took a seat next to him.

“That sucked,” Lars clarified.

“I thought New York was at the bottom of the league,” someone muttered. Bad timing, because that was when Coach Thompkins stormed in, looking like he wanted to murder someone. Possibly all of them.

“They are bottom of the league,” Coach Thompkins gritted out. He wasn’t yelling, his tone perfectly controlled yet sharp as a knife; no, there wouldn’t be any yelling, but he wasn’t going to be gentle as he dressed them down, either. “So what does that make us, huh?”

Everyone awkwardly looked anywhere but at Thompkins. Lars personally hated when coaches did this. They all knew they fucked up, and no doubt each of them could name at least one way they personally had contributed to the loss. Shaming them all after the game was over wouldn’t help rally them and help them get a win next time. In his experience, it only served to let the coach vent his frustrations. To actually help the team, talking to them one-on-one or drafting drills to work on their weaknesses was more effective.

Not that Lars would ever say that out loud. He wasn’t willing to get reamed for his opinion in addition to his poor play.

“A loss I can handle,” Thompkins continued. “Losses are part of the game. But I expect us to at least be in the games we lose. We haven’t been in this game since halfway through the first. That loss was a collective effort. This team absolutely stank out there tonight. Not a single one of you⁠—”

“Vorny only let in six on what must’ve been forty shots,” Lars blurted out. Oh. Shit. So he was willing to get reamed for his opinion. He silently cursed himself but made eye contact with Vorny before turning back to Thompkins. “We let him down.”

Thompkins looked surprised by the interruption. “Well,” he said awkwardly, eyes darting to Vorny before fixing back on Lars. Goalies were a special case, and coaches didn’t like to put too much blame on them. You could praise them for a win, but not crucify them for a loss; it got in their heads way more than other players. Put on the spot, Thompkins didn’t seem eager to draw attention to his goaltender’s play. “Vorny I can talk to later about his play. Still, not a single one of the rest of you⁠—”

“RJ’s line pretty much single-handedly killed five penalties for us,” Lars said. A hush fell over the locker room, everyone’s expression shocked that Lars a) had managed to interrupt once and go unscathed and b) was dumb enough to push his luck a second time. No one said anything. No one moved. Even Coach Thompkins stood there speechless as he processed what was happening. So Lars, seeing as he was in trouble anyway, went on. “RJ even shut down that 5-on-3 in the second with a broken stick and five blocked shots, then kicked it clear. Highlight reel penalty killing. And he probably led the team in shots. Definitely led centers in face-off wins. He got our only goal, and⁠—”

“I got it,” Coach Thompkins snapped; Lars obediently shut his mouth, but he didn’t look away. He was right and he knew it. The team undervalued Ryan’s efforts, and Lars was, quite frankly, sick of it. Maybe they needed Lars saying it a bunch of times before they could actually see it for themselves. “Anything else you wanna add, Nilsson?”

“No,” he said. “The rest of us were terrible.”

There was a tense moment of silence as Thompkins glared at Lars, hands on his hips and expression calculating. “Vorny, good game,” he said. “RJ, good game. You two can take tomorrow off. The rest of you I’m skating so damn hard you’ll wish we were doing suicides.” Then he turned and stormed out of the room, the other coaches on his heels.

As soon as the door swung shut behind him, the tension broke.

“Holy fuck,” Bergsy said. “Is that what being a superstar lets you do? Tell off your coach?”

“The balls on this guy,” Jake said, nudging him with his elbow. “If I give you fifty bucks, will you stick up for me next time we’re getting told off?”

Lars raised an eyebrow. “I’ll do it for free when your play warrants it.”

Jake made a dramatic face. “Fair. I was not having a good night out there.” There was a moment of hesitation, and then Jake seemed to remember the C on his sweater; he turned to Ryan. “You did pretty good out there, RJ,” he acknowledged. “Nice job.”

Ryan looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor as he mumbled, “Sorry we left you out to dry, Vorny.”

Vorny made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Not your fault. Nilsy is right, you were the only one being useful on those kills.”

“Excuse you?” said Rupert Swanson, one of the defensemen. “I cleared it like ten times.”

“After RJ won it right to you. And don’t think I forgot that screen on their third goal.” Rupert put up his hands in surrender. Vorny turned back to Ryan. “It’d have been a ten-goal loss if you weren’t there,” he said, “so I appreciate you helping make sure my numbers didn’t tank.”

“I got you,” RJ said. Apparently Vorny’s was the only praise he could handle, and even that he took too seriously. “I don’t know that it’s as bad as it looked on the scoreboard.”

“It was,” Lars said. He’d finally gotten his shoulder pads off and he winced. Maybe he should ice it before he went home. “It wasn’t the first time and won’t be the last time we’ve sucked, but we definitely sucked.”

“Welcome to the Blue Crabs.” Tomas, his left wing, stood and patted Lars on the shoulder, right where it hurt. “This is what a non-playoff bound team looks like.”

“That’s what a non-playoff bound attitude sounds like,” Jake shot back with a scowl. “We’re just as good as anybody else out there.”

“Except New York, apparently,” someone mumbled.

“Just tonight. We come back from this, and we beat ‘em next time,” Jake insisted. Lars could see why he was captain and not Tomas; a team’s mentality and morale were fickle, and good leadership could keep them solid even in the face of bad losses.

The team grumbled some more as they cleared out, mostly deflated but not seeming to let the setback settle in. By the time Lars had showered and seen the medical staff, there wasn’t anyone left puttering about. He found himself disappointed that he couldn’t follow up with Ryan, because he wasn’t sure that he’d believed Lars’s honest praise, but he wasn’t surprised. There was no reason to linger, especially if Lars hadn’t asked him to wait for him.

Ask him to wait for me. He scoffed at himself. What possible excuse could he even give to make that request reasonable?

Because he was expecting nothing except leftovers and watching Netflix until he fell asleep, he didn’t check his phone until his dinner was in the microwave. He was unsurprised to find a 😬 emoji from his sister-in-law (he responded with 🤷‍♂️) and was delighted to see there were messages from Ryan waiting for him.

thanks for what you said in the locker room

you didn’t have to and i appreciate it

hope the shoulder’s okay looked like a bad hit

my shoulder will be fine

and i did have to say it.

it’s true and they need to hear it

you’re a great center.

unfortunate, because if you were a winger we’d be leading the league in points rn

He put his phone aside so he could relocate to his sofa with his dinner, seltzer water, and Advil. All of his things had arrived safely, and over the last month or so he’d slowly unpacked and gotten everything in a semblance of order. There weren’t any boxes anymore, anyway, except for the Prowlers mementos he refused to look at. Maybe after a few years when he’d finished processing what had happened (and wasn’t pissed off about it), he’d hang some of them up next to his Frölunda and Team Sweden memorabilia. Maybe being the key word.

As he settled in and waited for Netflix to load, he unlocked his phone to set an alarm—he fully expected to fall asleep on his sofa—when he saw Ryan had responded.

feel free to change positions whenever.

you’d probably make a great left wing

better than Tomas what was that attitude

To his delight, he saw Ryan immediately respond.

lots of snark. always quick to whine

but doesn’t like to own his mistakes.

glad I’m not centering him this year

😑

😂 sorry not sorry

and thanks again, if only because I don’t

have to skate at practice tomorrow 

The Netflix music played. Lars didn’t even glance up.

you’re still going to skate at practice tomorrow aren’t you

He couldn’t imagine Ryan skipping an optional skate unless he was sick or injured. That was probably why he was the capable player he was and others…well, others weren’t as capable.

probably but I don’t *have* to

just be ready to call a medic for me after Coach skates me into cardiac arrest

👍

I’m rooting for you

Get some sleep, it’s your only hope

👍

Bruises and bad game aside, Lars was pretty happy with how the night had gone.

* * *

Lars skated aimlessly around the ice before warm-ups, mentally bracing for a rough practice when he was already tired and hurting. He knew from experience that long-term, it would make him a better player; short-term, he was going to need a nap.

Coach Thompkins blew a whistle as he stepped onto the ice, the shrill sound shattering the fragile calm. Everyone winced and followed him to the benches. Lars took a knee up front—no point in hiding, and it might be the last time he got to sit for the next two hours—and met Thompkins’ hard expression. Thompkins didn’t look angry like he had the previous night, but there was a determination there that meant he had by no means forgotten how the Crabs had performed…or that Lars had challenged him in front of the team. Before he could open his mouth to speak, though, the door to the rink opened and two late arrivals joined them.

First came Vorny, skating lazily towards them with an air of a man gracing them with his presence; next came Ryan, dutifully closing the door behind them and quietly blending in with the back of the team.

Thompkins eyebrows rose as he watched them, and he almost smiled. “Well, that actually works out well,” he said. “We’re trying some new lines today. Given how badly we did last night, I looked over our performance so far this season to see if we can get better line chemistry going. New first line for today: RJ centering Soups and Jordy. Second line: Nilsy centering Laurie and Novs. Third line…” When he was done, he looked over the team. “Any problems?” They shook their heads. Apparently not getting the answer he wanted, Thompkins turned to Lars. “You good with those lines?”

Lars shrugged. He’d very rarely been demoted a line during his professional career, and it had always been warranted. It’d also never lasted long: he knew he was better than he’d played last night, Thompkins knew it, the whole team knew it. Once he showed it, he’d be back up. Or not. Ryan was good, too. He was happy Ryan would get the chance to show it, both to the team and (perhaps more importantly) to himself.

“Whatever you say, Coach,” he said nonchalantly. He wasn’t thrilled with the change (Tomas? really? after Ryan’s warning, he wasn’t sure he’d like that matchup), but he was a big boy. He’d deal.

“Good,” Thompkins snapped, though he looked relieved that they wouldn’t have to hash things out. “Line ‘em up. We’ve got work to do.”

Instagram: The Crabs at Practice

[A series of pictures posted on the @bmorebluecrabsnhl Instagram showing the team practicing.]

Caption: 🦀 + 🏒 = 🔥🔥🔥

Comments:

clackclackclack: looking good!

iheartrj14: i can’t get used to rj in # 75 😭😭😭

crabpeople: they did him dirty making him swap numbers — wonder what the significance of 75 is

redwhiteandcrab: i’m going to see them when they come to calgary next week!!

thickshell: uhhm is that RJ skating with Campbell?? is that a promotion for RJ or a demotion for Campbell?

CrabbyMatty: promotion maybe? RJ gets the nod bc he rocked it in that shitshow vs NY

thickshell: okay but in what world is Ryan Russell on the first line and Lars fucking Nilsson is second line?

CrabbyMatty: i’m not saying i saw it coming, but i think it’s thompkins way of showing some appreciation

lowtide5hole: agree. RJ’s been solid for us since we got him (for a steal btw)

thickshell: okay but LARS NILSSON!?

crabpeople: totally shit the bed the other night, maybe just needs a wake up call before ohio

oldbaybe: OMG OHIO i cannot wait to see him wreck anders

thickshell: or possibly get wrecked. always one or the other with those two…

Chapter 12

Ryan

Professional teams were a weird beast. You trained together, sweated and bled together, celebrated together. You were a unit, brothers in arms who supported each other through a grueling schedule where you thrived or struggled based on how well the team worked cohesively. And for most of his team, that was it. That was how it worked.

For Ryan and the other outsiders looking in, there was more. For the newer players with their two-way contracts, for the players whose contracts were ending or those without a no-trade clause, there were fractures in that “we live or die together” mentality. They had to compete with their teammates for ice time, for a spot on the roster, for everything. The team’s success didn’t necessarily equate to personal success and stability, and team losses weren’t “oh, maybe next year” but the possibility of getting shipped out to another team like spare parts.

Ryan couldn’t lie: he was thrilled to get moved to the first line. It had rarely happened, and though he didn’t think he had the stamina to compete with Lars long term and maintain the spot, he’d do his best to make the most of it. “Look at me, I can do this if you need me! Keep me so that if your real first-liner is sick or injured, I can fill in and do fine!” But it also made him nervous. Yeah, there was pressure on him to perform, but he was nervous because of Lars. When he’d been promoted over other players in the past, it had meant tension and hard feelings. Ryan had liked being friendly with Lars (so much so that he’d managed to put Juniors behind him), and he selfishly didn’t want to lose that.

Equally selfishly, he didn’t want to just throw away this chance. His career versus a maybe friend? Ryan couldn’t afford to be sentimental in his priorities.

So he fully expected Lars’s enthusiasm to dim and his demeanor to cool. It didn’t, and Ryan wasn’t sure what to do with that.

He still texted Ryan. Still chatted with him at practices. He asked if Ryan had any updates on how the Mites did in their first scrimmage. Brought an extra protein shake to the gym, a double chocolate with banana just like Ryan liked (not the strawberry monstrosity Lars favored, thankfully). During the last two games of their home stand, he continued to praise Ryan’s play on the bench and in the locker room, and seemed genuinely happy when Ryan scored.

No one had ever done that for him before. No one had let Ryan take center stage without any sign that he was jealous or annoyed or secretly thought Ryan didn’t deserve it.

It wasn’t until the flight to Ohio that Ryan finally acknowledged why. Ryan took his usual, lonely window seat with the expectation of listening to music and maybe napping, and soon Lars plopped down in the empty seat beside him with a wide grin.

“I downloaded some episodes of Lassie. Want to watch?” He held up his phone in one hand, a spare earbud in the other, and Ryan finally understood.

Somehow, Lars Nilsson was his friend. An actual friend, not just a friendly teammate.

“Isn’t that show from the ’60s?” Ryan asked as he accepted the earbud. He had to say something otherwise he’d have to address the warmth spreading through his chest.

“Maybe. It’s in black and white.”

They watched Lassie save Timmy from a bear, a fire, and a minefield, Lars’s phone screen so small they had to lean into each other’s space to watch. By the fourth episode, Ryan couldn’t even pretend he was following along: he was too absorbed in watching Lars as he stared intently at the screen. His face was so expressive, from his concern for little Timmy to his delight at Lassie’s heroics. He was devastatingly adorable, and the thought was like a bullet to Ryan’s heart.

Shit.

He nearly jumped out of his seat, muttering something incoherent about the bathroom, and practically ran away to escape the butterflies in his stomach.

“I’ll pause it for you!” Lars called after him cheerfully and that did not help the growing panic.

Ryan locked himself in the bathroom and scrambled to wash his face with trembling hands. This was bad, right? He couldn’t have a crush on a teammate. He shouldn’t fall for a guy who’d slept with him and then promptly forgotten he existed. A guy who didn’t even know his name for weeks! Shouldn’t he be immune to Lars Nilsson’s charms after Geneva? Was he really so pathetic that he caught feelings for the first person who treated him like he mattered?

The answer to that last one seemed to be an unequivocal “yes.”

It was awful. The few previous times when he’d found teammates attractive, he could easily talk himself out of a crush. They probably weren’t into dudes anyway, so why bother? But he knew Lars liked men and that they were extremely sexually compatible. It was harder to ignore the attraction when he had vivid memories of what Lars’s hands and mouth could do.

He’s probably gotten better— Ugh, NO.

You were safe to fuck because you weren’t teammates. He’ll never look at you that way, and if you’re smart, you won’t either.

Ryan stared at his reflection, miserable and terrified, and sighed. Things were looking up for him with his nearly completed contract looming over him, and he wasn’t going to jeopardize things with an inconvenient crush. Maybe, if they were both under contract for a few years, he could consider it. But they weren’t, so he couldn’t; he needed to lock his shit down and get a handle on things.

“You can’t,” he warned the mirror, pointing sternly at himself. “Don’t do anything stupid. You said you wanted a friend, so stay friends.”

Feelings acknowledged and decision made, it became easier to take each piece of inconvenient longing and lock it away. He watched his expression smooth out, the worry melt away as he slowly replaced it with a calm disinterest. He tried smiling, the way he did for the media and fans. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was friendly enough he’d be able to fool people. Just until he’d had more time to get his shit together.

He walked back to his seat, hands in his pockets. He nodded to a few teammates who happened to look his way; they nodded back but barely noticed him. Good.

He very carefully slipped past Lars into his window seat, paying extra attention to smoothing out and securing the buckle before he forced himself to look at Lars.

“Think we have time for one more episode before we land?” Ryan asked. His voice didn’t sound any different to his ear, and as long as he didn’t high five Lars or something, Lars would have no way of knowing how clammy Ryan’s palms were.

“Sure,” Lars said happily, handing back the earbud and getting the video ready. He hadn’t noticed anything different, hadn’t thought anything odd about Ryan’s abrupt disappearance, which solidified in Ryan’s mind that he’d made the right choice. Whatever Lars felt for him, it was platonic and surface-level.

Ryan forced himself to pay attention to the episode and ignore Lars as much as he could, even if Lars’s knee was pushed right against his, their shoulders were jammed together, and he smelled vaguely like citrus.

* * *

The Blue Crabs faced the Ohio Otters roughly three times a season. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the game, usually. The teams weren’t rivals—they hadn’t faced each other much in the postseason (at least not in either franchise’s active memory)—and currently it was so early in the season, neither team was desperate for points. Ryan had made the mistake of assuming this game would be like the previous ones; when they were bombarded by press as soon as they landed, he got the sinking feeling he’d been very wrong.

Reporters lined every walkway they could manage to squeeze into, phones and cameras out as they tried to get a good shot of Lars. They screamed questions at him, all about his brother and some jabs about him being on the second line. The press were hard to ignore, and soon Otters fans were joining in as they yelled taunts to the Blue Crabs in general and Lars specifically. The rest of the team watched with wide eyes, Ryan included, but Lars serenely ignored them all, barely acknowledging anyone unless it was to give them a wink and a wave.

On the team bus, finally in their own bubble of peace as they headed to the hotel, they sat there awkwardly. No one wanted to address the elephant in the room, and it didn’t seem like Lars was in a hurry to broach the subject either.

“You, uh…you okay there, Nilsy?” Thompkins eventually asked when they were on the road and had left the circus behind them.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked.

Ryan, who’d followed Lars like a lost puppy and tried to put himself between Lars and the media whenever he could, had ended up once again in the window seat next to him. Despite his resolution to keep his chill, he stared openly at Lars now; everyone else was, and given the circumstances he didn’t feel the least self-conscious about it.

“Well, that was…” Thompkins made an aborted motion with his hand, clearly as much at a loss as the rest of them. Nothing the Crabs had ever done had warranted that kind of attention. “You good to go against the Otters tomorrow afternoon?” He very pointedly stepped around mentioning Lars’s brother.

Lars smirked, a manic glint in his eye that Ryan didn’t recognize. “Don’t worry. I can handle Anders.”

Ryan actually got goosebumps. He’d heard about the famed Nilsson brothers’ rivalry—he didn’t live under a rock—but the person sitting next to him was a stranger. He didn’t know this version of Lars at all.

This Lars was…intense. Ryan had heard the phrase “dialed in” before, had even felt it, but he’d never seen such a blatant example of it. It was like the friendly, sometimes goofy Lars who passed on his turn to pick music in the locker room and who downloaded episodes of Lassie to watch was gone. Instead was a hockey machine, intent on the game in front of him and nothing else.

Is this what he was like when he played for Team Sweden?

He spoke so little during practice and at the hotel that Ryan gave him his space. The rest of the team gave him a wide berth, too, like his strange mood might claim them, too. Ryan went to bed early, worried about the matinee and the drama the team would find themselves in because of the Nilsson brothers.

Everything You need to Know About the Nilsson Brothers

Abigail Cunningham, The Baltimore Sun

THE BLUE CRABS PLAY the Ohio Otters tomorrow for the first time this season. It’s a game that’s normally just a checkbox on the schedule: an early game in the season with no bad blood between the two franchises to fire up the divisional matchup. Normally that’s a recipe for an enjoyable Saturday afternoon, one that’s not as stressful as those nail biters later in the season. Tomorrow’s game is different, though.

For those who have been following Lars Nilsson’s career since he joined the NHL, you’re probably already well acquainted with his heated rivalry with his older brother Anders, captain of the Otters. For Blue Crabs fans who have managed to avoid the fanfare surrounding the two Swedish brothers, here’s everything you need to know (and a few things you didn’t) about the brothers.

MATS NILSSON

The story starts with Mats Nilsson, Lars’s and Anders’s father. Born in 1969, the Swedish defenseman was drafted by the Toronto Terrors and played for them for over a decade, where he won two Cups with the team and served as an Alternate Captain. He married Sofa Lingren the summer after his rookie season, and the couple had their first son, Anders, when they were twenty-two; Lars was born seven years later.

Because of how demanding his work and training schedule was, Mats and Sofa often spent the NHL season in Toronto while young Anders and Lars remained in Sweden with their grandparents. But even from a young age, it was clear Mats expected both his sons to follow in his footsteps and play professional hockey. Luckily, both boys seem to have taken to it eagerly and enjoyed participating in the most prestigious hockey programs Gothenburg has to offer while receiving personal training from Sweden’s finest coaches.

Unfortunately, Mats never got to see his dreams come to fruition. Both he and Sofa died tragically in a plane crash when Lars was only five. His number was retired by the Terrors a season later, the #7 hanging across from the Stanley Cup banners Mats helped the team earn.

ANDERS NILSSON

Like his father, Anders has always been a lauded defenseman. He won silver twice with Team Sweden in the World Junior Championship and a bronze medal the last time NHL players were able to participate in the Olympics. Anders was drafted by the Ohio Otters, where he won the Stanley Cup his rookie year (earning both Calder and Conn Smythe) and has been its captain for the past five years. His contract ends in two seasons, and it’s likely that he’ll retire as an Otter at that time.

Anders left Sweden at age 18 and seemingly never looked back. He rarely visits his home country except for international competitions and family matters like his grandfather’s funeral six years ago. After moving to Ohio, he married Amanda Steinway and the couple have two children. Alva Lingren, Anders’s maternal grandmother, lives with the family and is often seen at Otters games and practices supporting her eldest grandson.

Q: Your father famously said he wanted both his sons to follow in his footsteps and play in the NHL. Is that a dream you have for your son?

Anders Nilsson: No. If that’s what he wants to pursue, then I’ll support him in his efforts. If he doesn’t want to play hockey, I won’t push it. Same for my daughter.

Q: Why do you wear #7?

AN: My father was a complicated man, but the best thing he ever did for me was instill a love of hockey. I wear #7 as a tribute to him.

Q: Do you ever plan to return to Sweden?

AN: Move there? No. My wife and children are here, my life is here.

Q: Do you enjoy playing against your brother?

AN: No.

Q: Do you think your brother is a skilled player?

AN: Yes. He’s one of the hardest forwards to defend against.

LARS NILSSON

That brings us to our very own Nilsson. Lars was born in 1998, the year his father won the Cup for the first time and so was dubbed Mats’s “lucky charm.” Mats would win it again three years later.

Lars was only five when his parents died, twelve when his brother moved overseas for good, and eighteen when his grandfather (the man who effectively raised him) passed away. Despite the personal losses he faced in his youth—or perhaps because of them—he threw himself into hockey and became a remarkable player at a young age. He played for Team Sweden in the World Junior Championship twice, winning a silver and gold medal.

He was drafted by the Portland Prowlers and won the Calder his rookie year. Unlike his brother, he had to wait three years before lifting the Cup (and earning the Conn Smythe), but he was able to do it again two years later. With more years left in his career, he no doubt hopes to hoist the Cup again…and solidify his lead over Anders.

Q: What do you think your father would think of you being a forward?

Lars Nilsson: He would look at my stats and be proud. Can’t argue with results.

Q: Why do you wear #14?

LN: Because I’m twice as good as Anders.

Q: Do you enjoy playing against your brother?

LN: Yes. I like reminding him I’m better. I do my best work against Anders.

Q: Do you think your brother’s a skilled defenseman?

LN: Sure. It wouldn’t be fun scoring against him if he weren’t.

LARS VS ANDERS: BY THE NUMBERS

The brothers have earned a combined three Stanley Cups, one gold medal, three silver medals, and one bronze medal. They’ve each won the Calder Trophy (best rookie) and the Conn Smythe Trophy (playoff MVP, which Lars has won twice). Anders has won the Norris Trophy twice (best defenseman); Lars has won the Rocket Richard Trophy twice (most goals) and the Art Ross Trophy (most points).

The brothers have faced each other 12 times since Lars’s NHL debut. In those 12 matchups, they have a combined 48 PIM (Penalty Infraction Minutes), 6 goals, 9 assists, 12 blocked shots, 18 hits, and 4 fights. The games themselves? An even 50:50 split.

Tomorrow’s matchup will be lucky game 13 for the Nilssons. Now that Lars is in the Eastern Conference, we get to enjoy the two brothers facing each other at least three times a season. It’s anyone’s guess how that’ll go for either brother or either team, but one thing’s for sure: it’ll be an exciting game to watch.

Chapter 13

Ryan

If Ryan had thought a night’s sleep might rescue Lars from Anders’s orbit, he was sorely mistaken. Lars didn’t even make eye contact with anyone as they boarded the bus to the arena, earbuds in and the music loud enough for the rest of them to hear. It wasn’t his usual pregame music, songs with a beat that would be good to dance or sing along to; it sounded like angry screaming put over some semblance of music.

Ryan didn’t like it. His discomfort lay uneasily in his belly as he watched Lars set himself up not for a game but a war. Worse, Ryan didn’t think it was his place to try and bring Lars back, to tell him whatever beef he had with his brother wasn’t as important as playing. He wasn’t sure he could even get through. The few times their eyes met, Lars barely acknowledged him if at all.

They skated onto the ice for warm-ups, Ryan doing his customary laps while he got a feel for the stadium. The place was electric, the air thick with the type of excitement Ryan hadn’t felt since the last time he was in the playoffs a few years ago with British Columbia. Despite Baltimore and Ohio not being rivals, the stands were already full and the glass was crowded with fans eager to get a look at their Otters and heckle the Crabs. There wasn’t much red and blue even on their side of the ice except⁠—

“Där är ni ju!” Lars shouted in excitement, his usual self emerging unexpectedly from his gloom. He said more, the sounds not quite forming words in Ryan’s head, and it took a moment for him to realize it must be Swedish. He stopped stick handling and stared as Lars skated over to two children with a sign pushed against the glass. It read in crooked letters: FARBROR WE MISSED YOU SCORE A GOAL FOR US ❤️ and underneath in more even writing “Don’t hurt Pappa.”

Lars, his earlier moodiness completely gone, yelled in Swedish to the two children. A girl maybe twelve years old and a boy a few years younger, both with blonde hair more white than Lars’s honey locks but with the same blue eyes and smile, pounded on the glass in delight. The girl wore a blue Team Sweden jersey with Lars’s number, the boy a Blue Crabs one. A woman stood with them, her jersey the Otter’s yellow and orange, a C visible beneath the long braid slung over one shoulder. She gave Lars an open fingered wave and then pointed at the “Don’t hurt Pappa” part of the sign sternly.

“You tell him not to hurt Uncle,” Lars shouted back.

The woman shrugged, both hands up as she exaggerated the pose, and Ryan could just barely read her lips. “I tried.”

Lars laughed. He waved to the children, fist bumping them through the glass, then yelled, “Go find your seats! I’ll score for you!”

Ryan’s heart swelled. This was the man he’d accidentally started falling for, not the angry ball of rage. He smiled to himself, content to go back to his warm-up, but he didn’t look away quick enough; Lars turned away from his family and spotted Ryan. More proof he was out of his funk: he immediately skated over.

“Did you see my niece and nephew?” He was beaming and his accent was thicker than usual. “Cute, right?”

“I liked their jerseys,” Ryan joked. He hesitated before adding, “And their sign. Farbror is you, right?”

He nodded. “Father’s brother. They’re good kids. They cheer for me because I buy them ice cream if I win, and they think it’s funny to make their dad upset.” Lars chuckled, as if it were all innocent fun and not a game played on knives where he fully intended to pound their dad into the ice in front of them at the first opportunity.

“That was their mom?” Ryan asked, because what else was he supposed to say?

“Amanda? Yeah, she’s awesome. Too good for Anders, for sure.” An errant puck came their way and Lars swatted it out of the air with his stick. He barely even looked at it as he started stick handling. “But that means she’s also willing to put up with me as a brother-in-law, and she takes care of Mormor.”

“Mormor?” Ryan repeated. He’d never found not knowing Swedish to be an issue before.

“Mother’s mother. My grandma. She lives with them.” His expression turned sour. “She couldn’t come today because she’s sick, but she’ll be watching.”

Lars Nilsson was mostly known in terms of his hockey, including who his family was. His dad played for the Terrors, his brother for the Otters. But he was also an uncle and a brother-in-law and a grandson, and those relationships seemed to shape him more as a person. 

“Your mormor watch all your games?” Ryan asked, voice light and teasing.

Lars picked up the puck and bounced it off the end of his stick. “Most of them. It’s easier now that I’m in the east. She doesn’t like to stay up for the late games, and if me and Anders play at the same time, she has to pick one to watch the next day.” He tossed the puck up and hit it like a baseball towards the net. “C’mon, let’s go warm up Vorny.”

Only once did Ryan get a chance to actually look at Anders on his side of the ice. He was easy to spot, several inches taller than most of the other players. His size wasn’t just his height, either. He was a solid man that looked like he had no issues keeping his goalie’s crease clear. Even from a distance, Ryan could see the family resemblance: blond, with the same jawline and nose, and the same grim expression that had been plastered on Lars’s face since the airport. Two angry peas in a pod, those Nilsson brothers.

If Ryan held any hope that Lars had regained his cool after seeing his family, it dried up during Lars’s first shift. He was over the boards before Ryan had fully gotten off. By the time Ryan was settled on the bench, Lars had skated right to where his brother was corralling the puck Ryan had just dumped in. Undeterred by his brother’s size, he pushed him into the boards and manhandled the puck away. He got a shot, a quick cover, and managed to get in his brother’s face to yell something in Swedish.

The game was…intense. The brothers set the tempo, with the rest of them at their mercy. It didn’t help that both Lars and Anders were clearly the best players on the ice, so if the rest of them didn’t up their effort, they didn’t stand a chance at being in the play. Ryan could barely keep up, and it left him huffing and puffing at the end of every shift.

Lars was thriving, though. He managed to steal a shift from their fourth line center when Anders wasn’t on the ice. He forced a turnover, got a breakaway, scored, and then made sure to celebrate right in front of the Otters bench where his brother sat glaring at him.

“Du är bortskämd,” Anders sneered at him. “Sluta bete dig som ett barn.”

“Sluta bete dig som ett fitta!” Lars shot back. Ryan had no idea what they were saying, but Anders stiffened and looked like he was about to climb over the boards to wipe the smug look off his little brother’s face. Ryan had seen that look on his sisters’ faces before, and except in those moments when he was feeling particularly brave, it usually resulted in him running away while apologizing; Lars didn’t look the least bit sorry.

“You know,” Jake said next to Ryan as they watched the brothers fight over a puck in the second, “Nilsy’s only got five career fights and four of them are against his brother.”

Ryan watched with a grimace. They hadn’t dropped gloves yet, but he felt like it could happen at any moment. “Who was the other one against?”

“Someone on the Otters who got in the way,” Jake said.

“You saying he’d fight one of us if we got in the way?” Jordy said it as a joke, but there was a hint of worry there.

Anders slammed into his brother, knocking Lars flat on his ass and making Ryan cringe in sympathy. Lars jumped up and sprinted after his brother, clearly not thinking about hockey but revenge. The resulting cross checking penalty against Lars was hardly a surprise.

“...He might fight us if we try to stop him,” Jake muttered. He moved out of the way to let Ryan out for the Penalty Kill. “Maybe stay out of his way once he’s out of the box?”

That was the smart thing to do. Whatever poor fool got between the brothers was going to get flattened like a pancake.

It wasn’t an easy kill. The Otters rested Anders for the first thirty seconds then had him out the rest of the time. The man had a monster slap shot that Ryan made the mistake of blocking (thankfully it hit his shinguard, though it still hurt something awful), and the Otters seemed to enjoy setting Anders up for pot shots while Lars was stuck watching in the box. They were somehow able to hold off the Otters, Ryan getting a whole 45 seconds to rest before he was forced back on the ice to finish the kill. And then, with the seconds ticking down, Ryan got the puck and was able to do one of his favorite things.

The timing rarely worked out, but Ryan saw the pieces falling into place. With two seconds left on the penalty and nothing but open ice in front of him, the safe play was to launch it down to the other zone and run for a change. He faked the dump, then instead sent a pass up the boards. It left the Crabs’ zone with one second left, bounced to the empty space right in front of the penalty box.

Lars jumped out of the box and skated into the puck at full speed. He was a good ten feet behind the defense, the poor goalie left to face Lars one-on-one.

As the goal horn sounded, Ryan skated down the ice. Normally he would’ve changed after he sent the pass or at least after the goal, but he went to Lars. He could see Lars about to get in his brother’s face again, so he put himself right in his path. He pulled him into a celebratory hug and spun them so Lars was turned away from the Otters. Finally, blue eyes settled on him and he saw the second Lars Nilsson, the determined younger brother, disappeared and Lasse reappeared.

“That was sick,” Ryan said loudly. He punched Lars’s shoulder, earning a grin.

“Your pass was pretty perfect,” he agreed.

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Your goal, dummy.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had better.” Then he lit up. “Hey! We’re on the ice together!”

“First and only time I’ll get a point for you scoring.”

Lars seemingly forgot to rub the goal in his brother’s face, since he skated with Ryan back to the bench to accept a line of fist bumps. The last few shifts of the game, Lars was mellower. Not completely himself, but a much more recognizable version. Ryan could feel the team relax around him, like air settling back in their lungs after a deep dive.

They lost 2-4, Lars’s two to Anders’s one, but the Otters were clearly more acquainted with the Nilsson Show and knew how to capitalize on it. At the start of the game, Ryan would’ve thought the loss would devastate Lars. Instead, he took it calmly and seemed content that he had at least outscored his brother.

Chapter 14

Lars

They were flying directly from Ohio to Calgary, not even getting a break between the game and being shuttled to the airport. This time they were mercifully in a secluded area where fans and reporters couldn’t find them, giving Lars time to decompress. Lars enjoyed playing against his brother in a perverse sort of way. They were both competitive and not sentimental, and it let Lars get out some of his years-old frustrations with Anders for leaving. He also hated what it did to him, the inevitable crash into an awful, all consuming headspace that felt like it chipped away pieces of his soul. He didn’t like himself when he was around Anders, and he hated that it wasn’t even really Anders’s fault. His brother, for all his faults, was rarely the instigator when they went at it. Of course the worst part of a game against Anders was⁠—

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Shit.

“Mormor,” he answered cheerfully. “How are you feeling? I missed seeing you at the game.”

“I’m better,” she said, though her scratchy voice hinted otherwise. “Just because I’m not at your game doesn’t mean I’m not watching. Or that you can be mean to your brother.”

Lars looked around sheepishly, remembered no one on the team was Swedish, and said, “It wasn't so bad. I didn’t even punch him this time. And just one penalty! I thought you’d be proud of how well-behaved I was.”

She clicked her tongue. “I know what you called him. What if the children hear you say such things?”

Lars finched, vividly remembering when he called his brother a cunt. It was a word he’d heard in locker rooms as a young boy, a word treated with harsh reverence among the other boys as they used it to tear each other down. He’d used it as casually as his teammates…until the day his grandparents heard him and made it extremely clear they wouldn’t tolerate their grandson speaking that way.

“But Morfar, everyone says it.”

“You will not,” his grandfather had said sternly. “And if this environment encourages this type of language and behavior, we can remove you from it if you can’t control yourself.”

Every time the memory hit him, he felt the blood drain from his face anew. One cuss word wasn’t worth losing hockey, so he’d obediently refrained, even when his peers made fun of him for it.

…but it had slipped out during the game. He hadn’t meant it to. He literally only said it because he knew it would piss off Anders (and that no one else would even know what he was saying). But there were cameras everywhere, especially on Lars, and he should’ve expected his grandma to be watching.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You did. And you’ll apologize to your brother.”

Lars made a face but didn’t argue. He’d add it to their sparsely used text message chain, mostly filled with bare bones updates on upcoming visits and family events. At best, Anders would acknowledge the comment with a 👍; more likely he’d leave it on read. 

“I will,” he promised. “How was the game? Did I look spectacular and way faster than Anders?”

“You are faster, Lillen. He’s still stronger, though. You played well. That goal after the penalty!” She crooned happily. “Too bad you can’t be on a line with Russell, you two would have all the points.”

“That’s what I told him!” Lars realized how wide he was grinning and how excitedly he was talking, and reined himself in. “What do you think Baltimore’s chances are?” he said more seriously, hoping she’d take the bait.

“Too early to say, but they’re having a better start than last year. As long as you and Russell keep producing⁠—”

“We will.”

“—and Voronin does his job, you stand a chance. Start by winning your next game." She coughed and then grumbled indistinctly.

“You should be resting,” he chided. “I’ll call you in Calgary, okay?”

They said their goodbyes and Lars texted his brother before he could claim to forget. That left him with…he checked the airport display for their flight info, and saw their flight was delayed another hour. Great.

He wandered from his seat down the empty concourse, searching for a distraction. He wasn’t allowed to go far—they were in a section reserved for private charters—but he needed to do something, get out of his head. He found a line of TVs, each with a different channel but no sound. Towards the end, several showed sports highlights. After a cursory glance at football, baseball, and basketball, he finally found one with hockey. Nothing from their game yet—it appeared to be league highlights from yesterday—but he stood there watching with a detached sort of interest. They cycled through teams, and soon it was the Prowlers on screen.

Losing. Badly, it seemed. Again and again. Without the commentary, it was hard to know the specifics, but the clips showed sloppy plays and lots of goals against.

“The Prowlers aren’t doing good, huh?”

Lars jumped at the interruption, then shrugged as Ryan settled in next to him, so close their shoulders almost touched. “Guess not.”

“You seem happy about it.”

Lars didn’t even realize he was smiling until Ryan mentioned it. He frowned instead. “I wouldn’t say that.”

He wouldn’t deny it, either.

“Former teams can be…complicated. Like old hookups or exes.” Ryan gave him a sideways glance. Lars said nothing. “Why’d you leave the Prowlers? And don’t give me that bullshit about competition or shaking things up or whatever. You wouldn’t be happy they just got shut out if nothing had happened.”

Lars chewed the inside of his lip. He knew he could double down on the bullshit, he could tell Ryan to mind his own business, he could say just about anything and Ryan wouldn’t hold it against him. He didn’t want to give the real answer, the wound too raw and personal, but he didn’t want to lie and completely dismiss Ryan’s interest.

“Politics,” he settled on. It was vague enough he didn’t have to out himself or call out anyone, but it was admitting Ryan was right to suspect there was more to his move across the country.

Ryan nodded in acceptance. “Sucks.”

The broadcast changed to another team, then another, and they stood there watching. Eventually it got to the Austin Rangers, and it tickled an old memory.

“Didn’t they draft you?” He waited until Ryan grunted. “How many teams have you been on?”

Ryan shoved his hands into the pockets of his joggers, fists obviously clenched. “Five, plus an AHL team.”

“Wow.” Lars had no idea if that was a good thing or not, or if it’d even been his choice for any of it. “Do you miss any of them?”

“No. I mean, I would’ve stayed at any of them if they’d kept me, but once they traded me…” He made a noise, one that Lars couldn’t easily interpret but that held a bitter edge.

“And you enjoy when they lose?”

“I wouldn’t say enjoy, but I don’t shed any tears when they get knocked out of the playoffs.”

Lars nudged him with his shoulder. “Bet you enjoy it when they can’t kill a penalty and they realize what they lost.”

Ryan blushed ever so slightly but rolled his eyes. “I get scored on plenty.”

“You really don’t. And what about that pass you sent me up the boards? Perfect angle, perfect speed. If I have to corral that puck, I don’t score. I promise, only an idiot would think you weren’t one of the best players on the Crabs. Or in the league,” he added. “You’re top tier in face-offs and PK.”

The real problem was that Ryan wasn’t flashy and he was given the hard minutes: the defensive zone starts, the penalty kills, the batten-down-the-hatches situations that were 100% necessary and easily overlooked. Those contributions didn’t make the highlight reels, and if they did, they didn’t resonate with viewers as much as a goal or spectacular save. Defensemen tended to have the same issues getting recognition, with only their goalie appreciating their work.

It didn’t help that Ryan would never own his own successes. Maybe Lars could help him work on that.

“You don’t have to say that,” Ryan said after a long pause, “but I appreciate it.”

“Anytime. And I’ll keep saying it until everyone believes me.”

“It might take a while. I’m pretty forgettable.” More than just his complete belief that it was true, there was something icy in the way he said it.

Before Lars could figure out how he might thaw Ryan’s self image, a few of the guys from the team came by.

“Look what we sniped from Jake’s bag,” Bergsy said he waggled his eyebrows and waved a deck of cards at them. “Wanna play?”

“Poker?” Lars asked while bracing himself for disappointment. He hated poker.

“Nah, man,” Johnny said. “No fun without chips. We’re gonna play Go Fish. You guys in?”

“Sure.” Ryan clapped a hand on Lars’s shoulder and started steering him back to the waiting area and away from the wall of TVs. “I call dealer.”

* * *

In the locker room after practice in Calgary, Lars was plotting how to ask Ryan out for drinks again. Was it better to suggest the hotel lobby? Or get a group of them to go out together and then just monopolize his time? They’d sat next to each other on the plane again, and on every bus ride, and Lars enjoyed knowing who he’d be with. They didn’t watch anything or share music, but they’d talked or enjoyed each other’s silence. Lars hadn’t realized he’d missed that kind of easy friendship; it was so satisfying, he could ignore his other feelings.

As he was about to work up the nerve to ask, Ryan rudely spoke first.

“We’ll be in Montana in a few days.” He stood at the entry to the locker room, facing the whole team. “You know what that means,” he said, a declaration that was greeted with cheers that Lars didn’t understand. “Let me know if you can get tickets. I really appreciate it, so thanks in advance.”

Then he started canvassing the benches asking who would be getting tickets and then coordinating what sounded like a bar excursion with those who said yes. By the time Ryan made it over to him, Lars gathered that Ryan wanted other players on the team to acquire tickets to their upcoming game versus the Montana Mustangs, and in exchange Ryan would buy the tickets and take the team out for drinks in Billings after the game. What Lars didn’t understand was why.

All NHL teams allowed players from visiting teams to purchase tickets, but the limit was two per player. Lars could imagine needing a couple more, but the sheer number boggled his mind.

“You wouldn’t be willing to help me get tickets, would you?” he asked Lars. “I think I’ve got…” (He did some math on his fingers.) “...fourteen so far.”

“Fourteen?” he blurted out. “Why do you need so many?”

“My family lives there.” He said it almost apologetically, like it was inconvenient to have family or to try to get tickets for them.

“How big is your family that you need more?” For Lars, even at its biggest, his family would’ve included his brother, his parents, and his grandparents. Their father’s parents had died before Lars was born, and both his parents were only children, leaving them with only distant second cousins Lars had only ever met a handful of times. Of course with Amanda and the kids, they’d gained a few, but nowhere near enough to need more than fourteen tickets.

“Well, I have five sisters, and three of them are married with kids. I’ve got my mom and dad, my grandma and grandpa, plus my grams and pap, and if I can wrangle some for my cousins⁠—”

“Okay.” Lars puts up his hands. “You can have mine.”

The beatific smile that lit up his face made Lars’s heart do an uncomfortable somersault. “Thanks!” Ryan pulled out his phone. “What’s your Venmo?”

“I said you could have them.”

“Yeah, thanks, but I always buy them. I’ll buy them off you, no worries.”

Lars was painfully aware that he made significantly more than Ryan. And yes, the tickets were prorated— and the Mustangs were in a five year slump, so the tickets probably weren’t very expensive—but the sheer number Ryan was going for couldn’t be cheap.

But he also knew he’d want to pay if their positions were reversed. “Lnilsson14,” he said instead of protesting.

Ryan’s face made an aborted shift, like he was going to roll his eyes or grimace when he heard the “fourteen” but he stopped himself. “Got it. Send them when you can. We’ll also go out to drink after the game as a thank you. An old buddy owns a place near the arena.”

“Will your family be there?” The prospect of seeing Ryan’s family at the game piqued his interest; meeting them in person made him weirdly nervous for reasons he chose to ignore. “At the bar?”

Ryan shrugged with one shoulder. “Some of my sisters and brothers-in-law might. Thursday night makes it kinda inconvenient, so I know my parents and all them won’t be able to make it out. Long drive back to the ranch.”

Lars, who had already more than doubled what he knew about Ryan’s family, was startled that there was still more coming. “Ranch?”

Ryan gave him an unreadable look before answering, “I grew up on a horse ranch. It’s over an hour outside Billings.”

“Oh.” Lars had no idea what to do with this information except to commit it to memory for later examination. “Cool.”

After an awkward few seconds where Ryan seemed to be waiting expectantly, he patted Lars’s shoulder and moved on down the line to ask Jake about tickets. Lars sat there, both pleased to have helped and disappointed he’d forgotten to ask about going out tonight.

Chapter 15

Lars

They won in Calgary, a good effort from the team that earned Vorny his first shutout of the season. After the game, Coach Thompkins pulled Lars aside.

“You’ve been doing well. I didn’t want you to think that I’m keeping you on the second because I'm not happy with your play.”

Lars was skating well and getting goals. He knew he had an ego about his play (and a well earned one, in his opinion), but he didn’t give a fuck about labels. First line, second line, third, fourth…as long as his minutes weren’t affected, they could make up a fifth line for all he cared. But he also appreciated his effort being acknowledged, so he nodded.

“Thanks. And I don’t mind, really. Starting to get chemistry going with Tomas and Laure.” A pause, then he couldn’t help adding, “Besides, RJ is handling the first line. Wouldn’t want to fix something that’s not broken.”

Thompkins had a great poker face but Lars saw something cross his eyes. “RJ’s been doing great,” he said begrudgingly, as though he couldn’t believe his experiment had worked (or more likely, that his attempt to punish Lars had backfired). “Obviously I’ll keep him on the first line in Montana for his family.”

“And because he’s earned it.” Lars’s smile probably had a dangerous glint to it, because Thompkins immediately conceded.

“Of course. But once we’re back in Baltimore, we’ll⁠—”

“It must be nice to have a team with basically two top lines,” Lars said, pushing his luck. “Especially when one centers the PK and the other the Power Play. Always a top line ready to follow a special teams situation.”

Thompkins narrowed his eyes. “You looking to coach this team?”

“No, sir. But I’ve been in the playoffs every year I’ve been in this league, and I’d like to keep that streak going, so I do plan to speak up when I see opportunities for us to improve our odds.”

“You do realize this looks like a demotion for you, right? That doesn’t bother you?”

Lars snorted. “My resume is built on medals, trophies, and Cups. I’m on pace for fifty goals this season on a team that hasn’t even gotten above a Wild Card spot since my brother was drafted. I’ll be fine.”

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, had always worn 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 were loud.

“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.

Ryan was handsome. Lars wasn’t blind. He’d known that from day one. He radiated kindness and was polite to a fault, and Lars had seen first hand how easily Ryan charmed fans, teammates, reporters, refs, pretty much everyone. Tonight he was ten times better looking, his eyes clear and smile bright as he soaked in his family’s love and support. The confidence that he normally lacked, unable to assert himself, was finally shining through and it made him the center of the room.

Their gazes met—inevitable given how much Lars was staring—and he held out hope Ryan would make his way over. All he got was a smile and a wave before one of his brothers-in-law stole his attention back. It wasn’t a rejection, he knew that, but it stung like one. The hurt led him to the bar and a strawberry daiquiri so strong he could barely taste the strawberry over the booze.

When someone sat beside him, too close and warm in the crowded bar, he looked over with a scowl and the intention of shooing them away, only to be met with familiar coffee-colored eyes.

“You really like strawberry, huh?”

It took Lars a full thirty seconds to process what the words were and who had said them, then he broke into a grin and hugged Ryan. “I missed you!”

Ryan stiffened briefly, then relaxed into the hug. He might have even held on too long (though Lars didn’t trust his judgment on that) before he pulled back and frowned at him. “Are you drunk?”

Lars nodded grimly. “Probably.”

A moment’s hesitation. “Are you upset about the lines? I didn’t know it would last this long and⁠—”

“What?” Lars scrunched up his nose. Why did everyone think he’d care about that? “No, I don’t care.”

“Then what are you upset ab⁠—?”

“They didn’t tell me you were #14,” he said sorrowfully. “I asked for the number and they gave it to me. I didn’t know I was taking it from anybody.”

“Oh.” Ryan looked around awkwardly. “Don’t worry about it. They asked me first.”

Of course they did. Because they knew Ryan and knew he’d agree. He was too nice, too apologetic about taking up space on the roster that he’d never make waves. Asking had been performative at best, though at least they’d gone through the motions.

“I do worry,” Lars whined. “I could have been…what’s seven times three?”

“Twenty-one.”

Lars nodded. What an ugly number. “I could’ve been twenty-one. It’s a bit of a stretch to say I’m three times better than Anders since I haven’t won the Cup three times, but⁠—”

“Nilsy.” Ryan put a hand on his shoulder, licked his lips, then leaned in and said, “Lasse. It’s fine. I’m over it. 75 is a perfectly adequate number.”

Lars pouted. “It’s a goalie number.”

Ryan made a face. “Yeah, kinda. But it’s fine. I don’t care about the number. I care about the jersey.”

“The jersey has the number on it,” Lars said slowly, not understanding what Ryan meant.

“I care that I’m on a team,” Ryan clarified. “I play for an NHL team and I get to put on that jersey every game day and play. That’s the important part.”

Lars couldn’t really disagree. He held much of the same attitude, which was why he couldn’t get worked up about the first versus second line nonsense. There was a difference, though. His blasé approach had nothing to do with the fear Ryan seemed to have, but Lars was about four drinks too far gone to be able to articulate any of that (even if he was just the right amount of drinks in to actually want to say it instead of keeping his mouth shut). Instead, he had to settle for something easier.

“You’re a really good hockey player,” Lars said earnestly. “I’m glad I get to play with you. Except not at the same time. But the same team. Yeah.”

Ryan stared blankly at him before shaking his head and laughing. “Me too. Look, let’s get you some water and then I’ll find someone to take you back to the hotel.”

“Nooo,” Lars whined. “I like it here. Everyone is nice to you.”

“Enjoy it while you drink your water, okay? You’ll thank me in the morning.”

And then with painful clarity, Lars pictured what a morning waking up next to Ryan might look like. The warmth beside him. Was Ryan a morning person or did he need a cup of coffee to be functional? Did he like the right or the left side of the bed? What type of toothpaste did he use? What⁠—?

Like swatting away a fly, he shook his head to dispel the thoughts. Right. Water and sleep. He needed to get back on track before he said or did anything stupid. Something he couldn’t undo.

“G’night, Ryan,” he hiccuped. “Enjoy your party. Your family seems awesome.”

“Night, Lars. Seriously, water.” He pointed sternly at him. “And don’t worry about the number. If I don’t care, you’re not allowed to care.”

Then he hopped off his bar stool and disappeared back into the crowd, taking Lars’s only hope of a good night with him.

Instagram: Player Takeover

[A series of Instagram Posts featured on @bmorebluecrabsnhl, each with a different player as the photographer.]

A photo of Jake Campbell, Lars Nilsson, Pierre Lauren, Logan Stewart, and RJ Russell, each holding a camera.

Caption: It’s November, which can only mean one thing! That’s right, it’s our annual Instagram Takeover! We hand over the camera to our players and let them share the real Crabs experience with fans! 🦀🦀🦀

A series of pictures of Blue Crabs players during practice. In each, the players smile as they pose together. The players are grouped together: the forwards with their lines, the defensemen together, and the two goalies with a net behind them.

Caption: Captain Jake Campbell shows off his team

📷 @jakecampbell

A series of pictures where players hold up their phones and show off pictures of their dogs.

Caption: 🐶 🐕

📷 @goalielogan1998

A series of selfies with Ryan showing off different blue crabs around the practice facility, including in the locker room, in the cafeteria, in the gym, and in Coach Thompkins’s office. Most of the selfies include Ryan with another player, who shows off the crab. In the last picture, there’s only Ryan as he makes a disgusted face with a red crab.

Caption: 🔵🦀

📷 @ryanrusselljunior

A series of pictures that show several players posing with their cars. They range from small, practical cars (owned mostly by the rookies), to larger, more ostentatious cars (owned by the more established players), to even larger SUVs (owned by the players with children). Most notable are Pavel Vlasic’s Lotus Elise and Connor Carter’s beaten up Ford pick-up truck.

Caption: Vroom vroom 🚗

📷 @pierrelauren93

A series of pictures of candid shots of the team during practice. There are pictures of the team in the locker room and on the ice. Every picture includes Ryan Russell, always smiling.

Caption: Chillin’ with the boys

📷 @lnilsson14

Chapter 16

Ryan

Ryan had spotted at least three women and two men at the bar that he’d consider spending the night with. They were all cute, all happy to be included in his celebratory gathering, and all had made it perfectly clear they’d gladly follow him back to his room. He’d told himself he’d talk to them before making a decision, a plan that had gone to hell the moment he’d found a mopey Lars at the bar.

It was really hard to avoid having feelings for the guy when he was just so damn sweet.

He did forget he slept with you, he reminded himself, but it was getting easier and easier to give Lars the benefit of the doubt on that one. His recent grievances against Lars were ones that seemed to have happened without any malice or intent on Lars’s part, and he was doing his best to make up for them. He got himself sloppy drunk because he was upset about taking a stupid number away from Ryan.

Ryan was begrudgingly forced to admit that the younger Lars who’d forgotten him wasn't necessarily the man Ryan knew now, and he would likely apologize profusely if he ever found out about it.

Stupid hot Swede and his being a decent guy. Ugh.

So no, Ryan didn’t end up with someone to keep him warm that night. And unfortunately, as he passed Lars’s room, silent and dark, he realized he couldn’t really regret it.

* * *

Back in Maryland, Ryan hoped throwing himself back into routine would help untangle his more and more entangled heart. The problem was that his routine now included Lars to a degree he couldn’t ignore.

At practice, Lars was there, kindly handing over his turn on the team playlist to Ryan and always making sure he had two protein-enriched snacks so he could share one. And apparently Coach Thompkins had liked what he’d seen lately, because he used Ryan and Lars interchangeably in most drills, like he couldn’t decide which center was his top line and which was second. Ryan admittedly liked the trust that was implied from the coaching staff, how they now valued his efforts and contributions, but it was low-key putting him into panic mode with the pressure to perform. He’d been on the first line before for other teams, and inevitably he hadn’t been able to maintain that standard for long enough to matter.

(Admittedly, he also enjoyed that it brought Lars shoulder-to-shoulder with him on the bench or while taking a knee, listening to Thompkins or one of the assistant coaches. And it gave him the perfect excuse to watch Lars, to really watch him because duh, they were expected to do the same things, right? There weren’t any feelings involved.)

Outside of practice, when he should’ve been free to clear his head and go through some much-needed Lars detox, he found himself more and more in Lars’s orbit. There was another youth practice and it was just easier to invite Lars, who’d genuinely enjoyed it, than to try and bribe another teammate. Though Lars insisted on taking Ryan out for dinner this time (sans beer, thankfully; they both would’ve been in trouble), and that led to texting once they got home to their respective apartments, which in turn led to inside jokes and a plan to watch Swedish movies on their next flight so Lars got the chance to feel culturally and linguistically superior for once.

And while Ryan was glad their teammates hadn’t seemed to notice them hanging out together (or didn’t care), Tanner did.

“He always gets onto the bench next to you,” Tanner pointed out during a replay. He pointed to the screen as Lars specifically avoided the empty door and climbed over the bench to sit next to Ryan. There wasn’t even space: he’d had to force Jake to move over, then had stolen Ryan’s water bottle before talking to him about his last shift. Not that Tanner could know either of those last parts.

“It’s strategy,” Ryan said lamely then offered Tanner the bag of chips in his hand to distract him.

The offering succeeded: Tanner immediately grabbed a handful and stuffed his face, giving Ryan a pleased and crumby smile. It only bought Ryan a few minutes though, because as soon as the bag of chips was gone, he turned to Ryan with a serious look.

“So you guys are friends now?”

“I guess.” His phone burned in his pocket. It had vibrated a few times while they were watching game highlights, and while that didn’t guarantee there were messages from Lars waiting for him, Ryan’s fingers itched to find out. “We’re teammates who hang out.”

Tanner nodded approvingly. “Seems a good fit. You sound way less stressed this season. Unless you’ve been eating my brownies?” He paused and looked at Ryan hopefully, then pouted when Ryan shook his head. “Well,” he huffed, “those would probably work better, but this is almost as good. And he’s going to need your help staying mellow when you guys go to Portland next week.”

Their West Coast road trip came right before their short Thanksgiving break. It was always a tiring trip because of the jet lag, but there’d been whispers that Portland had it out for them this year. Or at least had it out for one of them. Whatever his reasons for leaving the Prowlers, Lars’s former team didn’t seem happy about it. And if the game versus Anders and the Otters was anything to go by, Lars met aggression with aggression.

Not that Tanner would know any of that.

“How do you know anything about Portland or my schedule?” he asked suspiciously.

Tanner grinned proudly. “I’ve been watching the games,” he said. “Not just the highlights. Did you know they’ve really been singing your praises lately? That McHockey guy thinks you’re playing your best hockey. And when I do miss a game and watch the highlights, they show you way more often. Congrats, bro, you’re doing awesome this year. I bet they’ll give you that new contract, no problem.”

Ryan’s stomach twisted. He had been playing good hockey, and he was happy his coaches agreed, but if he thought too much about the contract or even really stopped to enjoy being on the top line when his future was so unresolved, he worried the whole thing would unravel and he’d be exposed: a bottom-six forward without a team. He couldn’t afford to get stuck on the high moments if it meant leaving him unprepared for the low ones.

“Why does it take an old one-night stand joining my team for you to pay attention to hockey?” he joked.

“Dude, that’s peak drama. Of course I’m going to watch your telenovela of a life. Like that thing where your boy hates his brother?” He did a chef's kiss. “They showed you and your fam in Montana, too. The Crabs are really about giving the people what they want, and what we want is drama to make it through the confusing hockey parts.”

It did seem like Tanner was acquainted with the storylines, player names, and their schedule more than he seemed to get the hockey. He continued to ask Ryan the same questions over and over that he’d been asking the past two years, like what icing and offside were and why they sometimes didn’t have a goalie in net. Ryan didn’t mind, always amused by Tanner’s nod of understanding even when it was clear there was absolutely zero understanding going on.

“I’d rather just do the hockey parts.” The drama and politics had never been part of the appeal for him; unfortunately the two went hand in hand with sports.

Tanner stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry. “You’re no fun.”

“So I’ve been told. Often. By you.”

“Bet Lars never complains you’re boring.”

“Tanner, stop pretending you’re my mom and setting me up on play dates. I made a friend, happy?”

“Very. Just make sure you’re being the type of friend who’s got his back while he’s squaring off against his old team.”

“You make it sound like it’s a shootout from an old Western.”

Tanner’s eyes lit up. “It is like that!”

They ended up watching Tombstone and then old Clint Eastwood movies, with Tanner forgetting about hockey all together while Ryan wondered if Lars had ever seen a Western and if he might like to watch one on the flight.

* * *

Whatever mixed feelings Lars held for his former team, it wasn’t the same as when they’d played the Otters. There was a sharpness to him, edges that were prickly, but unlike in Ohio, he seemed just as likely to hurt himself as someone else. Before, his nerves had honed his focus into a self-assurance that made it inconceivable for him to do poorly; when the team went out for dinner the night before the Prowlers game, Lars looked so nervous he might be sick.

“You look awful,” Tomas said unhelpfully.

“You okay?” Jake asked with captainly concern.

“I just…” Lars’s leg shook under the table so violently Ryan wanted to reach out and stop it. “I don’t want to play poorly. Against them. I don’t want them to be glad I’m gone.”

Ryan understood that painfully well, and from a few sympathetic nods from others around the table, they weren’t alone.

“You’ll do fine,” Jake said with the confidence of a man who had played his entire career for the team that had drafted him and would likely finish it there, too.

Lars’s shaking got so bad that when he accidentally hit the edge of the table, three drinks nearly tipped over.

“Jesus, Nilsy,” Vorny said as he eyed Lars like he had the plague. “You need to calm the fuck down. You’re wound up tighter than a corkscrew.”

Lars looked bewildered, but at least he was sitting still. “A what?”

“You need to relax,” Vorny said. He took a sip of his beer and gave Lars a calculating look. “You should get laid.”

“Yeah, right!” Tomas practically yelled. “No one in this town’ll touch him with a ten foot pole.”

There were some chuckles until Jake scowled at them. “I don’t care what city you’re in,” he said. “Hockey town or not, there’s always someone. And that’s for us ugly guys. With a face like yours, you won’t have any trouble.”

“Oh, uh…” Lars went bright red, his blond eyebrows disappearing as he did a pretty good impression of a tomato. “I don’t know about that…” 

Vorny shrugged. “It would help you relax,” was all he said, then politely changed the topic. Even as the rest of the team talked about their upcoming outing to the Columbia River Gorge for team building, Lars looked painfully uncomfortable. 

Ryan didn’t get it. He’d gone for hook-ups every now and then when he needed the distraction. Vorny was right, it usually helped with blowing off steam before a stressful game. Why wouldn’t he⁠—?

It suddenly clicked. While he wasn’t completely sure what Lars’s sexual orientation was, he’d gotten the impression in Geneva that Lars was gay. He was new to the team and probably didn’t feel comfortable bringing someone back to the hotel where he’d risk being seen with another man. Ryan wasn’t an idiot—he knew plenty of teams and players were huge dicks to their queer players. The Blue Crabs were the only team where Ryan had felt safe being openly bi, but it’d taken almost a full season before he’d gotten to that point. Lars had been with the team a whopping four months and maybe didn’t realize he wouldn’t get shit for it. Even if he’d gotten the vibe the team was accepting, it was one thing to know and another thing to do.

All through the evening, Lars’s tension was palpable, a physical presence weighing him down. His shoulders sagged and the dark lines under his eyes—barely noticeable when the evening began—looked like bruises. The poor guy was in desperate need of a distraction, and short of offering himself as tribute (and he did not appreciate the way his dick liked that scenario), Ryan struggled to find a way to help.

As dinner ended and the rest of the team started to drift apart, some heading back to the hotel for bed and others arguing the benefits of staying out for a couple drinks. Ryan took his chance: he grabbed Lars’s sleeve as he left the table and pulled him aside.

“Hey,” he said, feeling as nervous as a kid about to ask out his prom date. “If you need a wingman who won’t judge who you pick up, lemme know. Vorny’s kinda blunt but he’s got a point. You’re…” He tried to find a delicate way to phrase it, gave up, and said, “You’re kind of a mess.”

Lars stared at him with blue, unblinking eyes. “And who do you think I’d be picking up?” he asked, voice off.

“I literally have zero idea who you’d be into.” Correction: I have one very specific idea of who you might be into, but that’s off the table. “I’m just offering. In case you needed the offer. From a friend.” God, why was he so bad at this? “Sorry, this seemed like a better idea in my head.”

“No, I appreciate it,” Lars said hurriedly. “Really. But I…” He shook his head forlornly. “Maybe another time. I can’t here.”

Ryan had no clue what that meant, but he knew he didn’t like it. Lars had left the Prowlers so abruptly and vaguely pinned it on “politics.” There were enough pieces to form a bigger picture and Ryan didn’t like the shape they were making.

“Well, how about we hang out?” He refused to give up so easily. Lars had declined the wingman offer, not the company, and leaving him to his own devices wouldn’t help him chill out. “In the hotel lobby, I think they had some card games, or we could watch⁠—”

“They have Xboxes you can borrow. And the NHL games,” Lars said. “I stayed in this hotel when I first moved to Portland. Before I got my condo.” He’d started in an excited rush, his usual spark briefly returning, but by the end it had fizzled out.

“Xbox sounds great,” Ryan said with more enthusiasm than he’d ever felt for video games. He was lucky hanging out with Tanner had at least given him a general understanding of the controls. “If you’re nice, I’ll even let you play as me,” he said with a wink and slung an arm around Lars’s shoulder.

“That’s not how it works,” Lars said. He relaxed into Ryan’s touch. “But I call the Blue Crabs.”

“Then I call Team Sweden,” Ryan countered. “I hear that Lars Nilsson’s not bad.”

Lars laughed. “He’s okay. Nothing like that Ryan Russell. Can’t wait until the next Olympics when he gets to lead Team USA to gold.”

“You’ve been playing too many video games. The real one’ll be lucky if he even makes the team.”

Lars shot him an outraged look and nearly tore away from Ryan’s hold. “I can’t believe you’re going to make me destroy Team Sweden just to prove you’re wrong. They’ll revoke my citizenship.”

“I’m sure you’ll sweet talk them into letting you keep it.”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Chapter 17

Lars

Lars didn’t get nervous before games. That was a well-documented fact. Excited, sure. Maybe even a little angry, if it was against the Otters. Nervous? No fucking way, and fuck you for suggesting it.

But his stupid, treacherous heart was nervous about facing the Prowlers. Which was so fucking stupid. Lars hadn’t done anything wrong.

Like an idiot, he’d thought he was doing a good job hiding it. When he was a kid, his grandparents had always known when he was lying or upset, or by contrast when he was excited or proud, but he’d assumed that was simply because he’d been young and that over the years he’d…gotten better at hiding it. But the way the whole team had looked at him since the flight out, Lars knew he was as bad as ever.

Lars hated pity and being babied, and it had grated on him that they were treating him like he was about to shatter. He’d gotten through his parents’ and grandfather’s death and Anders’s disappearance; a single game wouldn’t break him. All their talk about relaxing and not worrying only made it worse.

Which was actually a blessing, because it mercifully brought Ryan to his hotel room that night. Thank fuck he was too wound up to do any of the stupid ideas that his brain helpfully supplied when it heard “Ryan Russell and me, alone in my hotel room.” They shared a beer from the minibar and played Xbox until it was clear they’d stayed up well past Ryan’s bed time. Lars’s stress might’ve embarrassed him in front of the Blue Crabs, but it had orchestrated him spending a whole evening alone with Ryan. He got to see Ryan bleary-eyed and yawning, enjoy his sleepy smiles and terrible attempts at trash talk, and be impressed that Ryan took to the game so quickly despite having never played before. They ended with the Blue Crabs beating Team Sweden in eight of their thirteen matchups, though Lars couldn’t always tell if Ryan was letting him win.

Actually, maybe it had been terrible. As awesome as the evening was, it left his hotel room empty when Ryan eventually went to his own room. All Lars could hear and see were the empty places Ryan had just occupied; all he could feel was the way his heart ached for the company. He passed out easily, exhausted as he was, and drifted through dreams of dark eyes and strong hands, and the only person who actually offered to be there when Lars needed someone to get him out of his own head.

Yes, he sleepily jerked off in the morning, not even sure what fantasies fueled him but knowing heat rose in his cheeks when he ran into Ryan at breakfast.

“You ready to kick some butt tonight?” Ryan said around a cup of coffee, deep black and steaming. He didn’t drink caffeine, as far as Lars could tell, and there was definitely more stubble and less hair gel than usual, as if he’d only just rolled out of bed instead of hitting the gym early. Lars’s heart kind of melted.

“Always,” Lars said with a wink. He slid into the open seat next to Ryan, his own coffee a light brown that smelled more like sugar than anything else, with a pile of pancakes dripping in so much syrup it made Ryan wrinkle his nose. “Didn’t you see me last night? I was on fire.”

“Hopefully video game wins translate into actual on ice wins,” Ryan said dryly. Then they spent the rest of the morning doing a great job pretending there was no such thing as hockey and Lars hadn’t been stressed out about it the previous night. It was nice, actually. So nice he wanted to invite Ryan to his room again to play some more, but guilt stopped him. That and self-preservation. He liked Ryan too much as it was, and it was better for his self-control if they remained in supervised areas.

Though sometimes, when he saw Ryan smile and melted into those chocolate eyes, Lars forgot why he cared. If Ryan were into him, if this otherwise inconvenient crush were the least bit requited, would it really be so bad if they hooked up? If he was allowed to spend the evening playing video games with Ryan, who would ever know or care if they did something else?

The angry mobs that greeted them outside the rink answered for him: being caught would make their lives difficult. Made their careers difficult. He read unpleasant signs from former fans, heard their indistinct but definitely angry shouts, and endured their accusing glares as he walked calmly from the bus inside.

Their practice was closed to the public, thankfully, but that didn’t save Lars from the media. After they got off the ice, Lars was subjected to round after round of the same questions. Why’d you leave? What’s it like being back? Do you miss the Prowlers? Are you happy with your new team? On and on as he was forced to keep smiling and answer in ways that didn’t make anyone look bad, which basically meant saying absolutely nothing at all. Luckily nobody really expected anything from hockey players in interviews. All he had to do was drop phrases like “play hard” and “great team” and “focus on my game,” and everyone was satisfied enough to leave him alone.

“Nilsson,” Coach Thompkins called once he’d escaped.

Lars didn’t like the formal tone and almost turned around to walk back to the media room. “Coach?” he asked with less forced cheer than he’d mustered for the cameras.

“I’m officially putting you on the top line tonight.” He held up a hand before Lars could try to interrupt (he didn’t). “I’ve thought a lot about what you said about you and RJ, and I do think there’s something to it. But this is Portland, and I need my biggest guns up front.”

“Biggest guns?” he grumbled. “I think you mean biggest target.”

Thompkins shrugged. “Not much difference. If they’re after you, that’ll free up ice for the other guys. I’ll have Morgs and CC out with you as much as possible.”

Morgan Hayes and Connor Carter weren’t their best defensive pair, but they were the biggest. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Connor fight, but he’d gotten to see Morgan throw a few haymakers already this season. Part of Lars appreciated the support; mostly he resented the feeling he was being babysat.

“I can fight my own battles,” he said, chest puffed up. It was true in a more theoretical sense. He was faster than most of the other guys on the ice, and he wasn’t small by any means: in the rare instance he couldn’t avoid a check, it didn’t do much damage. He could stand up for himself, but he was literally only good at fighting Anders. He literally only wanted to fight Anders. The physics of fighting someone else must be the same, he reasoned. And it wouldn’t come to that. The Prowlers had been his team; they wouldn’t attack him.

“Of course. But I’d rather have them out there as a deterrent. I don’t want to set a precedent with these guys that we’ll have to deal with in Baltimore come March. We force them to play a clean game, we end it in sixty, we put it behind us and head into Thanksgiving with something to be thankful for.”

The only thing Lars was thankful for was a two-day break from practice, five days between games, and not having to visit Ohio for the American holiday. Win or lose, Lars’s discomfort at being back in the place he’d called home for seven years wasn’t something he particularly enjoyed. He could only hope that next season, it wouldn’t be so bad.

The butterflies that had taken up permanent residence in his stomach only let him be when he was on the ice. During practice he regained his footing, and once the team stepped out for warm-ups, the worry disappeared. He knew from experience that once the puck dropped, he’d barely notice anyone on the Prowlers. Unless his opponent was Anders Nilsson, he generally never noticed anyone on the opposing team except in vague terms. “Easy to get around” or “good poke check” or “blocks shots” were the ways he referred to opponents in his head, just hockey-shaped obstacles to learn how to bypass. Honestly, he’d already done it to his former teammates, knew their weaknesses so that he could cover for them. Now he just had to implement it in reverse.

Then the Prowlers blindsided him. Just as Lars was sinking into that sweet headspace where he kicked ass, before the National Anthem could play, the fuckers did a god-damned video tribute to him. He was forced to awkwardly stand there, cameras on him, and watch the montage and listen to praise from his former teammates. He had to drag himself enough into the world around him to wave at the roaring fans and their cacophony of boos and cheers. All he wanted to do was play, but he was forced to publicly acknowledge what was probably meant as a heartfelt farewell to a valued player but in reality felt like a middle finger, a taunt directly from Rob Mackey himself.

It was admittedly a nice video. He hoped they posted it online so he could send it to Mormor.

And if that hadn’t messed with his process enough, he made the mistake of actually looking at his opponent at the opening face-off.

“Marley!” he said in delight when he saw the Canadian center who’d clearly taken over Lars’s spot. He even had a silver-lined A on his chest to show it. “They made you an alternate captain! Congratulations, it’s well earned.”

“Piss off, Nilsson,” growled Marley, a man who’d never said a cross word to Lars in the four years they’d played together (including the time Lars accidentally hit him in the head with a puck during practice). “Hope Baltimore isn’t too disappointed to learn you’re an overrated piece of crap.”

Lars stood there, stunned.

“Fuck off,” Jake yelled, standing up his full six foot four height and drifting menacingly towards the center dot. Marley gave him the finger (or tried; with his glove on the effect was weakened), but did mercifully shut up. Lars, very admirably in his opinion, resisted the urge to knock him over as the puck dropped and instead won the face-off, which was almost as satisfying.

It didn’t get better when the game started. Any time he touched the puck, boos rang out through the arena. Whenever he tried to get himself back on track, any positive momentum was literally knocked out of him. He was checked and slashed and definitely tripped at least once, a constant barrage as his old team took it out on him for daring to leave. The refs let them, too—not a single whistle except once when the puck went out of play. It was hard to keep them as nameless faces when they kept forcing Lars to pay attention to them and hear their chirps each time they nailed him to the boards. Like it or not, he had to face the Prowlers as people instead of anonymous players.

He learned quickly that he didn’t much like the Prowlers as people.

On a certain level, he understood it. They felt betrayed by his apparent abandonment, even though the truth of it had nothing to do with them. He’d basically fled Portland and never looked back. But while he’d never been close friends with any of them, he hadn’t anticipated them to come after him like this. 

“You okay?” Ryan asked after the second.

No, he wanted to say. I'm bruised all over, my former teammates are trying to murder me, and all I have to show for my efforts are two measly shots on goal. They’re laughing at me on the bench, in the stands, at home. They’re happy I’m sucking and on a team that has slim playoff prospects.

“Great,” he said with more forced cheer than he’d mustered all day. After Ryan had tried to help him, he didn’t want him to think the effort was wasted. “Gonna score any moment.”

Anyone else would’ve laughed and let it go; Ryan eyed him critically. “If you don’t score,” he said carefully, “it doesn’t mean anything. If we don’t win, don’t get it in your head that it’s a moral victory on their part.”

“It’d be nice to win, though.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Obviously. But no matter how they hyped up this game in the locker room or what people are saying online, no matter how big it feels right now, this game is basically meaningless. Big picture, it’s game twenty of eighty-two in year eight of probably another decade of games. Who fucking cares?”

Ryan rarely cursed. Hearing him so casually do so now was like an electric shock.

I care, he almost said, then realized he actually didn’t care. It wasn’t him to care about this game more than their game next week or the one a few days ago. Like he didn’t care about the first- or second-line bullshit, eighty-two games a year (seventy-nine games, he mentally corrected; he wanted to be first line against Anders), it didn’t matter to him who was across the ice. How fucking dare the Portland Prowlers try to take that power away from him?

“Who fucking cares,” Lars agreed.

“Atta boy.” Ryan slugged him on the shoulder. “But honestly, I do kinda want to win. They’ve been jerks all night.”

“Jerks” was only the tip of the iceberg, but he could tell that was Ryan being his meanest. It was cute, the way he always tried to put the most positive spin possible on everyone but himself, and Lars appreciated that even Ryan’s positivity couldn’t rescue his opinion of the Prowlers. Though Lars had about a dozen harsher words than “jerks” he’d use.

He hoped the third period would go quickly, but given the 0-0 score it wasn’t likely. The longest games were the ones you were losing by a lot and the scoreless ones, in his opinion. He just wanted to be put out of his misery so he could regroup and come back stronger for having gotten through this.

Unfortunately, he was both right and wrong. The period dragged until about halfway through, when he was tripped so blatantly on a breakaway that the refs couldn’t ignore it. Better yet, after much discussion among the zebras, they awarded him a penalty shot. Lars had won a Stanley Cup in this very building, and the place had never been so loud as when they booed him while he awaited the go-ahead on the shot.

Lars stared down Knapp. Knapp was a good goalie. Not Vezina Trophy caliber, though he’d never say it to the man’s face, but solid. He was left-handed, his blocker and glove in opposite hands to most netminders, which made him a little more challenging to face. For some people, anyway. The ref blew the whistle, and Lars started forward at a leisurely pace.

Knapp was guaranteed to catch anything Lars shot to the left. Knapp knew that Lars knew this. Knapp would expect him to make a move and go blocker side. That was what Lars had usually done in practice, even to the right-handed goalies. He’d beaten Knapp that way dozens of times.

Lars picked up speed and started his move to the blocker side…

And shot left.

It went in the top corner, right above Knapp’s outstretched glove, his body out of position as he’d committed too far to the right post.

There was a deafening silence, one that Lars and the Blue Crabs did their best to fill. Their shouts were just starting to echo through the arena before the boos drowned them up, somehow louder than ever. Lars didn’t care. He skated past Knapp and raised his hands like a gladiator, asking if they were entertained and knowing they were despite themselves. They gave him the finger, they pounded the glass, they screamed at him, and yet he knew they’d be talking about this game for years.

Lars Nilsson left us and then the bastard had the audacity to score on a fucking penalty shot when he came back.

Damn fucking right he did.

When the Prowlers rallied to first tie and then eked out a game winning goal in the last minute of play, Lars didn’t even care. He blew the crowd a kiss before he disappeared back down the tunnel and was immensely glad he would never have another first game back in Portland.

Thompkins was the only one with a dour face in the locker room. Everyone else clapped Lars on the back and congratulated him on the penalty shot.

“Knapp looked like he was about to break his stick.”

“You see their bench? They wanted to fucking murder you, Nilsy!”

“They’re never gonna forget this game.”

“Never gonna live it down either.”

But it was Ryan’s quieter praise on the bus to the airport that had him grinning the whole flight back.

“That was probably the sexiest penalty shot I’ve ever seen,” he joked.

“It was just a shot. I didn’t even do anything fancy.”

“You were totally in his head,” Ryan said. “You didn’t need a move. That’s what makes it sexy.”

As much as he laughed it off and told himself it was a teammate complimenting another teammate, he could never unhear Ryan Russell calling him sexy.

Around the League: Thanksgiving Update

Abigail Cunningham, The Baltimore Sun

THEY SAY THAT THANKSGIVING Break marks when the NHL season starts for real. In the past thirty years, 80% of the teams who are in a playoff position in late November continue to remain in playoff positions through the course of the season. Let’s see how our Blue Crabs are doing so far.

Eastern Conference

Atlantic Division W-L-OT (Pts)

Boston Militia 17-3-0 (34)

Quebec Fleurs de lis 11-5-5 (27)

Toronto Terrors 10-5-4 (24)

Metro Division W-L-OT (Pts)

Ohio Otters 16-4-0 (32)

Orlando Pythons 13-8-0 (26)

New England Nor’easters 10-6-4 (24)

Wild Card W-L-OT (Pts)

Philadelphia Gliders 10-7-4 (24)

Ontario Ice Owls 11-7-1 (23)

Baltimore Blue Crabs 10-7-3 (23)

Pittsburgh Riveters 10-8-2 (22)

While the Blue Crabs are by no means at the head of the pack, they’ve had a much better start than they’ve seen in recent years. It’s easy to credit the change to Lars Nilsson’s surprising addition to the roster, but the team has also made significant changes elsewhere like the hiring of a new defensive coordinator Jean-Jacques Blanchard and retooling their special teams. Other line adjustments have been made to balance out Nilsson’s appearance, and the team seems to be finding not only chemistry, but success, running what’s effectively two top lines with Russell as the other top centers.

But it’s also worth noting that the team’s schedule so far has worked in their favor: the bulk of their games have been at home. We’ll really see how this team is doing in December: of the fifteen games scheduled, only four will be in Baltimore. And let’s keep in mind that Charlie Monroe, General Manager of the Blue Crabs, hasn’t been promising the playoffs this year.

“It’s a long-term goal, obviously,” Monroe said at the start of the season, “but this type of rebuild takes time. We’re improving each year, working with our young guys, and we’ve made some big changes in the off-season that’ll help us get closer. I’d love to see the guys get a chance to fight for the Cup this season, but if I have to wait another season to get that stronger core to make a real run of it, then so be it.”

How long, exactly, will Crabs fans have to wait, though?

“We’ve got a good group of guys,” Captain Jake Campbell said recently. “Lots of talent, lots of depth. We get our foot in the door, who knows?”

“We’ll make it,” Lars Nilsson said at the end of the pre-season. “I promise.”

I, for one, certainly appreciate the confidence. Let’s hope Nilsson’s promises are as good as his slapshot.

FAN POLL: Will the Crabs make the playoffs this year?

YES: 63%

NO: 37%

Chapter 18

Ryan

After finally getting through what could only be measured as a full hour of goodnights to his family, Ryan was finally able to sneak off to his old bedroom (the smallest room in the whole house, barely fitting the double bed he’d used throughout his childhood and the teensiest of desks that he’d used on the rare occasions he actually did homework) to unwind. He loved his family, but dear God. They were what could generously be labeled as “close,” but really felt more like overbearing.

The house was packed for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow with lots of extended family in town, himself included. He’d ridden with the team bus to the airport and then gotten on a commercial flight to Montana, making use of the few days off to visit home. When he came to town for games, he rarely got to do more than drink with his sisters, brothers-in-law, cousins, and the rare aunt or uncle who could keep up with them; he liked coming for family events where he could sit down with the older and younger generations.

It was also exhausting. His nieces and nephews tired him out, but he enjoyed being the “cool uncle.”

An uncle who was only seven years older than one of them, but oh well.

He dumped his duffle bag on his minuscule desk, changed into sweats, and climbed into bed. He had to prop himself up against the headboard to keep his feet from spilling across the other end, and with a bone-deep sigh, he settled in for aimless phone scrolling until he fell asleep. Except of course, as soon as he turned on his phone, there was a message waiting for him that would 100% take all of his attention.

where are you?? why aren’t you on the plane?

sorry i had my phone off

i’m in montana for thanksgiving

i took a flight to billings

It was nearly midnight on the East Coast, but almost immediately he got a reply.

i had to sit with tomas. TOMAS.

all he did was talk about some reality tv show. you owe me.

you could’ve sat by yourself

i TRIED. he took your seat.

Your seat. Ugh, that shouldn’t do things to him. When had Ryan become so easy? Though it did amuse him to think of Lars’s bewilderment when Tomas sat down next to him, and his brow furrowed in confusion as he no doubt politely engaged with Tomas on a topic Lars had neither interest in nor understanding of.

sorry

Next time you gotta get your headphones on quick even if you’re not listening to anything. Then he won’t talk to you

do you always go home for Thanksgiving?

usually can’t.

Last year we had a game the day before and after. Lucked out with the timing this year.

I get a whole 36 hours in Montana 😂

What about you? Swedes do Thanksgiving?

no.

Mormor would if only to have me visit more, but we don’t celebrate

you do Christmas together?

Christmas is her favorite and mine too.

I always go for Christmas if I can, otherwise we FaceTime so I can say hi to my niece and nephew

She lives with Anders, so I avoid visiting except for big holidays

Ryan knew Lars’s grandmother was with Anders’s family, but he hadn’t quite processed what that would mean for Lars and the holidays. In his head, he envisioned Lars making a yearly pilgrimage to Sweden every summer to visit his family. His non-Anders family, anyway. He knew that’s what a lot of NHL players did, particularly those without a wife and kids of their own. Ryan spent at least two weeks on the ranch between clinics and training, though he hoped a good contract would allow him to make a semi-permanent home in Baltimore this summer.

so you visit your brother?

every summer.

He really wished this conversation was in person so he could gauge how far to press for details. Aside from first hand experience and a whole lot of rumors, Ryan didn’t really know shit about Lars’s family or relationship with his brother. Was it weird to pry? Did it make him sound predatory like the media when they asked him about Anders for sound bites? Or as a teammate and a friend, was he allowed?

Deciding that Lars was a big boy and could tell him to fuck off (or avoid his questions if he wanted to, especially via text), he decided to ask the obvious.

and you both survive this how…?

i stay in the guest house.

and am under constant supervision.

also anders cheats and has his kids around all the time, so i can’t say anything too mean in front of them

and yet you’ll punch their father in front of them during games

Ryan deleted this last message before he sent it. Lars and his brother’s relationship was hardly his concern, and he’d pushed his luck enough already.

so what are you going to do with your two whole days off and no family responsibilities?

i have no idea

if you were here i’d make you go with me to rangoons but inconveniently you have “family responsibilities”

bummer, right?

the worst. and very inconsiderate of you.

what if i promise to go with you to rangoons when i’m back in town on friday?

but we have practice saturday morning.

not as much fun when we have to get up early the next day

sorry i’ve got an early bed time anyway

am I keeping you up?

He was, technically, but Ryan wasn’t going to tell him. Not when he was enjoying it. Lars wanted to talk to him. Lars missed him. Lars wanted to hang out with him in a few days. Stupid for Ryan to want these things, but it was a temptation he wasn’t strong enough to ignore at the moment.

nah just winding down

if you’re really bored, you could watch tomas’ reality show

give you two something to talk about on the next flight

you clearly need to sleep

you’re talking nonsense

good night ryan, enjoy your family trip

night lasse

try to stay out of trouble until i get back

* * *

Lars didn’t stay out of trouble. The next afternoon, between rounds of peeling potatoes and tearing apart bread for stuffing, Ryan checked his phone and found a video from Lars waiting for him. Worried about what the contents of said video might be, he disappeared into the bathroom to play it and nearly dropped his phone in shock.

“Hey guys, say hi to my buddy Ryan,” Lars said, the video in selfie-mode to show Lars in hockey gear. The video flipped to the main camera, showing a crowded locker room full of men and women of all ages, all also wearing hockey gear in a mix of colors that screamed pick-up game. They waved eagerly and shouted at the camera a mix of “Hi, Ryan!” and “Hi, RJ!” 

Lars panned the whole locker room before reappearing in frame. “Have fun in Montana. I’ll try not to get better at hockey while you’re gone.” Then he gave a goofy smile, his hand coming up to block the camera before the video ended.

I’m sorry but did you just play a pickup game??

He hated that there was no immediate response. It made him resort to drastic measures: going to social media and searching the Lars Nilsson and Blue Crabs hashtags. He soon found some posts from a few hours ago about a mysterious player showing up at a local pickup, playing way too well and earning suspicion. Some of the blurry pictures definitely showed Lars, but he’d opted for a plain black jersey and what must have been his helmet and hockey pants from Team Sweden. It was barely a disguise, though the cage instead of a visor did help obscure his face more than usual.

There was no chance he’d ever make it through a whole pick-up without getting recognized, though. The more recent posts were mostly just some variation of “LARS NILSSON CAME TO OUR PICKUP!” usually with at least three exclamation marks and a picture.

omg you really DID play in a pickup game

you’re crazy.

It was frustrating that he didn’t get a response until hours later, his phone vibrating in his pocket. He immediately scrambled to take it out, no longer caring if his family watched his enthusiasm with suspicion.

i might have and i might be

there’s a rink a few blocks from my apartment

i saw they had a pickup this morning so i went

it was fun

i’ll bet

if you weren’t already a fan favorite, they’ll love you for that

they’ll love me more when they see us in the playoffs

if we can make it i’m sure they will

i promised you we would

i haven’t forgotten

“Boyfriend or girlfriend?” one of his sisters asked knowingly.

“Neither.” Ryan turned off his phone and shoved it back in his pocket. It took more effort to scrub the stupid smile off his face and pretend he had no idea what she was talking about. “What?”

His sister shared a look with their mom before shrugging. “Nothing, apparently.”

Blushing furiously, Ryan ignored his phone the rest of the day. It took a monumental effort to do so, especially when he could feel the occasional ping of a new notification. In bed that night, when it would be safe to talk and let his face make whatever goofy expression it wanted to, he could get Lars to tell him all about his adventures in beer league hockey. For now, he needed to focus on his family.

Because if even one of his sisters realized he had a crush on a teammate, they’d never let him live it down. Worse, they might encourage him to do something incredibly dumb like tell Lars Nilsson he wanted nothing more than to relive that one night in Geneva.

* * *

Their practice on Friday was absolutely brutal. Thompkins apparently saw two days of recovery between then and their next game and decided to torture his team. Ryan hadn’t done so many suicides since high school and he was gassed after five laps trying to keep up with Lars. Lars’s seemingly unending stores of speed and stamina only egged on Thompkins, who pushed the rest of them more and more until Lars took a hint and slowed down.

If Ryan had promised literally anyone else on the team to hang out after that practice, he would’ve taken a raincheck. Promise up and down to make it up to them next time. Instead, Ryan took a hot shower, some ibuprofen, and dragged himself to Rangoons without complaint. Because he was an idiot who liked Lars Nilsson more than his own body, apparently.

Lars was already at the bar with an order of crab rangoons, a margarita in front of him and a clear, fizzy drink at the empty seat next to him.

“This isn’t some vodka abomination, is it?” Ryan asked suspiciously as he sat down.

Lars looked insulted. “What? No. I know you only like ‘healthy’ drinks.” He did actual air quotes, his voice lilting deeper into his Swedish accent than usual as he said it. “It’s seltzer water with lemon. Fancy water.”

Probably not his first choice, but Ryan appreciated the thought. “Thanks. Though regular water’s fine too.”

“Americans,” Lars scoffed, nose wrinkled. “How was your Thanksgiving?”

“Good. Probably gained five pounds from all the food, but it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without overeating.”

“Americans,” Lars said again with fake disdain, then laughed when Ryan glared at him.

They slipped into conversation first about Ryan’s trip home, Lars wide-eyed and asking never-ending questions about what a real American Thanksgiving was like. He went through two margaritas in the process, licking the salty rim (Ryan did his best to ignore his tongue moving nimbly along the glass) and then downing it with long sips through the straw.

Then it was Ryan’s turn to demand a play-by-play of Lars’s adventure at pickup. He’d clearly enjoyed his incognito moments while everyone tried to figure out what was up with the new guy dangling around everyone.

“I didn’t shoot, though,” he promised. “I passed so much that my coaches as a kid would’ve been proud.”

“Bet you were a hero when they figured out who you were,” Ryan said and popped a rangoon in his mouth.

“Of course! I was in the locker room longer than I was on the ice, taking pictures and hanging out.” He sighed wistfully.

“What?” Ryan asked. “Looking forward to retirement when you can clean up in local beer leagues?”

“It’s not that. There was this couple there. They get to play together all the time.” Lars’s eyes were distant as he said it, like he was picturing the couple. “Hockey’s my favorite thing in the world. Seeing them…I guess I was thinking it must be nice to get to share that with someone you care about.”

The idea sat heavily between them, the earlier lightness dried up. It wasn’t that they hadn’t talked about real things before. They were clearly good enough friends to talk about family and former-team drama instead of the superficial topics like reality shows and favorite flavor of protein shake. Relationships were a different beast entirely. They shouldn’t be, was the problem. If they were really friends, of course they could talk about this.

The trick was, Ryan didn’t know how to talk about it without his chest hurting. He dreaded finding out Lars’s ideal partner was someone he could never be…or someone that was just like him, because either way, it couldn’t be him. There was no reality where he and Lars Nilsson were anything but a one-night stand. One that maybe Lars had enjoyed at the time but ultimately forgot about.

And still, masochist that he apparently was, he didn’t change the subject.

“Would you want to date another hockey player?” Ryan blurted out, then worried he’d have to backtrack. Lars had never admitted to being into men, and Ryan worried he was implying something he shouldn’t be. How would he explain that he knew Lars liked men? Maybe he could sidestep it entirely.

But instead of deflecting or getting defensive, Lars looked thoughtful. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Seems complicated. I…I’ve rarely even hooked up with other players.” His eyes darted to Ryan like he was watching for his reaction.

As nonchalantly as he could, Ryan said, “Same. A few times when I was younger, but only once since entering the NHL full time.”

Lars let out a breath through his nose. “Mind if I ask if it was a teammate or…?”

“Another AHL player, back when I had a two-way contract. From another team. We’d known each other in Montana, which made it easier, I guess.” Ryan stared at his glass and traced a line through the condensation on the outside. “Like you said, it’s complicated with other players. Probably more so if you’re on a team together.”

A pause. “I haven’t slept with another NHL player. The last time I was with another player, it was back in Juniors. An American or a Canadian, I think.”

Ryan tensed. “Yeah?” And then like an idiot, he asked, “Anyone I’d know?”

Lars shrugged and laughed. “No idea. It was after we won gold, and I was drunker than I’ve probably ever been. Well, no. Not as drunk as the first time I won the Cup. But the drunkest I’d been up until that moment of my life.”

“Oh,” Ryan said as neutrally as possible. He wasn’t sure what he expected or wanted Lars’s answer to be, and that should’ve been a satisfying one. Lars didn’t remember him because he probably didn’t remember much at all of that night. It wasn’t personal, just circumstances outside their control.

“He might not have made the NHL,” Lars said, more to himself than Ryan. “I feel like I would’ve noticed him at some point. Of course, I barely notice anyone on other teams, so really all I can say with certainty is he doesn’t play for the Prowlers.” A smile. “Or the Crabs, I suppose.”

Ryan offered a weak smile. He didn’t know how they’d gotten here, but he didn’t like it. “That’s probably for the best that you haven’t run into them again. It’s awkward enough with other players. It’d be worse with a teammate.”

“It might be worth it for the right person,” Lars said quietly, though he wouldn’t meet Ryan’s gaze.

“Well,” Ryan said more bitterly than he meant to, “I know I’m not worth the effort.”

Lars looked up then, brow knit together in a scowl. “I don’t like when you do that.”

“Do what?” he asked defensively. Tell the truth?

“Put yourself down. You are completely worth it. And I don’t mean just…” He waved a hand as if to indicate their conversation so far. “You’re worth the ice time and being on the top line and being praised and recognized for what you do on the ice.”

Heat crept up his neck. “I’m playing hockey,” he said. “You’ve had too much to drink if you think I’ve done anything special.”

“Maybe you haven’t had enough if you think you’re not,” he grumbled and pouted.

“I couldn’t even keep up with you at practice today.”

“No one can keep up with me, that’s nothing to do with you.”

“I think the real issue is you think too highly of yourself and you don’t understand that not everyone does.”

Lars scoffed. “I think highly of myself because I’m good. I’m allowed to acknowledge that I’m good. That’s why people dismiss you. You don’t…what’s that saying…” He snapped his fingers and grinned. “You have to toot your own horn.”

This was a whole different type of uncomfortable than the relationship stuff. “I don’t like to brag.” That was an understatement: in fact, he hated it. Bragging required him to put himself out there, and when he had a bad shift or bad game, eyes were on him, comparing him to what he said he was and finding him lacking. If he didn’t say anything, people could judge for themselves. And they had. For years now, they’ve been judging and seen a bottom-six forward that was expendable.

“Well, you need to learn to like it. I can only brag for you for so long.”

Embarrassed frustration made him clench his fists. “You don’t have to⁠—”

“I kinda do, since no one else wants to.” Lars finished off his drink, his tongue swiping away a clump of salt from the corner of his lips. “Guess I’ll just have to convince you, first. Might be a better use of my time.”

There was a heat in his voice and a hungry look to him that made goosebumps rise along his arms. The words were innocent enough, even with the hint of challenge there, but Ryan could easily pick up the…not threat, exactly, more like a promise. But there was an intent for sure, and Ryan didn’t know if he should avoid it or seek it out.

“Good luck,” Ryan said, then reached into Lars’s space to grab a menu. Not that he needed it—Rangoons hadn’t changed its menu since it opened—but it served as a barrier between them. “Know what you want?”

“Yes,” Lars said with more conviction than a dinner option warranted. “I think I finally do.” When Ryan raised an eyebrow and shot him a questioning look over the menu, he grinned broadly. “Crab cakes, obviously.”

Thankfully, they didn’t discuss anything deeper than their next few games for the rest of dinner.

Chapter 19

Lars

Lars was fully aware that pursuing any sort of romantic or sexual relationship with Ryan was a bad idea. He had nothing but reasons to avoid it, first and foremost on the list being his disastrous end in Portland. Despite their less than stellar playoff potential, Lars liked being on the Crabs. He knew Ryan liked being on the Crabs. Why jeopardize that?

And up until that stupid dinner in Rangoons, Lars could’ve let things be. He would’ve had a crush on a teammate and tried to impress him and hang out with him and leave it at that. He could acknowledge that his attraction was a him-problem, and he’d deal with it because he was a grown-ass man who could handle his shit.

He’d been completely resigned to this…until he’d heard Ryan deem himself not good enough.

“I know I’m not worth the effort.”

Honestly, how dare he?

Lars acknowledged that yes, there was effort involved. The teammate thing made it complicated. He also acknowledged that in some ways, Ryan was right. Lars had looked at the same situation and decided that the risks weren’t worth it. It was Ryan’s phrasing, his internalizing that the problem was in some way him, that made Lars completely ready to rethink his priorities.

Ryan and him mutually agreeing that their careers weren’t worth risking: acceptable.

Ryan believing Lars (or anyone else, for that matter) didn’t think he was worth some awkwardness: completely un-fucking-acceptable.

So Lars started coming up with a plan. A plan where he’d…he wasn’t sure, exactly, but he would do his best to prove to Ryan that he was absolutely worth it. That he was awesome and deserved the good things he wanted for himself. That he was a valuable human being and incredible hockey player and fuck whoever thought otherwise (even if that person was Ryan himself).

Now, if Ryan decided later on that Lars was the one not worth it, Lars could accept that and take the rejection as gracefully as he could.

Step one of his plan: boost Ryan’s hockey confidence. Lars had already been working on this all season. He felt he’d made decent strides in getting the Blue Crabs to see Ryan’s talent, and it annoyed him just a smidge that the only one it hadn’t worked on was Ryan.

“This game is going to be dull,” Lars said in the tunnel. They were about to play the Manitoba Aviators who’d, gently put, “hadn’t been doing well.” They sucked, unfortunately, and were riddled with injuries. They were near the bottom of the league and on the backend of a road trip that no doubt had left them exhausted as they’d been beaten by the Terrors, the Militia, and the Riveters in quick succession.

“Don’t you jinx us,” Bergsy said. It was both joking and stern. He was clearly concerned about the bad luck Lars was calling down upon them, and either didn’t want to appear concerned or didn’t think he could actually scold Lars about it.

“No such things as jinxes,” Vorny said, causing a stir of incredulous laughs and looks. Like all goaltenders, Vorny was notoriously superstitious. But one of his superstitions appeared to be not acknowledging his superstitions. Go figure.

While the rest of the team erupted in a cacophony of examples for and against luck existing, Lars pulled Ryan aside. “Let’s play a game.”

Ryan’s face scrunched in confusion. “A hockey game? Because I don’t know how to tell you that one’s about to start⁠—”

“No. Well, yes, but I meant we should play a game while we play.”

“A game within a game,” Ryan deadpanned. “Gameception?”

Now it was Lars’s turn to make a bewildered face. “What?”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll watch that movie on the next road trip. What game do you have in mind?”

Lars perked up, pleased that Ryan was not only on board for Lars’s idea, but that he was already planning out their in-flight entertainment for the upcoming weekend. “Let’s play Follow the Leader. I’m out first, so I’ll do something during my shift that I want you to try and duplicate.”

“So if you drop the gloves and fight some random guy, I gotta try to do the same on my shift?”

“Yes, exactly. Though I probably won’t fight anyone.”

“Anders hasn’t been traded to the Aviators, so it does seem unlikely.” Ryan hesitated. “And what if I can’t do whatever you did?”

Lars shrugged. “Then it’ll be your turn to do something and then I’ll try to match it. Just try not to block too many shots, I’m not good at that.”

Ryan considered a moment. “Are we keeping score…?”

“If you want to. It’s just for fun.” He tapped Ryan’s skate with the blade of his stick. “Like I said, this’ll be an easy game. We’re just trying to keep ourselves entertained.” He took off his right glove and offered his hand to Ryan. “Loser buys dinner?”

“There are easier ways to get a free meal,” Ryan joked, but he shook Lars’s hand. “Loser buys dinner. Don’t pick any place too fancy.”

In the first shift, Lars didn't get a chance to do much. He did a completely unnecessary between-the-legs move that let him get around someone and get a shot off. Ryan’s attempt wasn’t as successful—the puck didn’t quite make it through his feet—but Lars could tell it was more because Ryan had never tried it than because he wouldn’t be good at it.

Over the first period, Lars tried a few other flashy moves that were regular parts of his repertoire but that he knew Ryan shied away from. Despite Ryan’s complaints, they were relatively even. Lars wasn’t always successful on his own attempts, and sometimes Ryan pulled off a move better than he had.

The last shift of the period, Lars never got the puck, so it was Ryan’s turn to set the stage. He ended his shift by launching a shot right off the face-off that almost took the goalie by surprise.

“You won it to yourself,” Lars said with an exaggerated pout.

“And shot it.”

“You’ve seen my numbers. You could’ve just won it and that’d’ve been hard enough for me to do.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “You’re not that bad. You won, like, two today.”

“Ha! Did you just chirp me? Besides, I’ll have you know, I’ve won three of the seven I’ve taken.”

“Wow, that’s not bad.”

“You’ve won all of yours, haven’t you?”

“One of them wasn’t clean,” Ryan offered with a shit-eating grin.

Good. He was having fun.

During the second, Lars entered the zone with both opposing defenseman already in position to block his path to the net. Needing to wait for backup, Lars took the free ice in front of him and went behind the net and circled back around. Everyone had caught up but no one was set up to do much more than he could, so he took another lap. There were some options that time and maybe he should’ve passed it or taken a shot. Instead, with his bet in mind, he took another pass behind the net. It seemed to confuse the other team’s defense and two guys broke off to pursue him, leaving Jake wide open in front. Lars sent a sneaky pass as he faked going behind the net again.

Jake didn’t score, but he ripped a shot right into the goaltender’s mask. The resulting whistle when the puck ricocheted out of play gave Lars the chance to skate leisurely back to the bench.

“Three laps, RJ,” he said as Ryan passed him. “I wanna see three laps.”

“Who in their right mind even does two?” Ryan grumbled. He was smiling, though, and had that determined look in his eyes that often resulted in a goal.

Ryan’s line didn’t score, but he pulled off an impressive four and a half laps before he was forced to do a drop pass to Jordy. While their earlier moves might go unnoticed by the casual observer, there was no mistaking that Ryan was deliberately copying Lars. They must’ve looked exactly the same skating in circles and refusing to pass, the only difference was Lars had to go counter-clockwise to keep the puck on his forehand while Ryan went clockwise.

“Look at RJ,” Jake said and bumped Ryan on the top of his helmet. “He’s out Nilsson-ing Nilsy.”

“We’re tied,” Lars protested in mock offense.

“I don’t know how y’all are keeping score,” Jordy said, “but you need to do a recount. RJ’s lighting it up.”

“I’m not—” Ryan caught Lars’s stern look, then sighed. “I’m holding my own,” he said.

“Fuck yeah, you are,” said Tomas, pulling Ryan into a side hug and shaking him wildly.

“Knock it off,” Thompkins said. “None of you have scored yet, so stay focused. We should be up by three right now.”

Late in the second, Lars was trying a wrap-around for no other reason than that they were relatively simple to attempt but nearly impossible to score with. It probably looked like he was coming in to do some more laps, and the already frustrated and embarrassed Aviators weren’t having it. They crowded too close as he tried to come around the net with the puck, and in the resulting collision, Lars’s stick came up and (allegedly) hit an opponent in the face.

He grumbled in Swedish the whole way to the penalty box. Sitting in the box, he watched the replay and wasn’t one hundred percent convinced it was his stick, plus it looked more like it got the opposing defenseman on the shoulder rather than the head, but there was no point arguing over it. Refs weren’t prone to changing their minds (and even less likely to change their calls).

His expectation was that the Crabs would kill the penalty and then Ryan would tease him for having taken the easy way out of their bet. Unfortunately, only thirty seconds into the Penalty Kill, Ryan also took an unlucky penalty.

“I know I said Follow the Leader,” Lars said when Ryan stepped into the box, “but I thought it went without saying to avoid the penalties.”

Ryan gave him a look. “I hate you.”

Lars scooted over to make room on the bench. “If you didn’t understand the rules⁠—”

As Ryan sat down, he elbowed Lars in the chest. He also did his best to take up as much room as possible as he took off his helmet and gloves.

“It’s unfortunate that I’m out first,” Lars grumbled a few moments later. The Crabs were nearly done killing Lars’s penalty, and he was ready to head back on the ice. “I hate killing penalties.”

“You have to do what I did before I got the penalty,” Ryan said. Ten seconds until the penalty was done. “You gotta do that or I’m up a point.”

Ryan had slid across the ice on his belly, collected the puck he’d intercepted, and just barely managed to get it out of the zone.

“Give yourself the point now,” Lars said and opened the door. One second left before he had to sprint into the zone to help out. “Never going to happen.”

He did make an effort, but the opportunity never presented itself. Even doing his best, they weren’t able to clear the zone long enough for him to scramble to the bench for a change. They did survive long enough for Ryan’s penalty to end, but made the mistake of icing it.

“I’m gassed,” Lars said, leaving room for Ryan to take the face-off. “Please win this so I can sit.”

“We’re rarely on the ice together, y’know,” Ryan teased. He didn’t go too close to the dot, buying them a few more seconds of rest before the ref lost his patience. “Sure you don’t wanna stay a bit longer?”

It was tempting. If he thought he could physically do it, he might try it, but it took all his effort not to bend over and gasp for air. “Maybe next time we take stupid penalties at the same time,” he managed, a little breathier than he’d have liked.

“It’s a date,” Ryan said, and Lars didn’t have enough time to process those words before he was forced to line up at the wing and sprint to the bench as soon as it was safe to abandon his team.

In the locker room between periods, Lars brainstormed his next moves. What could he try to get Ryan to do that would show off his awesomeness in a way that made it as obvious to everyone else as it was to him? He had a few ideas in mind but most were situational—he couldn’t step on the ice and guarantee he’d get a chance for a breakaway. He’d have to play it by ear.

In the third period, Ryan got a shift before him. On an entry into the zone, he made a beautiful shot through the defenseman’s legs. It went right on net, low and hard and forcing the goalie to decide whether to cover or clear it. He opted to cover it, but waited just long enough that he ended up getting snowed by Ryan.

“Snowing a goalie,” Jake said and let out a whistle. “Bold move. You gonna copy that one?”

Ryan was currently skating away from a defenseman who looked like he wanted nothing more than to knock Ryan on his ass.

“If someone else goes near that crease, it’ll be the goalie who tackles them. I’ll try shooting through someone’s legs. Seems safer, yeah?”

As it turned out, shooting between someone’s legs was harder than it looked. An opportunity would vanish before Lars could even decide if the resulting shot would go anywhere near the net. Luckily, when he was behind the net retrieving the puck, inspiration struck. The two defensemen were in position to block his path on both sides. Lars picked up the puck and chipped it over the net, aiming right for the goalie’s numbers. He hit his mark and the puck rolled down his back and stopped right on the goal line. Feeling something hit him, the goalie reached behind himself instinctively to try and cover the puck, instead knocking it right into the back of the net.

The cheers erupted just as Lars was crushed between Jake and Tomas in a celebratory hug. He hadn’t actually expected that to work (it never had when he was a small child trying it in practice), and he was delighted to see he’d pulled it off.

“Highlight reel goal right there, Nilsy,” Ryan said at the bench and offered Lars a fist bump. “Not sure I can do it.”

Lars’s heart sank. What had been an exciting moment of a childhood dream coming true now made him feel guilty. If Ryan couldn’t do it, would this whole thing backfire?

“That never works,” he said apologetically. “You don’t have to⁠—”

“Nah,” Ryan said. He didn’t seem disheartened at the prospect of repeating the move himself. If anything, he looked excited by the challenge. “I might as well try it.”

The game was rapidly drawing to a close. On Ryan’s next shift, he only got the puck once as the Aviators made a push to recover from the embarrassment of Lars’s goal. Lars didn’t fare much better, mostly spending the forty seconds dodging blatant attempts to smash him into the boards, even when the puck was clear across the rink. Though it did keep Lars on the edge of his seat when Ryan next took the ice.

The shift started boringly enough with what should’ve been an icing against the Crabs but a weird bounce slowed it down enough for Ryan to get there ahead of the Aviators and pick it up behind the net. He was briefly alone, uncontested and with no real pass options. It was a chance, albeit a rapidly disappearing one.

Lars watched with something akin to horror as he saw Ryan start to lift up the puck. The goalie was ready and a defenseman was coming from Ryan’s left to slam him into the boards. Ryan was going to get hurt because of their stupid bet and it would be Lars’s fault.

What ended up happening was much more glorious than a failed bounce off the goalie. Hell, it was better than Lars’s successful bounce. No doubt seeing his window vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, once Ryan had the puck on his stick, he took a few steps forward and slung it lacrosse-style into the open net.

There was a whole second of silence before the bench and stands erupted in chaos.

“HE DID A MICHIGAN, BOYS!” someone screamed. “RJ did a fucking Michigan!”

The goal didn’t save Ryan from getting knocked over from behind, but he was immediately helped to his feet by his linemates, who in turn almost knocked him over with their enthusiastic hugs and pats on the back. Lars had seen Ryan’s quiet, pleased smiles when he scored or did well; this was a million times better. He radiated pride as he accepted the cheers and applause. It was the type of jaw-aching smile that would hurt after, the soreness a reminder of the wonderful moment that had caused it.

Lars was barely able to give Ryan a fistbump as he skated by the bench before heading back to center ice to finish his shift, but Lars’s heart swelled with too many emotions for him to pin down and name. It was all he could do to concentrate enough to get through the game— a solid 4-1 win over the downtrodden Aviators—and keep his shit together until they were in the locker room.

“You lucky bastard!” He stomped over to Ryan, who’d only managed to take off his gloves, and threw his arms around him. He was briefly tempted to kiss him, knowing everyone would pass it off as excitement, but he ignored the impulse. Instead he squeezed him tightly as he lifted him in the air and shook him a few times, much to the delight of the team who whooped and hollered like Ryan was a conquering hero. Lars reluctantly stepped aside to let others offer their praise. It was hard not to hover, but he wanted to make sure Ryan got the full experience.

“Player of the Game,” Coach Thompkins announced as he came in. The man was friendly enough but rarely looked particularly happy. Tonight he wore the expression of a proud father, pleased with his son’s performance and how it reflected on him. He handed Ryan the comically large plastic crab that they passed around to the player who they deemed had the best game.

Ryan held up the crab as his spoils of war, the team saluting the honored crab and its owner. The team was riled up so much by the victory that after their obligatory media check-ins, most of them went to Rangoons to celebrate and toast the crab.

With the first part of his plan well under way, Lars started to figure out how to implement the next (and most important) phase.

Step two: flirt shamelessly.

The Golden Duo: Nilsson and Russell Lead Crabs

Abigail Cunningham, The Baltimore Sun

IT’S NO REAL SURPRISE that Lars Nilsson has been a standout on the Blue Crabs this season. His goal and point totals speak for themselves, and while not as impressive as they have been in previous seasons, he’s within a stone’s throw of his usual numbers (last year he scored 52 goals and currently is on pace for 47). He’s been winning games, filling seats, and selling jerseys, which is no doubt exactly why General Manager Charlie Monroe leapt at the chance to sign Nilsson in the off season. And while fans are no doubt pleased with the results so far, some of the most exciting things happening have come from a familiar player in an unfamiliar role.

Ryan “RJ” Russell came to Baltimore halfway through the season just over two years ago. Since then, he’s mostly filled in holes in the third and fourth lines with occasional looks at the second. This year, he’s been centering the second line and for several stretches has been moved up to the first. Yes, Russell has performed so well that he’s pushed Nilsson out of the top spot. He’s on pace for a thirty goal season, the first of his career; last year he scored seventeen goals. What’s changed?

For answers, I turned to Mickey “McHockey” Hoack, a former Blue Crab who won the Stanley Cup with them back in the ‘70s. He’s been the Crabs’ color commentator for well over a decade, bringing his understanding of both the game and the franchise to fans.

“He’s playing with confidence,” McHockey said after the team’s recent game against Winnipeg. “He’s always been a talented skater, one of those reliable players who’s there to grind through the hard minutes. Now he’s showing finesse. He’s taking control and driving the play instead of reacting to it.”

And while that might be a satisfying answer for some, I, for one, still wonder: why now? What’s the impetus behind this newfound confidence? What’s driven this change to Russell’s game?

“I have no idea what goes on in that locker room,” McHockey continued, “but Big Nilly has seen Junior’s talent and is trying to get him to unlock it, which is just what this club needs. You could see it in the way their shifts played off each other versus the Aviators. They were challenging each other, and both of them answered the call bea-u-tifully.”

It’s an interesting idea, and there might be something to it. A lot of players have a competitive drive—to make it to this level, a certain amount of competitiveness is required—but it’s usually fueled by rivalries and the thrill of beating opponents. Russell, despite being one of the more outgoing members of the Blue Crabs, to my eye had always looked more reserved on the ice. Maybe what he needed was a friendlier form of competition: an in-house rivalry nudging him along instead of the more acrimonious ones we sometimes see around the league.

I don’t want to take away from anyone else on the team. Voronin is having an exceptional season in net. The team’s Penalty Kill is fourth in the league. The young talent is starting to look as good as the veterans. But if the Blue Crabs make it to the playoffs this year, it’ll be on the backs of Nilsson and Russell.

Chapter 20

Ryan

Ryan blinked awake against the too-bright light of the sun emerging through thick clouds right into his eyes. He groaned in annoyance at the disturbance and turned slightly to avoid the light, trying to fall back asleep. He didn’t want to be on a plane on the way clear across the country to California. He wanted to go back to his dreams, to the fading image of intense blue eyes that could see right through him and the feel of strong hands on him. Hard lips pressed to his and not a single reason to push him away⁠—

His pillow shifted slightly beneath him, startling him more than the sudden sunlight. He jerked upright in his sleep, self-consciously rubbing his mouth to check for drool as he met Lars’s amused expression.

“Tired?” Lars asked, blue eyes bright with amusement. The corner of his shirt was wrinkled. How long had Ryan been asleep? More importantly, how long had he been leaning against Lars’s shoulder?

“A bit.” His voice was sleep-rough and he coughed to clear it. He also ran a hand through his hair, pulling more than necessary to try to wake himself up. “How long?”

“Pretty much since takeoff. You fell asleep during the first episode of Bay Area Babes. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Tomas you hate his show.”

“Was it that bad?” Ryan couldn’t remember more than an obnoxious intro.

Lars made a face. “The first two episodes made no sense, but by the third I liked the characters enough to see where it was going.”

“Characters?” He discreetly shifted in his seat to better hide his half-hard dick under his sweatshirt. “Isn’t it reality TV? Aren’t they real people?”

“Are you the same person during an interview?”

Ryan felt that he was pretty close to his media persona, but he knew plenty of guys had to put on a front. “Point taken.” He stretched and tried to ignore the way Lars watched him with a little too much interest. “Wanna play Xbox tonight?”

“I don’t think most hotels have them to borrow.” Lars said it apologetically, with this cute downward turn to his right eyebrow.

Ugh. Why was being friends with your crush so hard?

“I brought one,” Ryan said. “And the latest NHL game. They have you on the Crabs and everything.”

Lars lit up. “Really? Do they have my celly from last year?”

“I haven’t played it yet,” Ryan admitted. It wasn’t even his Xbox: it was one of Tanner’s extra game systems. Tanner had been excited to lend it to him and then dumbfounded when he realized there were NHL games he could’ve been playing to get a better idea “what Ryan even did all day that stopped him from smoking weed and drinking.” Luckily that was the point Tanner had fixated on and not the whole “Ryan needing an Xbox to play with Lars” thing and the implications thereof. “We can find out, though.”

“Sweet.”

Before Ryan thought better of it, he decided to ruin his mood by suggesting they continue watching Bay Area Babes.

“Okay,” Lars said as he dug his phone out of his back pocket. “I should warn you that you’re going to hate it.”

“But you love it?”

Lars shook his head grimly. “No, I hate it, too, but I like when I recognize places in Baltimore. It makes me feel like I’m a real Marylander. I’m also curious how Christian is going to sabotage the Dewaa brothers.”

“You’d love soap operas.”

Again, a grim nod. “Probably. We can try that next.”

* * *

They landed in San Francisco and were immediately shepherded onto a bus to the hotel. The team had picked this one specifically for its gym facility, and they were due for two hours of training before dinner. Ryan relished the chance to disappear into his body, to focus on his muscles working and not obsess over stupid Lars Nilsson. Or their game in two days. Or the one after that. And the next.

It was a relief to push himself physically, to find the perfect amount of strain that made everything else melt away to the point where he only had room to think about continuing to breathe. Afterward, as the trainer praised him and he enjoyed the endorphin boost, he quickly realized his mistake. Lars had a hundred kilowatt smile and a chocolate protein shake ready for him, and Ryan was too physically exhausted to mount much resistance.

“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 is wrong with 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.

“I’d like to kiss you,” Lars said, so close now his words tickled Ryan’s nose.

“Hmmm?”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks,” Lars confirmed, somehow understanding Ryan’s question better than he had himself. “Can I?”

Ryan barely gave a nod before the gap closed and their lips finally met. For a whole two seconds, it was chaste, tentative, and sweet. Then it was intense as Lars shifted his weight and was half on top of him. The kiss deepened, frantic as Ryan’s hand came up to tangle in Lars’s hair, just long enough to bury his fingers and grab on if he wanted to. Lars’s free hand went to Ryan’s hip, then found its way under his shirt.

While he chased kisses and got lost in the musky sweet scent of the man above him, Ryan’s legs parted to allow Lars to sink more onto him. As he slid into the space between Ryan’s thighs, it brought Lars’s hard dick in contact with his. Ryan was only half hard, but he moaned and thrust against Lars; it wouldn’t take much, not tonight. Not when his skin had been on fire all day, not after that stupid forgotten dream on the plane, not after denying himself the mere thought of this moment.

Lars’s hand moved up Ryan’s side, his thumb rubbing circles that felt as hot as a brand. When Ryan thrust upwards, Lars met him with a downward push of his hips, their dicks sliding together with the movement.

Old memories rushed forward, mingling with the new ones. Lars’s mouth, his hands, his cock⁠—

An empty bed, long gone cold.

Ryan jerked back from the kiss. With his right hand he pushed Lars back and held him at arm’s length; he couldn’t quite bring himself to untangle his left from Lars’s hair.

“What’s wrong?” Lars asked. He looked so adorable with that frown and kiss-swollen lips that Ryan was tempted to keep his worries to himself and go right back to where they’d left off. It’d be easier and fuck if he wouldn’t enjoy it.

Until after, when he’d wonder if and when Lars would leave. When he’d judge himself for going through with it without saying…what exactly?

“I just…” He didn’t know where that sentence was going. He was putting it into words for the first time, that elusive worry he’d never let himself linger on because it was a worry about circumstances that seemed impossible. “I just don’t want you to forget me again…or if this is only happening now because I’m almost somebody.” Once they start, the words tumble out. “Like if I go back to playing like I barely belong in the NHL⁠—”

“Whoa,” Lars interrupted. He put his hands on Ryan’s cheeks, a strangely grounding feeling that let him find the room to breathe. “Who ever said you weren’t good enough for the NHL?”

“No one, but⁠—”

“I’ve always thought you were a good player.” He sounded so genuine, looked so earnest that it hurt more.

“Maybe,” he said shakily. Why couldn’t Ryan believe him? “But you didn’t know I existed before Baltimore.”

“I—” Lars floundered a little. He gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing as he searched Ryan’s eyes for an answer. “I never notice the other team,” he offered apologetically. “I really don’t.”

“I know you don’t,” Ryan agreed and hated the way Lars relaxed slightly, like he was forgiven. And he mostly was. Ryan had thought he could overlook the past, but that was when they were trying to be friends. Trying to be something more…it made the future uncertain, and he couldn’t move forward with the past hanging over them, unanswered. “You didn’t notice me before, not even when we—” He didn’t want to say it. That would make it worse, make it so much more humiliating when this was hard enough. “You forgot me once already. What’s to stop it from happening again?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Lars confessed.

“That’s the problem.” Resigned to closing the door on tonight’s possibilities, Ryan sat up and faced Lars. “Until you can give me an answer, I don’t think this” -he motioned between them- “can go any further.”

Lars, bewildered as he watched Ryan’s hand, gaped at Ryan. “Why⁠—?”

“Sorry.” And he was. So so sorry. He really envied the versions of themselves that both knew what had happened between them in Geneva and could’ve figured this out months ago. But Ryan had just enough self-esteem to want Lars to remember their night in Geneva, to have seen him then like he saw Ryan now. He didn’t think Lars could actually forget him again…but he wanted to feel like Lars couldn’t move on as easily the second time. “I think you should go back to your room.”

Shock was slowly melting away. Lars didn’t seem to have a second emotion ready to replace it, his face looking crestfallen while his eyes glinted in frustration. “Do I get more of a hint?” he grumped, and fair. From his perspective Ryan was being cryptic, at best. He crossed his arms over his chest in what looked more like a protective gesture than an angry one.

“Not right now,” Ryan said. He pinched the bridge of his nose—no less frustrated than Lars was—and grumbled, “I just need some space and I would like you to think about what I said. See if that jogs anything.”

Lars sat there, expression finally blank as he stared at Ryan. “Yeah, sure,” he said, his voice sharper. Strained, like when he has to deal with the media after a bad game. “I’ll…see you tomorrow, I guess.” He slipped off the bed.

Ryan listened to his steps retreat to the door and grimaced when he heard the door open. Was he really doing this? Probably too late to undo it, anyway.

“Good night, Ryan,” came a low whisper just before the door clicked closed.

Ryan sat there, stiff and motionless, until he finally was too tired to stay upright. He let himself fall to the bed and pass out, mind blissfully blank, and thankfully didn’t dream of how he might’ve fucked up the best thing he had going for him.

Chapter 21

Lars

Seven Years Earlier

Lars was in one of those deep sleeps where no dreams, nothing even resembling a thought, took shape. The kind that made it hard for his brain to boot back up when an annoying, grating ring broke through the nothingness. He frowned and rolled over, sighing in contentment as he found another warm body next to him. The ringing didn’t stop.

And that’s when it clicked that it was a fucking phone.

Lars jolted awake. The person next to him stirred slightly, and he shushed them gently, patting their back before scrambling to find his phone. Except it was the hotel telephone beeping indignantly at him, so he picked it up and disappeared into the bathroom so he wouldn’t disturb…whoever the fuck was in bed with him.

“Hello?” he asked, opting for English because he wasn’t one hundred percent sure where he was except that it wasn’t Sweden.

“Pick up your fucking phone when people call you.” Swedish. Angry Swedish.

Ugh. Anders.

“It ran out of battery last night,” he grumbled back defensively, also in Swedish. It had been a dead weight in his pocket most of the evening. Given how he was a lovely combination of still drunk and hungover, it was probably for the best that he hadn’t had access to it while he was that far gone. “I was sleeping. I haven’t charged it yet.”

Why did talking to his brother always make him feel like a child?

“Look.” He could tell it was Anders’s “I’m doing my best to remain patient with you but I’m all out of patience” voice. “I need you to pack up and get your ass to Gothenburg.”

“What? We’re scheduled to fly out this evening⁠—”

“Morfar’s in the hospital. He had a stroke.”

Luckily Lars had already been braced against the vanity, or he’d have fallen. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. What was he supposed to say? His head had only just registered the words but they hadn’t reached his heart yet.

“Are you there?”

“Yes,” Lars croaked. “Sorry. Yes. I’ll…I’ll do that.”

“I need you to fly out there to help Mormor. She’s distraught about Morfar and she’s worried because we couldn’t reach you.”

He nodded, realized his brother couldn’t see him, and forced out, “I’m coming. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry anyone.” He was definitely less drunk now, but was regretting the growing hangover. “Are you already on a plane⁠—?”

A pause. “Lars.”

Oh.

“You’re not coming?” Anger shot through him. “Morfar’s had a stroke and you’re not⁠—”

“I can’t.”

“It’s just a few fucking games. Your team will understand. Your grandfather’s in the hospital⁠—”

“You think I give a shit about the NHL? You think I care about hockey more than my family?” It was lucky he steamrolled right ahead, or Lars would’ve answered and neither of them would’ve been happy rehashing that argument. “You know Amanda’s due any day now. I can’t leave her alone with Astrid to have a baby.”

Lars wanted to call him out, to say he absolutely could find a way if he actually wanted to…but he didn’t bother. If it had been back when Anders first moved, Lars would’ve been right. He’d had no one but himself to watch out for in North America, and even back then he’d come for a week in summer at best. As soon as he married Amanda, Lars couldn’t really complain without feeling like an ass. They were married, and now there were kids involved. Anders’ responsibilities weren’t in Sweden, and Lars felt like a dick for being upset about it.

“Right,” he said. “I’ll pack and head to the airport. I’ll charge my phone and call Mormor. I’ll be there.”

Anders’ relief was palpable, even with an ocean between them. “Good. Keep me updated.”

“Sure,” he lied. He’d leave that to Mormor, since Mormor and Anders actually enjoyed talking to each other. “Send pictures when the baby’s born.”

Anders grunted what was presumably a confirmation. Lars was about to hang up, when Anders said, “Congrats on gold, by the way. You had a good game.” Then the call ended, giving Anders the last word.

“Easy to have the last word when you’re the one ending the call, prick,” Lars grumbled. He allowed himself five seconds to quietly fall apart, then he pulled all the pieces back together and set to work.

As quietly as he could, he grabbed his stuff and shoved it in his duffle bag. He got enough charge on his phone to start looking at flights. The only thing left before he headed down to the lobby was…

Lars looked at the sleeping figure in the bed. It was dark—he’d only used the bathroom light—but he could make out a well-sculpted body and dark hair. He groaned internally, wishing he could go back to bed and enjoy round two in the morning. He thought about leaving a note, but decided against it. There was never going to be anything past breakfast for them, and he honestly couldn’t handle the extra social interaction right now, even if it was one-sided.

Putting the prior night behind him, he opened the hotel door and quietly slipped out. Let the past stay the past; he had a future to worry about.

* * *

Present Day

Pacing the length of his hotel room, Lars chewed his thumb and tried to figure out what the fuck had just happened. Had he been wrong about him and Ryan? Had he read too much into things and pushed where he wasn’t wanted?

He reached the window and turned around again.

What had Ryan said? That Lars had forgotten him?

It seemed impossible, but he also knew full well that few players made a lasting impression on him. They were about the same age and had been playing against each other for years: their paths had definitely crossed, but maybe more than Lars had previously assumed.

He stopped short on his next lap and went to grab his tablet. Ryan wouldn’t have said that if it weren’t important, and though he’d have appreciated more insight, he could do himself the favor of trying to figure it out. Plopping down on the edge of his bed, he closed out of his ebook and opened up a search for “Ryan Russell, NHL center.” On the hotel stationary, he started mapping out Ryan’s career, his previous teams before the Crabs. Then he pulled up old schedules where their history overlapped. Seventeen games prior to the start of this season where they faced each other.

Through YouTube and NHL.com highlights, he watched old games through the new lens of him and Ryan. He watched faceoffs and their opposing Power Play and Penalty Kill units. Ryan was fantastic as always, shutting down the Prowlers again and again. But he couldn’t see a moment, couldn’t pinpoint anything that would explain Ryan’s hurt.

He’d gone all the way back to their rookie season with nothing to show for it. With growing dread, he pulled up Ryan’s career tab again and scrolled down to his pre-NHL career.

It didn’t take long to find it. There were North American and American youth teams, but the obvious stand out was the World Junior Championship nearly eight years ago, hosted in Geneva, Switzerland.

All the strange references Ryan had made to Switzerland came to mind, and suddenly he understood what Ryan was poking at, the things he was trying to shake loose in Lars’s mind.

He was afraid of what he was about to find. He hoped, prayed, that he was mistaken in thinking he hadn’t even played Team USA that year. Maybe some insult there was the bitter memory Ryan was nursing.

He didn’t think Ryan was that petty and wasn’t surprised that he was correct: he hadn’t faced the American team that year. They’d have had no reason to interact at all that tournament. Unless, of course…

Lars pulled up an old picture of Ryan from Juniors. There was no way to avoid recognizing him, seeing the full grown version hidden in youthful features, but the familiarity that hit him was…different.

“Fan också,” he cursed. He gripped the edges of his tablet and tried very hard not to bang his head against it.

Lars had taken his jersey number. Lars had gotten his name wrong for weeks. And, the crowning achievement that Ryan couldn’t overlook, he’d had sex with him years ago and then completely forgotten about it.

He looked into the mirror next to the bed, his own guilty face staring back at him. “You’re lucky he ever talked to you at all,” it seemed to say to him.

“He could’ve said something,” he said weakly, but that wasn’t fair. While Lars was definitely the type to casually bring up a one night stand and tease his partner about it, Ryan wasn’t that person. All of Ryan’s effort went into being easygoing and likable. Even when teammates said bizarre or borderline rude shit to him, he brushed it off with a laugh or a joke. He would absolutely avoid the mutual embarrassment of bringing this sort of thing up. The man hadn’t even wanted to correct Lars about his name; this would’ve been a million times more awkward.

He and his reflection agreed that he was the asshole here; he turned away in disgust.

“Great,” he said, still trying to reevaluate all of their interactions over the past few months in light of this new information. Ryan was hurt, obviously, but he also seemed open to starting something up again. That was a plus.

“So I just have to fix this,” he reasoned. “I’ll make it up to him, show him I care, and we can start over.”

Great idea, in theory. His heart swelled with hope while his head reminded him he had no idea how to do that. It was a starting point, though, and he took comfort in knowing this was a setback and not an ending.

* * *

Ryan was long gone from breakfast by the time Lars made it down. He’d slept in as late as possible, still only managing two hours of actual sleep, and hoped that caffeine would be enough to keep him functional.

He was a little hurt but unsurprised to find Ryan already sitting next to someone on the bus, and he tried not to take it personally when he chose a locker stall far from Lars. It was absolutely personal, but still. He understood the reasons for it. For the first time since they’d “met,” Lars finally did understand all the reasons for everything.

It wasn’t until a slight break in practice that Lars was finally able to get close to Ryan. He hadn’t consciously made the decision to do it; he’d been staring at Ryan all morning and hadn’t realized he’d drifted over to him until they were alone at one corner of the rink where Ryan was stick handling while pointedly not watching Lars approach.

“What’s up?” Ryan asked. It was his media voice, the overly friendly one that hadn’t sounded fake until that moment.

“Your hair was longer,” Lars blurted out. He’d spent most of the morning trying to map the faint memories he had and the pictures he’d seen onto this adult version of Ryan. “And you were skinnier. Lanky? Is that the word?” His eyes roamed appreciatively over Ryan’s chest, well aware of the broad shoulders and toned chest hidden beneath his jersey and gear.

Ryan froze, the puck sliding off his blade and disappearing down the ice. He still didn’t look up, but it was obvious his full attention was on Lars.

“I’d like to apologize for…” There was a lot, and he floundered trying to figure out where to start. Duh, the beginning. “Sorry for not being there the next morning or explaining. It was shitty to do that.”

Ryan straightened up and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Not gonna lie. I wondered about that.”

Lars grimaced. “A family thing came up, and I got distracted. I still should’ve said something, but I was eighteen and dumb. Now I’m twenty-five and dumb, but, y’know, more…responsible about it.”

“What family thing?” There wasn’t suspicion so much as curiosity, and Lars knew it was an invitation to be as forthcoming or quiet as he’d like.

“Oh, uh.” Lars didn’t like talking about this with…anyone, actually. He didn’t even talk about this stuff with Mormor anymore. He deflected or quietly waited for Mormor to finish whatever memory she wanted to express, but he didn’t say shit about any of it if he could help it. Not the personal parts. So his first instinct was to try and distract Ryan, until he realized he didn’t want to. That defensive reaction had somehow been completely bypassed, and he found himself answering more honestly than he ever did. “My morfar, my grandpa, he’d had a stroke. I had to get back to Sweden to help my mormor and…” He shrugged, embarrassed. “I was young, hungover, and stressed. I left.”

“I'm sorry, but what? Your morfar”—Lars’s stomach did an uncomfortable somersault when Ryan used the Swedish word instead of the English one like people usually did—“had a stroke? Jesus, Lars, maybe lead with that.”

“I didn’t want to make it seem like I was trying to justify my behavior.”

“Which I appreciate,” Ryan said, “but you can still, like, contextualize it.”

“I—” They were interrupted by Coach Thompkins blowing a whistle and shouting directions that inevitably took them to opposite ends of the rink.

The next time there was a break, Lars purposefully sought Ryan out.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asked with a hint of actual concern. “Because you’ve been playing like butt⁠—”

“I was very drunk,” he interrupted. “I don’t remember anything after we opened champagne in the locker room. I really am sorry.”

Ryan paused, almost as if he were frozen, until the words seemed to sink in. “It’s fine.” He took in Lars’s doubtful expression, then punched his shoulder lightly. Very bro-like. Lars didn’t care for it. “Seriously. Don’t worry about it. I’m over it. It was years ago.”

“Over it,” he repeated carefully, the words heavy on his tongue. “Over being upset with me or…over me?”

This time, Ryan looked around to make sure they were alone. “The first one,” he said quietly.

Encouraged, Lars said in a rush, “Maybe we could start over? Like pretend I got traded today and we’re meeting for the first time since Switzerland.”

“So forget the part where you were an ass and start fresh?”

Lars’s eyes narrowed. Apparently he’d been bad enough to get Ryan to use a real swear word. “And the part where you neglected to tell me I didn’t know your name.” He held up his hands defensively and cut off Ryan’s attempt to interrupt. “I know, not as bad. Just saying we both might like a re-do. We can do better, right?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said with an indulgent sigh. “We can.”

Lars took off his right glove and offered his hand. “I’m Lars Nilsson. I think we met back in Juniors.”

Ryan stared at his hand before shrugging and taking off his glove. They shook hands, the touch electric until Ryan pulled away.

“We did,” Ryan said, a smile lurking at the corner of his lips. “Don’t let that give you any ideas, though,” he said sternly as he put his glove back on. “I’m not a dumb kid anymore.”

“No.” He let his gaze trail over him. “You’re definitely not.”

The whistle blew, and they had to split up again, depriving Lars the chance to see what effect his words had on Ryan.

“Nilsson! Russell! Whatever you knuckleheads are doing, get your asses over here. I need my centers.”

They didn’t get a chance to talk again during practice. As though sensing he was giving the team too much leeway, Coach Thompkins held them twenty minutes longer than scheduled. They barely got to stop long enough to grab their water bottles between sets, and they were all too busy gulping down water to say much of anything to anyone.

“Alright, get outta here,” Thompkins said, earning a tired but appreciative response from the team. The trickle to the locker room showed how tired they were. How tired most of them were, anyway. Lars was still going strong, thanks mostly to being too distracted to put in 100% effort. He’d been staring at Ryan all practice, willing his mind to fully remember that shared night in the exquisite detail it deserved.

“You’re staring again,” Ryan said when they were alone in the locker room waiting for the showers to free up.

“I can’t help it. You’re hot.” He enjoyed watching Ryan’s cheeks brighten. “I’m just annoyed that eighteen-year-old me got to fuck you, and he barely knew what he was doing. Imagine what I could do to you⁠—”

“Jesus,” Ryan muttered as Vorny and Pavel sauntered in. The illusion of privacy vanished with their loud arrival. There was a hint of unease in the way Ryan kept his gaze down, so Lars decided to check his flirting. It was for the best: if he was actually going to learn anything from the Portland incident, it should be to keep it together at practice and games. In the privacy of their free time, well, then it was only Ryan’s business what Lars decided to say.

He’d allowed his excited embarrassment to get the better of him today; he’d have to show he could do better.

He slid down the bench a few inches so there was a more obvious gap between them. “Video games again tonight?” he asked hopefully but was unsurprised when Ryan shook his head.

“Maybe not a good idea,” he said apologetically. “This is…a lot.”

It was. It was already a lot when he’d thought it was an issue of Ryan’s self-confidence and being teammates. It’d become more complicated in the face of Switzerland and the way Ryan no doubt thought it justified his low self worth.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Lars said with a wink.

“You’re literally getting on a plane tomorrow night and going to Anaheim. And then Houston before Baltimore⁠—”

“Ha!” Lars leaned over to gently slap Ryan’s knee. “You know what I mean.”

The rest of the day, Lars got the distinct impression Ryan was avoiding him. It reminded him of when he’d first come to Baltimore and Ryan had maintained a fake-but-strained good humor with him. At least this time he understood the motivation behind it, and maybe even applauded his effort to maintain space while the world slowly fell back into place after last night. Honestly, Lars didn’t have the self-control to pull it off right now, so good on Ryan for doing it for them.

On the bright side, it gave Lars the chance to talk to other teammates, to wheedle out of them more details about Ryan. He wasn’t too aggressive about it, mostly nudging the conversation to the past couple seasons. Leading questions that told him more about Ryan as a player, or sometimes general questions about Ryan’s hobbies and interests where he could glean details about him as a person. Some of what they said confirmed things he’d noticed—Ryan’s favorite pregame meal, his taste in music, his work with local youth teams. Others were delightful new tidbits: the battered Montana Mustangs jersey from his youth that he wore to one practice as a joke, the Crabs blazer a fan made for him and that he wore to fan appreciation night at the end of the season, the time he missed a week because his mom was in a car accident.

It was all so Ryan, and Lars delighted in it.

It was almost like being drunk, the bubbly nerves that were a living, breathing thing in his chest. He’d been so sure only a month ago that he could keep his crush under control, not stoke the flames, and let it burn out on its own. Too late, he’d realized it was never going to work. Now he had to do the best he could with the consequences of his actions while wanting nothing more than to know what it was like to kiss Ryan Russell one more time.

Despite Ryan avoiding him all day, it was some mutual finangling that had them alone on the elevator ride back up to their rooms hours later. The anticipation had made Lars cautious, like he had to use this private moment wisely.

“I don’t know if this helps,” Lars said once they passed the third floor and neither had spoken, worried Ryan wouldn’t hear him out, “but my wanting to kiss you isn’t related to hockey. Sometimes watching you play is sexy as fuck, but that’s really just because you’re sexy. Even if you did play as badly as you think you do—which you don’t, by the way—that wouldn’t change anything for me. And I’m sorry if what happened after Geneva made you think that.”

Ryan didn’t react. He didn’t breathe or blink, only the small vein bulging in his neck giving away how very hard he was working to not react.

“But,” Lars continued, “I am still interested. In you. As much as you’d be up for. Even if it’s just movies on the plane and video games on road trips and the occasional dinner at Rangoons.”

“You sure?” Ryan asked softly. “That you’re interested in me, I mean.”

The dramatic part of him, the one that always showed up versus the Otters or for Team Sweden, wanted to press the emergency stop on the elevator. Because how could he be expected to let Ryan say shit like that and not do something? He reeled in the impulse, settling for stepping right in front of Ryan and invading his personal space.

“I’ve met you twice, yes? And both times, you mesmerized me. We’re on our third try, aren’t we? What’s that saying?”

“Three strikes and you’re out?” Ryan said flatly.

Lars huffed indignantly. This stupid language. “Third time’s the charm.”

The elevator pinged and came to a less-than-smooth stop on their floor. When the doors swished open, cool air greeted them and effectively let out the stuffy tension that had been building since the lobby.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Lars said as he stepped out, hands in his pockets like he was relaxed and not about to have a heart attack, “you know where to find me.” And with a monumental effort, he made himself walk away.

Chapter 22

Ryan

Ryan had done a lot of difficult things in his life. Getting through high school while doing travel hockey had been one, for sure. All the years of training, the mental pressure and physical fatigue. Moving away from his whole family at nineteen to live across the country. Being traded mid-season. Twice. Despite his constant surprise that he had made it to the NHL, he could at least pat himself on the back for the work he put in to get there.

Still, one of the hardest things he’d done in recent memory was watch Lars Nilsson walk away from him. Especially with an open invitation to follow.

Ryan didn’t follow. He wanted to—he really wanted to—but he couldn’t. He was still processing, and he didn’t want to jump into anything without being sure. If Lars were still on the Prowlers and had propositioned him, Ryan would probably be in Lars’s hotel room right now. The teammate thing put a wrench in things. So did Geneva.

He believed Lars when he said he felt bad about the fallout of Switzerland. He believed that shit beyond Lars’s control had made Ryan an afterthought in that moment, and Ryan didn’t resent that. It was more it highlighted the real problem: they both took their hookups lightly. Ryan knew he’d avoided anything other than one night stands for a reason because he wanted to avoid feelings, and he figured it was similar for Lars. But he was too far gone to do anything with Lars without at least some emotional investment.

And that was scarier than he wanted to admit. It hadn’t hurt at all to have Lars years ago and lose him.

The need to perform already had him spread too thin. He needed his career to continue on this trajectory, and a fling with a teammate wouldn’t help. His anxiety wouldn’t help, either, if he thought every shift was the difference between both a place on the team and in Lars’s bed.

By the time he heard the whir of his hotel room lock engaging, he was spent. He could feel a headache coming on. Ryan groaned, inwardly admitting defeat as he got ready for bed. His mind raced so much in the silence, especially knowing only one stupid wall stood between him and Lars, that he had to turn on the TV to drown out his thoughts. With some cliche Hallmark movie in the background, he fell asleep wishing his life were as simple as it was for the characters in the movie, falling in love while trying to save Christmas in a small town.

* * *

The Hallmark channel had been a bad idea, because he dreamed about more and more ridiculous situations where he and Lars were thrown together. He woke up with the distinct impression he’d been a baker and Lars had been a corporate lawyer, and turned off the TV with more annoyance than necessary. And though he felt groggy and physically drained, he’d woken up with a sense of clarity he hadn’t had the night before.

Somewhere in his carousel of small town romance dreams, he’d settled on a plan.

Ryan had known for months about their past and its implications, but still gotten over them; Lars had just found out. He seemed fine with everything, aside from some obvious embarrassment, but it’d been too fast for him to really process it. Ryan wanted to move forward (God, did he) but he needed them to be on the same page.

I want you too

He quickly added a lone “BUT” before Lars’s answering dots could light up the screen. Still, the screen brightened to show he was there, one room away and waiting to see what Ryan said.

I want you too

BUT

I don’t want this to just be some itch you scratch. if we do this, I don’t want it to be a one and done thing where we go back to normal the next day like it never happened

There was a moment after he hit send when he regretted it. It was the moment where he saw Lars had read it but his screen didn’t indicate any signs of an incoming response. Then the little dots appeared and he couldn’t help laughing once he read it.

so is there a minimum number of times I’m signing up for…?

more than once, the rest we can play by ear

unless you’ve gotten terrible at sex over the years

I promise I have only improved

Ryan was inclined to believe that. Not that the sex had been bad, but sloppy handjobs had been all they could manage when they were drunk, and Lars had been further gone than him.

guess I’ll find out

my only other condition: we wait until we’re back in Baltimore

He’d initially typed “home” but didn’t want to presume anything. Or jinx himself.

that’s a week!!! :(((

I know

That was the point. It was one thing to make promises when they had adjoining rooms and were both keyed-up from the other night. Waiting would either allow the tension to grow…or snuff it out. If whatever this was between them was doomed to fail, he’d rather front-load the disappointment. It wasn’t just Lars he was second guessing. He needed the time to be sure he wanted to get into a fling that was this…messy. Complicated. Both.

:((((

but can’t you see how sad that face is

it looks just like my actual face, very sad

I’ll make it up to you

Next week, he thought, but instead typed, “I’ll get you the sugariest protein shake I can find.”

:)(

that’s because I’m still sad but I want the protein shake

I don’t have to wait a week for that do I?

Again, Ryan laughed to himself. He was stupidly fond of Lars, and he really hoped in a week he’d get to prove it to him.

I’ll bring it to breakfast

meet you down there in thirty k?

He made a mental note to stock up on strawberries, creamer, and honey when he got back to his apartment. Three things he’d never purchased together, but now sudden necessities. He didn’t think Lars would like his instant coffee without something sweet to water it down, nor would he take too kindly to Ryan’s “chocolate” flavored whey protein that just tasted like chalk.

Yep. Whatever this was between them, it wasn’t something he could work out of his system with one quick fuck. Hopefully indulging wouldn’t backfire.

* * *

They were able to fall back into their normal routine easily, as if nothing had happened and nothing was going to. They still sat next to each other on the bus and during meals, but they forced themselves to gravitate to others during the player meeting and in the locker room. It made Ryan hope that the trend would continue, that they’d be able to maintain the right balance of distance and favoritism from the past few days so no one would suspect anything.

Not that there’s anything to suspect right now, though that was hardly the point.

Tonight they played the Bay Area Brawlers, leaving right after the game to go directly to the airport. They’d leave San Francisco and arrive in Anaheim hopefully before 2 am. Ryan hated west coast road trips.

During the warm-ups, while most of the team did their usual skate, stretches, and superstitions, Ryan did his: he skated over to center ice. Almost immediately, he heard a mix of “RJ!” and “Rusty!” and “Ryan!” as four guys skated over from the Brawlers. This was Ryan’s tradition in every city but Austin, where he’d check in with former teammates. It felt…necessary. He’d never been able to put it into words, but he liked that it made sure his past wasn’t erased. He might not be happy about how he left some of his former teams, but he’d been there. He’d helped, he’d played, he’d been on the bench celebrating with them. Trading him couldn’t take that away.

“Hey, guys,” Ryan said, fistbumping them. One of the players was from his time in Vancouver, two from Vermont (though not at the same time), and one he knew from the AHL. “How’s it been?”

They talked the shit, general woes about how the Brawlers were doing this season and excitement about their upcoming home stand that started with their game tonight.

“Nice weather for it, too,” Ryan said. Baltimore wasn’t as bad as Vermont in December, but he liked the warmer temperatures courtesy of certain road trips. He didn’t think he could ever give up winter permanently, but he enjoyed the little escapes.

“Nothing like Burlington, eh?” one joked while another pointed his chin towards the Crabs and said, “What’s it like playing with Nilsson?”

Ryan looked over his shoulder. Lars was passing back and forth with Jake, the sort of familiarity between them that showed they were clicking as linemates. This wasn’t the first time people had asked him about Lars. If someone brought him up, it was either with awe or annoyance. And he got it. Lars had tunnel vision in games. If you weren’t wearing the same jersey as him, you were invisible, not human but rather an obstacle. Ryan almost envied his ability to shut them out; when Ryan looked at opposing teams, all he saw was the past: people he’d played with, ones he’d shut down or who had shut him down, lost connections from people he’d shared his life with, day in and day out for months until suddenly, he didn’t.

He shrugged and turned back to them. “He’s all right.”

“Hear he’s kind of a tool,” his AHL buddy Cody said. “But I think at that pay grade they all are.”

Ryan bristled but shook it off. “He doesn’t always make a good first impression,” he conceded. He didn’t want to talk about Lars, so he said dismissively, “I’m never on the ice with him or anything, but he gets points, so.”

“Hear you’re getting points.” Matty from Vancouver was chewing gum like a weirdo and looking at him with a wide grin. He tapped Ryan’s leg with his stick. “Career year.”

Ryan’s chest swelled with pride. Someone noticed. “Yeah, seems like. Maybe get an extension from it.”

“Good luck, bro,” he said with genuine understanding. “You deserve it.”

They started to drift backwards towards the Brawlers. “No goals tonight, though,” Cody said with a wink. “I’m not letting you off easy just ‘cuz we won the Calder together.”

Ryan smiled fondly. The only good thing that had come out of his time in the AHL was winning the Calder Cup. Everything else about the experience had made him feel like a fraud for trying to play in the NHL. The reminder of that achievement loosened the last knots of tension that had been lingering the past few days. Things were looking good.

* * *

They lost their last two games of the road trip and flew back to BWI in bad spirits. No one liked to lose, but it was especially annoying when you traveled across the country to do it. No one was in a good mood when they landed, only grunting at each other as they went their separate ways.

“Optional skate tomorrow,” Thompkins said, looking about as disinterested in the idea as they did. “Gotta rework some things.”

“It’s been five days.” Lars fell into step beside Ryan as they headed to the airport garage. “But we could grab dinner. That’s allowed, right?” His smile, unsure as it was, still brightened his face, especially with his eyes lit up in hope. His hair was getting longer, a mess of dirty blond that was almost below his eyes. Just begging for someone to run their hands through it.

Maybe it was the exhausting flight or the waiting, but Ryan didn’t have it in him to argue.

“I mean, five days is a full work week, right? Basically rounds up to seven.”

Lars stopped short for a half step, then nearly tripped over his feet as he rushed to catch up. “Exactly!” Then with an adorable amount of nervousness, he asked, “Want to go out?”

He was tempted. The idea of the two of them grabbing dinner definitely appealed to his romantic side that wanted an actual date before they fell in bed together. But he was too tired to put up a fight. What was he even fighting at this point? Lars and him were on the same page about this, so why put it off?

“Wanna order out?” Ryan asked, then gulped. “My place or yours?”

Lars looked like he was about to jump up and down in excitement. “Mine. There’s a burger place at the corner. I could order before we left and pick it up and—” With visible effort, he stopped himself, took a deep breath, and said evenly, “My place, if that’s okay.”

Ryan couldn’t remember if he had done laundry or put away his dirty dishes before he left. “Works for me.”

They parted ways in the parking garage. He sat in his car a good ten minutes after Lars had texted him the address, giving his head time to clear and to check in with himself. Hands on the steering wheel, he could still list all the reasons this was a bad idea…and he still didn’t care.

“Alright,” he said as he shifted the car into gear. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

Lars lived in one of those fancy apartment complexes that was in a hundred-year-old building, some old factory or warehouse that had been converted into high-end living space but carefully curated so it still held the “charm” of its former life without any of the inconveniences. It was nice, probably not more than a dozen condos in the whole place, and looking at the brick facing and iron structures was the perfect distraction as he took the steps up to 412. By the time he got to the door, Ryan’s hesitation was gone. He was ready.

He knocked.

Lars opened the door and smiled shyly at him, and Ryan’s heart nearly stopped. Maybe he wasn’t ready, because if only his smile could paralyze him, he was doomed.

“Hey,” Lars said warmly and opened the door wide. Ryan stepped in automatically, hands deep in the pocket of his sweatshirt just to have something to do with them. “Did you find it okay?”

Ryan cursed himself for taking so long. All the time to make sure Lars didn’t see how nervous he was, and he’d gone and made Lars worry instead. “Yeah, sorry⁠—”

Lars interrupted him with a hand to his shoulder. “It’s okay. It gave me time to get the food. Burgers and cheese fries for me…” He led the way to a kitchen island, the food already plated and waiting. “...and a burger and salad for you.” He looked pleased with himself for remembering Ryan didn’t do potatoes. “What would you like to drink? I have tap water and Seltzer.”

There was a beer sweating next to Lars’s plate. Ryan gulped as he eyed it. “A beer would be great, actually.”

Lars raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Just to take the edge off,” he mumbled. He was too excited and nervous. He’d be an absolute mess in bed if he couldn’t calm the hell down.

“They’re all IPAs.” He said it like an apology, but Ryan understood the warning. Way more alcohol than he normally drank.

“A water, too. Tap is fine.”

Satisfied, Lars disappeared into his ginormous fridge while Ryan sat on a bar stool. Watching Lars was helping. He was so at ease, comfortable in his own space, that it made Ryan calm by osmosis. He was able to match Lars’s mood, almost like when he’d followed Lars’s lead in that one game and ended up scoring a Michigan.

Holy crap. He’d scored a Michigan goal in an actual NHL game. Only maybe five other players had managed that.

When Lars set a bottle of beer in front of him, he chased the thrill of his recent success with a long swig. It was bitter (or “hoppy,” as he was often corrected whenever he drank a beer and said it tasted awful), but still he forced himself to take three full gulps before putting it down. He’d feel it soon, that dampening of his self-consciousness, then he’d be able to pick up where they’d left off in San Francisco.

Lars was in no rush, though. He leisurely ate and drank, chattering on, thankfully needing very little input from Ryan. It was like he understood what Ryan needed and was happy to fill the silence and drive along the evening. By the time they were done eating, Ryan had fallen into a false sense of security that shattered the second Lars set the plates in the sink.

“You tipsy yet?” Lars asked with faux innocence.

Ryan’s head was wonderfully cloudy. “A little.”

“Perfect.” But instead of flashing him a seductive look, Lars leaned back against the counter and grinned mischievously. “Challenge you to a game of air hockey?”

He blinked, then giggled (oh God, he really was tipsy if he was giggling). “Air hockey?” he asked. “For real?”

“Absolutely,” Lars said solemnly. “I would never joke about hockey. Ice or air.”

“Then let’s play.”

During dinner, Ryan had faced the kitchen, his back to the open living space that took up most of the apartment. As they stepped into it, Ryan was suddenly hit by its size. His whole apartment, a completely normal living space that was well above what his sisters had lived in during college, could fit into the living room. The ceilings were tall and the space was rendered even larger by the sparse furniture. A large TV and sectional did nothing to mask that there were lots of bare spaces where things should be, but there weren’t many things at all. An air hockey table, treadmill, and an overflowing bookshelf looked almost pathetic in the emptiness.

“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. He owned an air hockey table.

Lars shrugged. “I’m only okay. You’ll be fine. My niece and nephew beat me all the time.”

“Do you let them 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. “You should have a handicap going in.”

“You’re beating me right now.”

“Fair,” he conceded, “but you could be 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’d seen Lars without a shirt dozens of 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.

When Ryan finally scored, he punched the air in victory.

“Take ‘em off,” he said and pointed to Lars’s sweatpants.

Lars wagged no with his finger and then very gingerly took off his watch. Ryan’s jaw dropped.

“Are you for real right now? Your watch?”

“You thought it’d be that easy to get me out of my pants?” Lars teased.

“Kinda, yeah.”

“You can count your watch, too,” he said generously. Knowingly.

Ryan held up his bare wrists. “I haven’t owned a watch since the seventh grade. You’re cheating.”

Lars shook his head. “It’s a valid article of clothing.”

“So if I were wearing earrings…?”

“You’re not and I’m not. You want to go through hypotheticals or you want to play?” Lars grabbed the puck and shot the disk across the table before Ryan could answer.

But not before Ryan could stop it going in. He shot it back and the game went on. Ryan scored thirty seconds later, earning him Lars’s sweats and a show.

“This isn’t fair.” Lars pouted but his eyes shone as he stepped out from behind the table. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and took them down inch by inch, never looking away from Ryan while he did. Again, it was nothing Ryan hadn’t seen before. Lars worked out in skin-tight compression shorts that did wonders for his thighs and ass, but the new context, the promise behind the slow reveal of skin, made Ryan half hard before Lars even finished getting the damn pants off.

Thank God he couldn’t see that Lars was in just his boxers when they were actually playing. The thought alone was enough to distract him, though, and although he fended off Lars, he didn’t have enough concentration to go on the offensive. It was only a matter of time until⁠—

“Mål!” Lars yelled and jumped up and down in excitement. “One more, Russell.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. He wasn’t nearly as dramatic as Lars, so he simply took off his joggers and kicked them aside to join the rest of his clothes. He could feel Lars’s eyes on him, and instead of making him self-conscious, it only made him harder. A fact that his boxer briefs did nothing to hide.

“One more, Nilsson,” he agreed. He took out the puck and set it down, wondering if he hoped to win or lose. It was his indecision that did him in: as soon as he got it, Lars banked a shot that ricocheted down the table at a weird angle. Ryan was convinced even after it slid into the goal that he could’ve stopped it, but he couldn’t deny he was glad the game was over.

“Mål,” Ryan repeated, liking the taste of the word and really liking the hungry look that came over Lars’s face when he said it.

Lars gently put down his paddle and rounded the table, unconcerned that he was in nothing but his boxers. Ryan stood there, watching and waiting until suddenly Lars was right in front of him, an inch away.

“Can I claim my prize?” he asked, his voice huskier than Ryan could remember ever hearing it. He swallowed thickly and nodded. When Lars dropped to one knee and then the other in front of him, he felt his cock jerk in his underwear. Now eye level with his crotch, Lars chuckled deep in his throat at that, then looked up at Ryan. Their eyes met, and Ryan had to lean back to grip the table for support because holy shit. Lars was gorgeous, with his rosy cheeks and blue eyes nearly consumed by dark pupils. “May I?” he asked quietly, staying very still until Ryan managed to nod.

Lars turned his attention back to Ryan’s boxer briefs. He rested his hands on Ryan’s hip bones and hooked his thumbs under the hem. Instead of taking off his boxer briefs, he kept a firm grip and leaned in. Holding Ryan in place, he first placed a small kiss on Ryan’s dick through the fabric, then nosed along it from base to tip. Ryan gasped. He held the edges of the table now with a white-knuckled grip, transfixed as he watched Lars breathe him in and press against his dick.

His breath hitched when Lars’s tongue darted out and traced the same path. Lars licked again and again, soaking the fabric. Worse, he pulled his boxers tighter and tighter, the tension of it both too much and not nearly enough. Ryan began to roll his hips forward slightly to match Lars’s movements. When Lars stopped to mouth at the head of his cock, pulling the waistband even tighter, Ryan moaned.

He buried his fingers in Lars’s hair, the silky blond strands the perfect length to pull. He resisted the temptation and focused on gently holding Lars’s head in place, more suggestion and request than anything else. As soon as he gave the slightest pull, an accident as he fidgeted, Lars gasped. Experimentally, he tugged again and was met with the same enthusiastic moan.

“You like that?” The roughness of his own voice surprised him. “Like being bossed around?”

Lars looked up at him with hooded eyes. “No,” he said honestly. “But you can tell me to do whatever you want.”

Ryan’s cheeks flushed. He wasn’t sure what to do with the trust and desire that implied, or his own reaction to it. So he did the only thing he could reasonably do with that information: he decided to take over.

“Take off my boxers,” he ordered. “But don’t touch.”

Lars did as he was told, careful not to touch Ryan’s dick or bare skin. He looked up at Ryan, licking his lips and then worrying the bottom one between his teeth. Ryan slid his other hand into Lars’s hair, stroking his cheek with his thumb and savoring the moment. The final seconds before there was no turning back.

“Lick,” he finally said, handing the reins back to Lars. “Show me you’re better than I remember.”

Lars’s eyes flashed with indignation, but he was too competitive to ignore the challenge, even if the person he was up against was himself. He turned his attention back to Ryan’s dick, and licked again and again up the shaft, around the head, his fingers bruising in their grip on Ryan’s thighs as he held him close. Soon he moved to the tip, lapping at the pre-come before tonguing at the slit then sucking just the tip into his mouth.

“Holy—” Ryan whimpered, his body unsure whether he wanted to pull away from the sensation of too much or push in and beg for more. “Lasse,” he gasped, then whined pathetically when Lars pulled off him.

Lars mumbled something in Swedish, resting his forehead against Ryan’s hip.

Ryan ran a hand through his hair patiently. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Ryan could feel the warm air hitting him with each word, sending goosebumps down his leg. “I just really like it when you call me that.”

A thrill went through him, making him feel as tipsy as the beer had. “You shouldn’t give me that kind of power, y’know.”

“You already have it.” Lars pressed a kiss, another. “The only thing that changed is now you know it.”

Before Ryan could properly unpack that, Lars had taken his dick back into his mouth. No longer satisfied with just the head, he began to bob up and down, taking more in each time until he’d taken him all in. He stayed there, tongue working along his shaft but otherwise still. It drove Ryan crazy, and his cock jerked in Lars’s mouth. He could feel it then, the way the head hit the back of Lars’s throat and it was all he could do not to thrust greedily into his mouth again and again.

“Lars,” he warned. “I’m close. Touch yourself.”

That earned him an appreciative hum and the exquisite view of Lars pushing aside his boxers to take himself in hand. He matched the movements of his head with his hand, and Ryan barely let himself blink because he didn’t want to miss a second. He was so entranced, his impending orgasm took him by surprise.

“Lars—” He said more urgently. “Lasse, fuck, I⁠—”

Lars didn’t pull away. He brought his free hand up to cup Ryan’s balls, the extra sensation enough to send Ryan instantly over the edge. He couldn’t stop the few aborted thrusts into Lars’s pliant mouth as he came, endless spurts shooting right down his throat. Even after Ryan finished, Lars kept his mouth on him, not pulling off as he moaned through his own release.

When he came off with a wet pop, Lars sat back on his heels and licked his lips. “I made you curse,” he said smugly.

Boneless, it was all Ryan could do to collapse against the air hockey table instead of onto the floor. “Probably the least interesting part of what just happened,” he managed.

“I knew I could make you come,” Lars argued. Despite how sure he sounded, he looked shaky as he stood up. “Didn’t know it was possible to make you curse.”

Ryan gave him a half-hearted glare that melted when Lars wrapped his arms around him. He bore Ryan’s weight easily and dragged him in for a kiss. Ryan could taste the tanginess of his own release, but instead of pulling away he deepened the kiss because wow, that had just happened.

Again.

“It was definitely better than Geneva,” he muttered when they pulled apart.

“I’m glad to have cleared the low bar of drunk teenage me,” Lars said dryly.

Ryan kissed his neck and breathed him in. They fit together so well. “Sleep?” he suggested, then yawned. He was beat. Not even the giddiness of having Lars in his arms would be enough to keep him going much longer.

“You really do get tired after, don’t you?” Lars teased. He wound their hands together and started leading him to the bedroom. “Let’s get you cleaned up and in bed. I promise I’ll be there when you wake up.”

Chapter 23

Lars

Normally, Lars dreamed. He couldn’t usually remember a damn thing after, only the vaguest impression he’d been somewhere or doing something, but enough that he knew he’d dreamed. It was his marker for a good night's sleep.

Lars hadn’t dreamed much since Portland. And for a while before leaving Portland, too. He hadn’t been doing well towards the end. He’d wake up, feeling like he’d just closed his eyes.

Settling into Baltimore had helped a bit, though the start of the season made him dog tired, and any bad nights quickly stacked up to make him more and more exhausted.

Last night, he’d dreamed. A lot.

He had no idea of what. The only thing that lingered was the vivid sensation of skating and the clear brown of Ryan’s eyes, the rest of the details a murky mess that slipped away before he could try to grasp them. He was content with what he had, though, and he sighed as he burrowed deeper into his blankets to enjoy the last few moments of bliss before he woke up alone.

Of course, burrowing deeper into his blankets actually meant pulling Ryan closer to his chest and burying his face in his hair.

“Oh,” he gasped, disentangling the dreams from the memories of the very real night he’d spent with Ryan. He’d been half hard before, but the promise of a warm body sent a bolt of lust through him. Lars rocked forward, pleased to feel bare skin against bare skin, and slid his left arm up Ryan’s chest. He traced a nipple, felt Ryan shudder against him, and then continued upward until his hand rested lightly but possessively around his neck.

“Can I fuck you?” he asked as he mouthed at Ryan’s neck, alternating between sucking and kissing at the sensitive skin there. He kept thrusting, enjoying the feel of his cock sliding along the cleft of Ryan’s ass.

Ryan groaned, pushing back to meet Lars’s movements. His hand came up to hold Lars’s wrist where it held his throat. He didn’t pull him away or encourage him to tighten his grip, just stayed there like the contact grounded him.

“Please,” Lars whined. His fingers flexed and he could feel his cock leaking pre-come. “Can I fuck you?”

Ryan ground back against him harder than before, both their movements becoming more desperate. “If you want me to answer,” he grunted, “you’re gonna have to speak in English. I have no idea what you’re saying.”

More awake by the second, Lars forced his brain to switch gears. “Can I —” He gasped. “Can I fuck you?”

Ryan’s hips stuttered. “You can do whatever you want to me,” he gritted out eventually, “but I'm not gonna last long.”

Lars wouldn’t either, admittedly. Now that he’d shaken off more of his grogginess, he was also pretty sure he didn’t have condoms. He knew both of them were healthy—the team’s medical screenings assured that—but he wasn’t a fan of the mess. As he reluctantly let go of Ryan to roll towards the nightstand, he searched blindly for lube, not even convinced he had much of that.

The bottle was sadly almost empty. No penetration just yet, but he had a Plan B.

Slicking himself up, he rolled back towards Ryan and nudged his thighs apart. He pushed his dick between Ryan’s thighs, sliding easily along his perineum and balls.

“Fuck,” Ryan hissed.

“I love making you swear,” Lars said. He wrapped a hand around Ryan’s waist to grip his cock. He nosed along Ryan’s neck and (in his opinion, very admirably) kept still. “May I?” he asked as he drew his hand slowly up and down Ryan’s dick with a loose grip.

“Please,” was the only response he got, an open invitation.

Lars accepted enthusiastically, adjusting Ryan’s left leg to gain better access as he thrust between his thighs and jerked Ryan off, all while kissing along his spine and devouring his musky scent. Ryan grew tense and his breathing grew ragged. He reached back to thread his hand in Lars’s hair, pulling slightly and moaning as he did it. Lars had never had a hair-pulling kink before, but he was quickly developing one.

“Come for me?” he whispered. Ryan nodded.

He saw Ryan’s orgasm the second before his hand was covered in come: Ryan’s eyes fluttering closed as he bit his lip and his whole face went slack. Lars stroked him through it, then shifted his hand to Ryan’s hip so he could thrust more roughly into his tight warmth. He came a moment later, his own release spilling on the sheets next to Ryan’s.

“We should get cleaned up,” Ryan said, his voice absolutely wrecked. Which wasn’t fair. How was Lars supposed to function when he knew Ryan sounded like that after sex?

“Shower?” he said instead. His own voice wasn’t much better, but he seemed to be a little more capable of movement as he started nudging them apart.

“ ‘mkay.”

The shower was more functional than anything else. They indulged in a few kisses before quickly washing up. They had to get to the rink in an hour, and that didn’t leave them enough time to fool around again.

“You can borrow some clothes,” Lars said when Ryan started pulling on the same outfit he’d worn on the plane yesterday. He hadn’t brought up his duffle bag, though if he packed like Lars did, there probably wasn’t much left clean after a week on the road.

Ryan gestured to his faded Blue Crabs shirt. “Trade my team shirt for yours?”

Fair. Lars didn’t think he owned a shirt that didn’t have some hockey logo branded on it. “It’d be cleaner,” he offered.

“I won’t be wearing it long.”

Lars’s brain supplied a very helpful, detailed image of Ryan taking off his clothes again and all the things he could do to him, before the words clicked. He frowned. “Coach said it’s an optional skate. You don’t have to suit up.”

“And I always skate,” Ryan said simply. He’d finished pulling on his hoodie and had collected his keys, wallet, and cell phone.

“Aren’t you tired?” Lars didn’t understand why he kept pushing. Normally he didn’t give a shit if his teammates did or didn’t participate in optional training, or if they were tired. They were all tired, after all. It came with the job. But it bothered him that Ryan might be overexerting himself.

There was a hint of frustration in Ryan’s gaze now, and Lars wished he hadn’t said anything. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “We slept well, didn’t we? I gotta skate, anyway, or I’ll have too much energy.”

“Yeah, I understand that,” Lars conceded. Sometimes the best thing to do was keep moving. He also knew Ryan overworked himself because of his perceived low position on the team. While it personally drove him crazy, he didn’t think it was really his place to say anything.

They drove separately, with Lars even waiting a few minutes after Ryan left before following. Although he doubted anyone would notice, it was already suspicious that Ryan was wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday. There were definitely dots to connect, and there’d be more if they kept this thing between them going, so it didn’t hurt to be a little cautious early on.

They maintained the very delicate blend of time together and time apart at the rink. Easy enough since Lars didn’t participate in the skate, instead opting to work with the trainers and get a quick run in. Even when the caterers served lunch, they ate at the same table but with several people between them. Too far away for Lars to stretch his feet and tangle his legs with Ryan’s like he wanted to; he had to settle for spending a good five minutes imagining it. It also pleased him that he could resist temptation. Maybe he really had learned from last time. He must have: Ryan was waaay more enticing than any of his previous hookups.

It was part of why he was excited to get Ryan alone again, and he finally cornered him on the way out to the parking garage to do just that.

“Busy?” he asked, well aware he must sound and look like an excited golden retriever. “Want to hang out tonight?” He was very proud that he made himself say “hang out” and had left out the “again” just in case anyone was listening.

Ryan hesitated. “I can’t tonight.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t expected that.

“I’ve gotta take care of some stuff.” Ryan waved his hand dismissively, like the stuff wasn’t actually important. Lars bit back his tongue—it was important enough that they wouldn’t get to see each other tonight—and shrugged it off. He had to catch up with his mormor and make plans for his Christmas visit. He hadn’t even booked a plane ticket, and he doubted he’d have much interest in doing that if Ryan was there distracting him.

He also wondered if this was about earlier, back in Lars’s apartment. He hoped he hadn’t pushed Ryan away. He dismissed the thought. Ryan was the one who’d been clear he wanted this to be more than a one time thing. They hadn’t been back in town for a while. He wanted to go to his apartment and like…do laundry or whatever. Talk to his friends. Properly digest what had happened last night before diving in for more. Healthy adult things.

“No, me too. Stuff.” Laundry. My sheets are gross. “Maybe tomorrow?”

Something in Ryan’s expression cracked. “Sure,” he said softly. “I’d like that.”

It was hard not to pull him in for a kiss or a hug after that, but somehow Lars managed to make do with a shoulder punch and watching Ryan walk in the opposite direction. As he drove home alone, doomed to a night of takeout and channel surfing, he wished he’d maybe toed the line a little more during practice and spent more time actually talking to Ryan.

* * *

Lars didn’t dream. His eyes fell shut and he lay there, painfully aware that he was alone. Sometimes a noise from the street below would startle him and he’d blink his eyes open and see the room around him unchanged. Again and again, he’d wake up and feel no time had passed, until finally the first hints of sunlight promised an end to his restlessness. He gave up around dawn, getting up to make coffee and book his flight to Ohio.

Halfway through his first cup, there was a knock at his front door. Lars froze with the mug at his lips as he tried to figure out who the fuck could be at his door at 8 a.m. on a Tuesday. He hadn’t ordered anything and it wasn’t like he had friends here. That meant it had to be⁠—

Lars rushed to the door, sliding in his socks a little, and then took a moment to collect himself before he opened the door with forced casualness.

“Hey.” Ryan had a warm smile. The cute, shy one that the press never got to see and that Lars coveted. “Breakfast?” He held up a box of donuts from a local bakery in offering.

Lars immediately swung the door open. He might’ve been able to play hard to get for a little while, but not with the promise of breakfast on the line. “Morning,” he said belatedly as Ryan stepped inside. “I made coffee, you want some?”

“Sure.” A pause. “You slept on the couch?”

Lars turned to see the evidence of his bad night of sleep—the blanket still marking where he lay, the throw pillows rearranged—and offered a half shrug. “My sheets weren’t dry yet,” he lied. He honestly hadn’t bothered checking. The only thing he’d known was that his room smelled like sex and Ryan. He’d never get to sleep if all he could do was feel Ryan’s absence.

Then he’d slept badly anyway, so he wasn’t sure what the point had been.

To distract Ryan, he took the box of donuts from him and set them on the counter, then went to pour some coffee. When he returned to the kitchen island with two steaming mugs, the donut box was open and displayed a lot of pink.

“What’s all this?” he laughed.

“Strawberry Shortcake, Strawberry Glaze, Strawberry Jelly, Strawberry Truffle, and this one I think is a plain glazed donut but with actual slices of strawberry on it.” Ryan pointed to each as he went through the list.

Lars licked his lips and studied the choices. “Strawberry’s my favorite,” he said as he carefully pulled out a Strawberry Jelly and then not-so-carefully bit into it, the gooey inside threatening to drip all over the counter.

“I know,” Ryan said indulgently.

“ ‘s so good.” Then Lars didn’t speak for a while as he ate three donuts in quick succession, all while Ryan sipped his coffee (black, like a smug hipster or something) and smiled. “You don’t want any?” Lars asked after his stomach was somewhat full and he was satisfied enough that he could share without regret. He even nudged the box closer to Ryan.

“I already ate at home. The donuts were more of an apology.”

“An apology?” Suddenly Lars’s stomach twisted uncomfortably and he almost wished he hadn’t eaten so much. He wasn’t sure which of the three delicious donuts he would’ve done without, but he hoped he wouldn’t be puking them up. “What for?”

“For yesterday. I was weird, and I’m sorry I blew you off without much of an explanation. I was nervous.” He swallowed. He was staring at his coffee instead of looking at Lars. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Slept with a teammate,” Lars said knowingly. It was uncharted territory for them both; he could definitely empathize with a little freaking out.

“No. Well, yes. Obviously. I meant that I’ve never really…intended to sleep with someone again. Like, I’ve had hookups and slept with the same person again later, but never because I planned it ahead of time.”

Lars blinked at him. The wires slowly connected, but he was unsure he’d gotten it right. “You’ve…never…dated anyone…? Before?”

Ryan turned deep red, his shoulders hunching protectively all the way up to his ears. “Not really?”

“Is that a question?” He softened when he saw Ryan wince. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” Ryan drew his hands down his face and sighed into them before finally looking at Lars. He seemed less embarrassed now, if not a little resigned. “I haven’t dated anyone since high school and I don’t know if that really counts since I saw her like twice a month and never even got to second base.”

Lars wanted to ask what baseball had to do with this, but pushed the question aside for later. It related to sex, presumably, but that wasn’t the important part. High school was before they’d even met, and that’d been nearly eight years ago. “You really haven’t dated anyone?” he asked, then realized he sounded kind of like a judgmental dick. “Sorry, I should clarify that I’ve barely dated anyone, either. I get it, it’s hard to date when you’re on the road and have a schedule like ours. But I’ve had some flings. And you’re just so…”

Beautiful. Charming. Amazing. Hot.

“...much more put together than I am, I sort of assumed you would’ve, too.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “No one has ever told me I’m put together.”

“It is a weird thing to say,” he conceded.

“I don’t really do…flings…” Ryan said the word like he was testing it out. Lars’s heart leapt. Did that mean he’d thought the two of them were dating? Or was he downscaling because they were just a fling? “Like you said, busy schedule. I don’t have time between games and training, and I honestly don’t like to sleep with people in town because what if I see them again?”

Lars nodded. If he were looking for a one night stand, it would’ve been easy in Portland, but also riskier. Anything casual like that, he usually opted for a road trip, too. “Conveniently, we have the same schedule,” he pointed out.

“Really convenient,” Ryan agreed. He’d relaxed a little, looking more like himself. Certainly better than he’d looked since he’d arrived. Their eyes locked, and Lars instantly regretted not dealing with his bed situation last night.

“You know,” he said, “my couch is pretty comfortable…”

“Is it?” Ryan’s lips twitched like he was trying very hard to suppress a grin.

“Yes. Want me to show you?”

As soon as they were close enough, Ryan pushed him onto the center of the couch. Lars flailed slightly as he fell backward, taken by surprise as Ryan took charge. He took off his shirt and tossed it aside, then straddled Lars. He took Lars’s face in his hands, sparing a moment to gently caress his cheeks and push aside a stray lock of hair, then he leaned down and kissed him. It was chaste, barely a brush of lips, before Lars’s brain switched back on. He got his hands on Ryan’s hips and pulled him down, giving him better access to kiss him more fully.

His hands came up to trace the strong muscles of Ryan’s back. He was so warm, so pliant as Lars’s fingers pressed into his skin. It was heaven.

“You taste sweet,” Ryan said between kisses.

“I am sweet,” he said as he took Ryan’s bottom lip into his mouth and sucked on it.

“Very sweet,” Ryan agreed, and then they stopped talking altogether. There was nothing they wanted to say, anyway, not when they could do this instead. Lars memorized the shape of Ryan’s lips, the taste of him, the feel of him pressed against his chest.

Eventually Ryan hooked his fingers under Lars’s shirt and pulled. Lars grunted in displeasure at the interruption, then sighed in contentment as their bare skin touched.

“I don’t want to get off you,” Ryan whispered right into his ear as he ground forward and brought their cocks together. “But we have too many clothes on.”

At the threat of Ryan getting off his lap, Lars tightened his grip on Ryan’s hips. He thrust upward and watched Ryan’s eyes flutter shut. “I thought you liked a challenge,” he teased.

“Pants on?” Ryan sputtered.

Lars wiggled a hand under the waistband of Ryan’s sweatpants. They were loose at the waist but tighter as they stretched around his thighs, and it took some work to get his hand where he wanted. He stopped to grab Ryan’s ass before working his index finger down until he was able to press lightly against Ryan’s hole.

“Holy shit,” Ryan hissed, thrusting forward and then pushing back against Lars’s finger and moaning. “Do that again.”

Lars did, this time tracing the tight muscle before pushing teasingly at the rim. “Pants on?” It wasn’t so much a question as a challenge.

“I mean, I can do it,” Ryan said and rolled his hips a few times, their dicks sliding together and his ass pressing back against Lars’s hand. “Not sure about you.”

“I’m helping you!” he protested with a laugh.

Again, Ryan ground down against him then stopped, using his body weight to pin Lars down. “Am I not helping you?” And then he started sucking a bruise onto Lars’s neck, right above his shoulder. Lars arched into him, gasping as he tried to give Ryan better access. He didn’t normally like having marks on him, but he wanted Ryan to bruise him now so he could take it with him to Ohio for their week apart.

“You were helping,” he eventually gritted out. He nudged Ryan’s hips in the hopes of getting him to move again.

Ryan bit him, just shy of too hard, and chuckled. He stayed stubbornly still as Lars rocked against him, barely able to move and get friction on his cock with Ryan holding him down. Somehow knowing how long to hold out, he waited until Lars was desperate before he moved again, though at a languid pace that barely offered any relief. Not even Lars teasing at his rim could make Ryan hurry up. It was equal parts agonizing and exhilarating: he hated slowing down but he loved being at Ryan's mercy.

“You feel really good,” Ryan said. He’d finished his work at Lars’s shoulder and had moved on to nibbling at his ear. “Think I’ll finish before you?”

“Yes, because you’re such a fucking tease,” Lars said. He sounded painfully breathless, like he was coming off a long shift instead of sitting back while the hottest guy he’d ever met gave him a lap dance. “You’ll come and leave me to finish myself off,” he said with a pout.

“Don’t worry.” Ryan’s voice was just as airy, as needy, as undone. “I wouldn't do that to you,” he promised.

That was when Lars gave in completely, letting Ryan have his way with him. He was along for the ride, free to enjoy the glide of Ryan’s strong body over his, admire the graceful way he moved, devour every wonderful sound he made. Even as he tipped closer and closer to the edge, he couldn’t take his eyes off Ryan. Who was he fooling, thinking he could ignore his attraction to Ryan?

“Close,” he said. “Really close.”

“Got you,” Ryan said. He kissed Lars, deeper than before. “Come for me,” he whispered, the plea going straight to Lars’s dick and hitting him like a freight train. He pulled Ryan close as he thrust through the waves of his orgasm, pleasure ripping through him so sharply his vision went white for a few seconds until the feeling dulled and relief took its place. He went limp and had to rely on Ryan and the couch to keep him up as Ryan chased his own release. Lars watched Ryan’s face as he tensed and thrust more sloppily against him until he groaned, his movements dragging out and then stopping altogether before he collapsed on top of him.

They stayed there as their breathing slowly leveled off. His come grew sticky and Ryan’s weight heavy, but Lars couldn’t bring himself to end the moment. It didn’t matter how uncomfortable he got; he wouldn’t be the first to move or speak.

“When you leaving?” Ryan eventually asked. His forehead was resting against the back of the couch, leaving his words muffled by the fabric.

Lars sighed internally. Back to reality, then.

“Early Thursday,” he said. They had a game tomorrow, but then nothing until two days after Christmas. Almost five days with no scheduled hockey. They wouldn’t have a break that long again until the All Star weekend. “You?”

“Thursday afternoon. Back late on Boxing Day.” A pause. “That’s the day after Christmas.”

Lars nodded. He’d heard that before. “Why is it called that?” He’d never once seen a boxing match connected to the day.

“No clue. I think it’s originally British, something to do with boxing up leftover food to donate or something.” He made a dismissive noise like it was a mystery he was content to never solve. “When do you get back?”

“The day after that.” Lars again wondered if this thing between them was a fling or dating or something else, and if it was okay to ask to see him again when they got back.

“Want to get dinner?” Ryan asked. It sounded confident, almost breezy, but Lars could hear the shyness that was underneath. He was trying to use his media persona, and it would’ve fooled Lars if he weren’t used to picking it out and trying to see Ryan’s real thoughts underneath the bluster. “When you’re back in town?”

He finally shifted under Ryan to force him to sit up. This conversation was too weird to have without looking Ryan in the eye. “Dinner would be great,” he said, watching Ryan’s reaction.

He looked…not quite surprised or relieved, but something like that. And happy. His reaction was muted, but he was clearly pleased and couldn’t quite hide it. “Great,” he echoed. “Rangoons?”

“It’s a date,” Lars said, having chosen the words carefully and watching even more so.

This time there was no hiding it: Ryan was definitely surprised and definitely happy. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Now let’s get these clothes in the washer and ourselves in the shower.”

Ryan crawled off him. “The pants on was your idea.”

“And it was a good idea at the time. It’s the after part that makes it gross.” He accepted Ryan’s hand and let him pull him up. “Let’s be quick, I want the rest of those donuts.”

Holiday Break: Updates From Around the League

Abigail Cunningham, The Baltimore Sun

WE’RE NOT QUITE HALFWAY through the season, but with the abbreviated winter break upon us, it feels like as good a time as any to take a look at how the Crabs are doing as they try to maintain a Wildcard position, what the competition looks like, and notable updates from around the league.

The Metro: The top playoff positions in the Metropolitan division are likely to go to the Otters and Nor’easters, who have consistently dominated the competition this season. The Pythons and Gliders, on the other hand, have been inconsistent, with sparks of greatness that then turn into multi-game losing skids, particularly when their top players are injured or in dry spells. One of these teams will likely grab the third top spot in the division, and unless one completely plummets in performance, the other will take one of the two Eastern Conference Wildcard spots. So where does that leave the Crabs?

The Wildcard: The Blue Crabs have been doing well this season. Dependable goaltending and consistent scoring have driven the team since October. The real issue is that the division is stacked with talented teams where every loss hits like two in the standings. They’re very much in the Wildcard race, and, if they do an exceptional job in the new year, could even fight for third in the Metro. Their real competition looks to be the Ice Owls, who have nearly an identical record. As the regular season winds down, we’ll have to turn our eyes to the Atlantic division to see who potential playoff matchups might be; for now the Crabs are trying to get their foot in the door.

The West: Most of the team’s trips to visit Western Conference teams are out of the way, but a good chunk of the West still needs to make it to Baltimore to face the Crabs on home ice. It’ll be important to keep track of which teams are making a playoff push, though the only team I’ve been following right now are the Prowlers. They had a mediocre track record to start the season, then seemed to rally after their win against Nilsson and the Crabs: they’ve been on a five game win streak and are 15-2-3 in their last twenty. They’ll be in Maryland in Late March and I for one want to see how the Crabs do against a team that’s gunning for them.

The Crabs: And now to our traditional pre-holiday wrap-up where we ask Blue Crabs players where they’re going for the break:

Jake Campbell: My parents are flying in to see the kids for Christmas. I’ll get to stay up late on Christmas Eve wrapping about a hundred presents and putting together a new swingset, then maybe get a few hours of sleep before the kids wake me up. Fingers crossed!

Lars Nilsson: I'll be visiting my mormor, sister-in-law, and my niece and nephew in Ohio.

Vladislav Voronin: My parents and younger sister will be visiting from Russia. It’s a long trip, so they will stay about a month as we celebrate.

Pavel Vlasic: I hear it might snow this year. The kids will like that, we can make snowmen and have a snowball fight. But we will obviously do presents and a big family dinner, and FaceTime with our family who live overseas. Very important for the kids to know their cousins.

Pierre Lauren: I’ll be hosting the team party on New Year’s Eve, so most of my holiday break will be spent helping my wife decorate and stock up on hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Luckily the dogs don’t need much attention, no?

RJ Russell: I fly to Montana to spoil my nieces and nephews but then usually get stuck helping clean out the barn. Real buzzkill to the Christmas spirit.

Kyle Fritz: I’ll be driving up to New York to visit my aunt and uncle to celebrate Hanukkah.

Rupert Swanson: Just me and my girlfriend celebrating in town. Very low-key. I won’t even hit the gym or the ice until we come back. Hopefully I still remember how to skate.

Stay warm, Crabs fans, and Happy Holidays!

Chapter 24

Ryan

Ryan sat nervously on a bar stool in Rangoons. There was a half-eaten plate of crab rangoons in front of him and he was already on his second non-alcoholic beer. If they didn’t have practice tomorrow, he might’ve even gone for an actual beer, he was so nervous. How could he be nervous? This was Lars. A guy he’d already slept with three times, a guy he’d seen nearly every day for months and talked to almost every day while they were away.

He ran his clammy palms down his thighs and tried to stop his legs from shaking. He was wearing jeans. Jeans! What next, khakis? To impress a guy who’d regularly seen him in suits when they had to dress up for travel and before games.

A gust of wind as the front door opened made Ryan sit up straight. He turned to look, then sighed in disappointment as a group of strangers stamped their feet and then made their way to a booth.

Ryan didn’t like this anxious feeling. He didn’t like that something other than hockey could have his stomach twisted in knots. If this was what dating was like, he wasn’t sure he liked it. It was distracting and uncomfortable and⁠—

This time the cool air brought in Lars, wearing a beanie pulled too far down and a long, green raincoat over a Crabs hoodie, and something inside Ryan shifted. Their dating or non-dating was no longer relevant, because he understood he’d suffer more than a little discomfort for the chance to stay in Lars Nilsson’s orbit. Without meaning to, he’d stood halfway up but caught himself. What was he planning on doing? Going up to him? Hugging him? Kissing him? He firmly planted his feet around the legs of the bar stool as he smiled at Lars.

Lars caught sight of him immediately. He shook off the slightest dusting of snow that made him look stupidly handsome, and walked over. He clapped Ryan hard on the back, his fingers digging into the meat there, and took the empty bar stool.

“Hi,” he said, then popped a crab rangoon in his mouth.

“Hey.” Ryan licked his lips and watched the way Lars’s throat worked as he swallowed. “How was Ohio?”

Lars shrugged. “It’s unfortunate that every time I’m in Ohio, I have to see Anders, so I’m not particularly endeared to the state.” His expression brightened slightly. “But the kids made me a scrapbook of all the fights Anders and I have had. They even drew some pictures. Mormor was very displeased.” He sounded mischievous as he said this last part, like a child who’s played a particularly good prank.

Ryan didn’t know whether to laugh or not. He didn’t at all understand Lars’s relationship with his brother, nor did he even know how to begin approaching it. It was nothing like him with his sisters, but he didn’t have a brother at all, so maybe this was more within the realm of normal than he gave it credit for.

“You were in Montana?” Lars promoted. “Did you have to clean a barn?”

“Yeah, actually,” he said in surprise. “How’d you know?”

“It was on the Blue Crabs page,” Lars said. “They asked me what I was doing, and I think they asked a lot of people where they were going for break. You said you would have to clean your family’s barn.”

Oh. He remembered that. He honestly wasn’t one for social media. He had it, because of course he did, but he didn’t engage much with it. He followed friends and family only, posted sparingly, and sometimes shared posts to signal boost a cause or event. He absolutely did not look at hockey stuff. The last thing he wanted to know was what anyone was saying about him, his team, or the league.

“I did,” he agreed. “I forgot, and I guess I didn’t expect anyone to actually read what I said.”

Or care. Well, no, he knew he had fans. Not at the same volume as other players, but he’d seen his jersey in the stands enough to know people liked him.

“I always read them,” Lars said. The thought that his past self was out there online had never much mattered; knowing Lars actually read them made his chest flutter. Had he gone back to read the older ones…?

Ryan suddenly wondered if he’d said anything embarrassing. Probably—he rode a line between his real self and a public persona that was a lot funnier and more easygoing than he actually was—but there was an amount of embarrassment that didn’t bother him when it was in front of strangers and then a much lower amount he could stomach when it was Lars.

“I comment on them sometimes.” There was a twinkle in Lars’s eyes.

Great. Now Ryan was going to have to dive into Crabs’ social media just to read Lars’s comments.

The bartender interrupted to get Lars a drink and get his order.

“That’s probably why the fans like you,” Ryan muses. “You did that pick-up game over Thanksgiving. You comment on social media. You score a lot.”

“Not as much as last season,” Lars grumbled into his beer. When he put it down, he was smiling and Ryan couldn’t tell if he was actually annoyed about his production or not. “They like you, too, you know.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Because I’m pretty?” he asked sarcastically. He was well aware his fan base was mostly women. Not that he minded, but he’d seen enough signs at warm-ups and practice to know why they liked him. 

“You are pretty,” Lars agreed, “but they also like that you always stop to sign autographs and work with youth hockey and never say anything bad even when we lose. They also appreciate all the goals, so we should keep that up.”

“To goals.” He lifted his drink and let Lars clink his against the glass. “Skål.”

“Skål,” Lars repeated with wide eyes. “How…?”

Ryan took a sip, pleased to have surprised him. “It was one of the first things you ever said to me, I think. I don’t actually know Swedish.”

Yet came unbidden, a silent promise he didn’t dare examine. It was safer to pretend he’d never thought it at all.

Lars seemed a little disappointed. “Oh. I wish I remembered.” He perked up. “I’ll try to say more interesting things from now on.”

Ryan gulped. “Like what?”

“Du är så sexig.”

“Ha! I think I got that one.” He flushed at the compliment. “What else you got?”

“Jag är förälskad i dig.”

This one stumped him. “No clue.”

Lars grinned widely. “I have a crush on you.”

Ryan had already been blushing; now his whole face was on fire. He took a cautious look around before leaning in, his hand barely brushing Lars’s as he said, “Jag är förälskad i dig, too,” with a stilted attempt to mimic Lars. He swiped his thumb once more over the back of Lars’s hand before he pulled away to a safe distance. “Sorry, that sounded awful.”

“No.” Lars coughed and fidgeted in his seat. “That was really good.”

Lars’s food arrived, and after he thanked the bartender, he hesitated. “After dinner…”

“After?” Ryan’s throat was suddenly dry.

“Will we be…hanging out?” he asked innocently. “Any new video games?”

Ryan had dutifully returned Tanner’s extra Xbox weeks ago, so he was fairly certain there would be no video games in their foreseeable future. “I might be free. Why do you ask?” He did his best to copy his coy tone.

“Just want to know if I should take my time enjoying my meal, so I can maximize my time with you tonight.” He motioned to the burger and fries in front of him, before pointedly saying, “Or maybe I should eat quickly so I can move on to the better part of my evening sooner.”

Ryan reflexively licked his lips. It had been a relief to get back in town before Lars. He’d spent the day cleaning his apartment and making sure his pantry was stocked with the essentials: sugary foods, flavored protein, and plenty of lube and condoms. He’d jerked off about a million times because he was so damn horny and needed to take the edge off. It hadn’t helped.

But in all other ways, he was ready.

“You should get it to go,” he said with a surprising amount of confidence. “I’ve got a busy night planned.”

* * *

He and Lars fell into a rhythm so easily it should’ve scared him. They were back on the grind, a killer schedule of games and training that wouldn’t let up again until the All Star break at the beginning of February. They’d been spoiled by the mini-breaks around both Thanksgiving and Christmas, but Ryan honestly preferred the torment of the grind; it meant he wouldn’t have time to actually think about the fact that every night, without fail, he left the rink to fuck Lars Nilsson.

And it wasn’t just the sex. It was the making breakfast together, the lazy make-out sessions while watching movies, the falling asleep and waking up in each other’s arms. That was what he didn’t want to analyze, because he was pretty sure it all meant one thing.

The problem was twofold.

One: they had never confirmed out loud that they were dating. Nothing about “boyfriends” or anything like that, and Ryan definitely wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up.

Two: what did it mean to date someone? Ryan wasn’t worried in the philosophical sense. His concerns were completely practical. Should they carpool together? Should they keep toiletries at each other’s place? If someone asked, should he say he was in a relationship? How would he field the inevitable follow-up questions? Were they exclusive?

The anxiety those thoughts prompted made him immediately opt out of figuring out the answer.

And honestly, he didn’t need to. Things were going well. Ryan didn’t necessarily need to be in a relationship to enjoy what they were doing together.

…he would just be kind of bummed if it ended.

“Stop,” he warned himself out loud, causing Tomas and the Ivans to look at him strangely. “Just thinking about the play,” he mumbled and turned his attention back to the drill.

Later, in the locker room, he started to consider the evening. No game tonight, which meant dinner and seeing if Lars wanted to go to Ryan's apartment or his. And maybe⁠—

He had a missed call from Tanner. Tanner, who never called. Ryan was surprised Tanner even knew how to use the call feature on his phone. There was a text, too.

kind of an emergency pls call

I know you’re probably at hockey work but there’s a problem

No one is hurt or anything but your apartment is fucked

That was ominous.

Ryan abandoned changing (he’d at least gotten his gear off, but was still in his sweaty Under Armour) and stepped out of the locker room.

“What’s wrong with my apartment?” he asked as soon as the line connected. “Are you sure no one’s hurt?”

“Hey, bro,” Tanner said with more seriousness than usual. He sounded…sober? Like when he’d gone to his parents’ place and laid off the weed for a day. “Yeah, no one’s hurt but something went wrong with the pipes on your floor. Something burst and it got so bad it was leaking into my place a bit, so I used your spare key to look. Total shit show, lemme tell you.”

Ryan froze. He hadn’t realized he’d been pacing until he stopped in the middle of the hallway, chest tight like he’d just finished a two minute shift. “What?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve called the landlord and made him get guys in to start fixing it. I don’t think you wanna stay there, though. It’s a mess and smells kinda funky, and they had to shut off the water so no showers or toilet or cooking or laundry or, well, you get the idea.”

He did, and the idea was awful. “How long did they say it would take?” It didn’t sound like a “done by five” type of fix.

Tanner made an indecipherable noise. Something between “shit I’m out of potions” and “whoops I forgot this map.”

“Tanner…” he warned.

“They don’t know for sure, but probably early February?”

“Febr—? Tanner, it’s barely January!” He winced at his own rising voice, and tried to calm down. “So I’m basically homeless for a month?”

“Homeless?”

Tanner was still talking, something about how Ryan was more than welcome to stay with him, but when Ryan turned around and found Lars watching him, he stopped listening.

“Hey, Tanner, I’ll have to call you back,” he said and ended the call.

“What’s wrong?” They were in the middle of the hallway that the whole team would have to go through to leave, and it was clear Lars was doing his best to keep his voice light, like a curious teammate with only a passing interest. His expression told a different story, brow knit in concern and eyes watching him sharply. “Why are you homeless? What is a Tanner?”

The last question caught him off guard, so he started with that. “Tanner is my neighbor.”

“Tanner is a name?” Lars asked incredulously, his face betraying his disapproval of American names.

“My apartment flooded. It’s no big deal,” Ryan said breezily, the same way he’d respond to a reporter asking him about a disastrous game. “Tanner said I can stay with him. It’s a bit of a pain since it’s for⁠—”

“A month,” Lars interrupted. “Stay with me. I have room.”

Ryan stared at him. That was very technically true—his condo was huge—but it only had one bedroom. Which was obviously not a problem, since Ryan had slept in Lars’s bed about as often as his own the past week, but if anyone else knew and found out Ryan was staying there, it’d be hard to play it off as a friend helping out a friend.

“You’re there most of the time, anyway.” Lars said it quietly so the words barely crossed the four feet to him; no one else could overhear. “No one knows I don’t have a guest room. You’re the only one who’s been over.”

Relief flooded through him, then a strange sort of pride that he was the only guest to visit Lars. And finally, a tingly sensation that reminded him of being drunk or high, but one he knew was completely brought on by the prospect of temporarily living with Lars.

“You like breaking all the rules, huh? Teammates with benefits, now roommates?”

“I certainly like all the benefits,” Lars said with a wink. Then, more seriously, “And I would like to help. And see you more. And other things I can’t say when we could be interrupted⁠—”

On cue, Jake pushed out of the locker room, on the phone with his wife. He shot them both a wave and a smile, never faltering as he listed upcoming basketball games and practices for his oldest. He was out the door into the parking garage within seconds, but the illusion of privacy was broken.

Ryan considered a moment. This was a no brainer, right?

Practical. Lars lived closer to the rink. Ryan did spend a lot of time there, and it would be less intrusive to Tanner. Tanner was also sweet but kind of a slob.

No emotions involved at all.

“How will I pay you back?” Joking about it made the whole thing more manageable.

“Oh, I’m sure we can arrange something,” Lars promised.

“I’ll have to swing by my place to grab some stuff,” he said, trying out the idea of this arrangement. He definitely liked it. “I could pick up dinner on the way over.”

Lars waved off the idea. “I’ll cook. It’ll be ready by the time you’re home.”

He’s foreign, Ryan reminded himself as his heart leapt. He doesn’t know what that sounds like.

“Great.” His voice shook slightly. “Give me an hour?”

“Of course.” Lars grinned. “This’ll be fun.”

Chapter 25

Lars

Am I living with my boyfriend?

Lars asked himself that often, and never had a satisfying answer. Well, there was one very satisfying answer, but like Ryan, he had little experience with dating. He assumed a conversation was needed, a mutual agreement that they were, in fact, boyfriends, but he didn’t know how to broach the topic. Because what if they weren’t dating? Even after all these years in the States, he knew he didn’t always understand the culture, the language, the people. While he might hope he and Ryan were on the same page, there was always a chance he was wrong.

He didn’t want to be wrong about this.

And things were good. He got to spend nearly the whole day with Ryan, whether it was at the rink or his condo. Or in his bed.

Today they had a late game and no practice, so yesterday they’d stayed up late and slept in. Lars was up first, sipping his coffee in the doorway while he enjoyed the view: Ryan, snoring gently where he was tangled in the blankets, his arms wrapped around a pillow. Most importantly, he was wearing one of Lars’s shirts, an old Team Sweden one that was so faded it had one and a half crowns instead of three. It made something possessive flare up inside him, some caveman part of his brain that saw Ryan in his clothes as a territorial claim and that was equally pleased to hold that claim.

Mine it said over and over. Mine mine mine.

The thought went straight to his dick, but he ignored the thrum of arousal. They’d promised to dial down on the sex to prepare for their upcoming road trip. Indulging in endless sex when only their neighbors might hear was an acceptable risk; loud fucking when their teammates or coaches might find out was not.

He indulged himself a few more minutes before forcing himself to head to the kitchen to make breakfast.

He’d thought originally that Ryan didn’t like flavorful food. He’d quickly learned that wasn’t the case. Ryan was perfectly capable of eating just about anything, no matter how flavorless or actually terrible, which he credited to being the youngest of six: he ate what he could, when he could, even if it was the mediocre cooking of a few of his sisters or the leftovers no one else would touch. Lars had also discovered that Ryan’s bland diet was mostly due to his inability to cook. Bland was quick, bland was edible, and as long as he hit his protein goals, Ryan was content to eat basically anything.

Lars, to put it nicely, was not. He had a sweet tooth, but besides that he didn’t want to feel like eating was a chore. His mormor had taught him how to cook, and he’d learned enough from meal prep kits over the years that he could cook fairly well. He’d made use of those skills to impress Ryan, making his favorites from Sweden and his more “American” go-to meals.

Today would be muesli with filmjölk, fruit salad, and ham and cheese omelets. Perfect way to start the day with one of his favorite people.

* * *

“Why haven’t you called?” As soon as he answered the phone, he heard the chiding accusation.

Lars looked apologetically at Ryan, snuggled against him on the couch while they watched a movie. Or rather, while Ryan watched a movie and Lars watched him. He nudged Ryan’s shoulder so he could get up.

“I’m sorry,” he said in Swedish as he walked towards the window. Baltimore was dim and gloomy, an awful day of slush that made him miss actual snow. “I’ve been busy.”

“You’re always busy,” she countered. “Your brother, too. Neither of you have ever been too busy to call unless you’re distracted.”

Anders was distracted for several years, but sure.

“I have been distracted,” he admitted. He glanced over his shoulder to Ryan, who was politely playing on his phone.

“Good distraction or bad distraction?” He could practically hear the cogs in her head turning, calculations about how much to worry. “You’ve been playing well. Another hat trick,” she mused aloud. “You did seem a little off at Christmas.”

He sighed. He’d done his best, he really had, to put his full attention into the visit, and he’d felt successful more often than not. Sure, his mind had drifted to Montana and he’d jerked off more times than he cared to admit, but he was only human.

“Sorry,” he said again.

His Mormor tsked. “So what is it? Is there a problem with the team? Are you unsatisfied? Will you leave in the off-season?”

“No, the team is great.” The vibe was definitely better than Portland, not that he’d realized the negativity until he’d been freed of it.

“Then what is it?” There was a pause so short Lars didn’t have the time to consider his answer before she gasped, “Who is it?”

Lars wasn’t a good liar in general, but certainly not to his mormor. He only briefly thought of denying it then gave in. “It’s another player,” he hedged.

The line went silent; he knew better than to think she’d given up.

“It’s that Russell, isn’t it?” she asked. “The pretty one?”

He couldn’t help but glance back at Ryan, sprawled across his couch. “Maybe.”

She was quiet again. “Is that why he’s been doing so well this season? Because of you?”

“He’s been doing well because he’s good,” Lars countered.

“He is,” she conceded. “But he’s been doing better, yes?”

“Technically—”

“You’ve been doing well. Better than the projections thought you would, given the team.”

“We’re not even on a line together.”

“If you both are happy outside of the rink, it shows in the rink,” she said. “Your father was that way, anyway. Your brother, too. Your father had his best years when you were born, and Anders played terribly that season when Astrid was sick all the time and got her tonsils out. It’s normal, I think. For good times to build you up and stress to pull you down.”

Happy. Good times.

He couldn’t hold back a soft smile. “Yeah,” he agreed. “You might be right.”

She scoffed. “How many years does it take to learn this? I’m usually right, Lillen.”

“Yes, Mormor.”

They chatted a little more. She must have sensed he was distracted, because she let him go without much fuss, only warning him to be discreet. 

“And happy,” she added before hanging up.

I’m trying. He walked back to the couch and tossed his phone on the coffee table. Ryan looked up at him expectantly.

“No shouting, so I’m guessing it was your mormor and not your brother.”

Lars wrinkled his nose. “I would never talk to Anders on the phone. Not even to shout at him.”

…maybe to shout at him.

Ryan gave him a look that said he knew exactly what Lars was thinking.

“She calls to check in on me,” he said. “She wanted to know who I was sleeping with that kept me from calling for so long.”

“And what’d you tell her?” Ryan asked, his voice flat and his expression unreadable.

“Nothing.” He waited to see if relief washed over Ryan’s face, but he remained impassive, so he added, “She guessed.”

That worked: Ryan’s jaw dropped. “Guessed? What exactly did she guess?”

“That it was you. That I’m sleeping with. She knows I have a type.”

“What’d she say? About us? Me?” Was he eager because he liked that Lars had talked about him, or upset?

It didn’t much matter either way: Lars had said it, and he wouldn’t lie about it now.

“She said that you’re pretty and a good hockey player. And that she’s glad I’m happy. That was about it, except for family gossip about some of her cousins.”

“Shut up. She didn’t say I’m pretty or a good player.” Ryan rolled his eyes, and now Lars could detect traces of annoyance.

“I was surprised about the pretty. I didn’t think she liked brunets. But she’s been saying you’re a good player all season.”

“You’re lying.”

“I would never lie about hockey. Or Mormor.” Or you.

The corner of Ryan’s lips twitched. He wasn’t angry, then. That was good. “Well, tell your mormor I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“I will, but it’ll go to her head.” He sat back down on the couch, giving up his better vantage point to gain proximity. “Is that okay?” he asked nervously. “That I told her?”

Ryan considered. “It’s fine.”

Lars nodded. “And have you told anyone…?”

Ryan shook his head and then abruptly stopped. “Well, I guess my neighbor knows. The one who helped with the apartment stuff.”

His stomach did a weird swoop that should’ve been uncomfortable but wasn’t. Someone Ryan cared about knew he was with Lars. Had he said they were dating? Sleeping together?

Ask and you could find out…

Ask and you might not like the answer.

“Is that okay?” Ryan prompted, possibly because he saw some of Lars’s spiraling thoughts in his expression.

“Of course,” he said easily. He slung an arm around Ryan’s shoulder. He couldn’t bring himself to edge closer to the “what are we” conversation right now, not with things going so well. “Let’s finish the movie.”

* * *

“Lars!”

Lars startled at the sound of a female voice calling his name. He was in a practice facility in Orlando, a place he’d been to once a year and never learned the name of. It had garish pythons on the walls which was the only notable thing about the place.

He saw a petite woman that looked about his age, a familiar look to her.

“Abigail,” he said slowly, drawing the name from an interview early in the season. If he remembered correctly, she was a sports reporter in Baltimore. He’d probably read more of her words than he’d spoken with her directly, and he internally switched from hockey mode to media mode. Not always easy when he was in full gear.

She beamed at him. “Yep! Good memory.” She held out her hand, which he awkwardly shook with his glove on.

“What can I do for you?” He was wary of reporters. He’d never had any issues—he knew he was personable and foreign enough that he’d be forgiven any blunders—but he remembered the barrage of attention he’d gotten from a young age, particularly after his parents’ deaths. It hadn’t helped that his English hadn’t been great when he’d joined the league. He’d thought it was good, or at least passable, until suddenly all of his coaches and trainers were speaking English nonstop, words he’d never heard before but ones he was dependent upon to figure out every aspect of his life. The interviews had been stressful, simple questions rendered impossible because he simply lacked the words to answer.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the All Star roster is going to be revealed soon.”

It was January, so that seemed right. He didn’t much care—he’d likely get the spot for the Crabs like he had for the Prowlers.

“If this is about Anders,” he said more brusquely than he could fully control, “and us playing for the same All Star team, I doubt it will matter. He never goes, even if they choose him.”

All about “not risking injury” and “wanting the time off with his family” these days. Before the kids were born, he was allllll about participating. Couldn’t be bothered coming to Sweden, but a completely meaningless weekend of hockey with people he barely knew? Sure! Guess he and Mormor weren’t “family” enough.

Abigail raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t…” She looked like she desperately wanted to pounce on his answer. He appreciated that she didn’t. “It was actually about RJ.”

Lars tried not to react, even though this was possibly a worse line of questioning. “Oh?” he said with what he hoped sounded like the right blend of indifferent interest.

“So each team gets to send a player, and then nominate a second for the fan vote. The team is planning to nominate RJ because of his spectacular performance so far this season, and he is something of a fan favorite in Baltimore.”

Lars nodded as his heart filled with pride. As they should, he kept to himself.

“To help generate some interest and get Crabs fans to vote for him, I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about playing with him. Really easy, basic stuff to get fans excited about seeing you two play in the All Star weekend together. Would you⁠—?”

“Yes,” he interrupted. He didn’t care if it was rude or overeager or anything else. Sure, he might be jaded to the whole thing by now, but he knew how much his first All Star game had meant to him as a rookie. Ryan had never gone, and he deserved to feel that. He deserved the recognition. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”

Abigail didn’t seem surprised. “Awesome,” she said with a smile. “Mind if I set up a time through the team to arrange that?”

“You don’t want to do it now?” Wouldn’t the process start soon? Fuck, how close was the game? If they waited, would that hurt Ryan’s chances?

This time she did look surprised. “I thought practice was still going on.”

“It is.” Lars looked down the hallway to where it opened to the rink. It looked like they were in the middle of a scrimmage. As much as he loved scrimmages, this was more important. “They won’t know I’m gone,” he said as he turned back to her.

“I’m sure they will,” she scolded. “I’m not looking to get my access revoked, so let’s wait until after practice, okay?”

Lars took a deep breath, sounding very put upon. “Fine,” he said. “After practice. I’ll be looking for you, so be ready.”

She laughed. “Oh trust me, I will be. Now get out there. I want to report on a win tomorrow.”

“You will,” Lars promised. “I’ll make sure RJ gets the game winner.”

Instagram: Vote for RJ!

[An Instagram Post Featured on @bmorebluecrabsnhl.]

The first picture shows Lars Nilsson and his current games played as a Blue Crab, as well as his goal, assist, and point totals for the season. The second is a video showing Lars’s best plays of the season, including his first goal as a Blue Crab, a shootout goal, two Game Winning Goals, three Power Play goals, and a long stretch pass to Jake Campbell in overtime for a goal.

The third picture shows Ryan Russell and his goal, assist, and point totals for the season, as well as his face-off win percentage and Penalty Kill minutes. The fourth is a video of Ryan’s highlights from the season, including five blocked shots, three assists from tricky passes, and his Michigan goal.

The fifth post is a picture of the two of them side by side, fist-bumping each other after a win.

Caption: What’s better than one All Star? Two!

Lars Nilsson was selected by the NHL to represent the Blue Crabs at the All Star Weekend in early February, and the Crabs have nominated RJ Russell for the Fan Vote! If you’d like to see RJ competing with Nilsson in Vancouver next month, click on the link in our profile to vote him in!

#AllStarRJ #NHLAllStarFanVote #VoteForRJ #crabcrew

Comments:

iheartrj14: HE 100% DESERVES IT VOTE FOR HIM GUYS!

CrabbyMatty: rj definitely deserves it over nilsson. the guy’s overrated

oldbaybe: lol bro look at the stats. double the goals.

CrabbyMatty: and half the assists and shitty face-off totals. use your eyes. watch them on the ice and tell me russell isn’t an insanely skilled player.

lowtide5hole: glad to see russell get some love — one of the most underrated players in the league

CastOCrabs: why not vorny 😭😭😭

crabpeople: already six goalies going. the crabs are prbly trying to increase the chances of non-crabs fans voting russel in

redwhiteandcrab: i’d vote for literally any crabs player over anyone from another team. glad it’s russell but seriously anyone gotta support bmore

clackclackclack: let’s go crabs 🦀

commishjake: omg nilsy and rj will CLEAN UP in vancouver

[Transcript from an Instagram reel on featured on @bmorebluecrabsnhl]

Crabby, the mascot for the Blue Crabs, holds up a sign that reads: Vote for RJ!

Jake Campbell: Great guy. Super supportive teammate. He deserves the chance to represent the Crabs.

Jordan Foster, holding up a picture of Ryan: Vote!

Vladislav Voronin: He’s very good. Best forward on the PK. I think last game he blocked more shots than I did.

Tomas Novotny: Vote for that handsome son of a gun!

Pavel Vlasic: One of the best two-way forwards in the league. It’s a relief when he’s on the ice, because I know my job just got easier.

Pierre Lauren: Vote for RJ! Votez pour RJ!

Lars Nilsson: Vote for Ryan or I won’t score any more goals. (sounds of laughter in the background) Why are you laughing? I’m serious.

Crabby, holding up a new sign: #NHLAllStarFanVote #VoteForRJ #RJRussellAllStar #crabcrew

[A Twitter Post from @AbigailBmoreSun. ]

I spoke with Lars Nilsson about the All Star game. Read on to find out ten reasons he thinks you should vote for RJ Russell in the Fan Vote. #NHLAllStarFanVote #VoteForRJ #RJRussellAllStar #crabcrew

1) He’s having a career high year

2) He’s top ten in face-off wins league-wide

3) He’s helped the Crabs PK unit kill 82% of their penalties this season

4) He’s a supportive teammate whose positivity is contagious

5) He cares about fans: he never turns down autographs, pictures, or interviews

6) He’s never been to an All Star game and should get a shot

7) He played for Team USA in Juniors, won the Calder Cup his rookie year, and Nilsson has no doubt he’ll be part of a Stanley Cup-winning team

8) He volunteers at local youth hockey organizations to help develop the sport in Maryland 

9) He’s got hands: pulled off a Michigan and can deke through the best of them, let him prove it

10) He and Lars would make a great duo representing the Crabs

Chapter 26

Ryan

Two and a half weeks without an apartment, and Ryan was at the point where he didn’t want to go back. He liked his apartment and all, and he missed seeing Tanner, but it was really really nice to see Lars 24/7. The sex was convenient, but he was past pretending that was the only reason. He liked hanging out with him, enjoying home-cooked meals and late-night snuggles, working out together or dicking around at air hockey.

Less than thirty hours before they played the Ohio Otters again, Ryan thought their living arrangement wasn’t just convenient, but essential.

Ryan hadn’t been ready for it last time when they flew to Cincinnati. After seeing how Lars had changed the last time, he’d been wary. He’d watched Lars carefully for signs that he was sinking into bad habits. He thought it might be subtle, the shift from Lars his teammate/sort-of-boyfriend to Lars the younger brother with a chip on his shoulder. Turned out it wasn’t subtle at all.

Lars was on his phone, scrolling through social media as he chattered about a blueberry pancake recipe he wanted to try, when he abruptly stopped talking. Ryan looked over to see what was wrong and instantly recognized the look on his face. The vacant look in his eyes. The slight tightening of his jaw. The way he was gripping his phone like he wanted to snap it in half.

“What’s up?” Ryan asked as casually as he could, slipping into his media voice and nudging Lars with his foot.

Lars didn’t even look up. “The Otters landed at BWI this morning.”

Who was he following to know that? The NHL? The Otters?

Anders?

If one of the latter two, why would he follow them except to torment himself?

“Oh,” Ryan said. “Cool. Should be a good game. Show us if we’re really in shape for the playoffs.”

Lars didn’t respond. His thumb was moving like he was sifting through pictures. Great.

“We did pretty well against the Pythons the other day.”

Still nothing. Lars’s hand stopped moving and he was staring daggers at his screen.

Desperate, Ryan mentally braced himself and went to the only topic he thought might distract Lars. “How do you think the Fan Vote’s going?”

Instantly, Lars blinked and looked up at him. He huffed in annoyance, but it was a much milder version of whatever he’d been experiencing a moment ago. “I don’t like that they don’t show how many votes people have. It’s very rude.”

Ryan shrugged. He didn’t actually think he’d make the cut, and seeing how big of a margin he was losing by wasn’t an appealing prospect. He appreciated that the team had selected him. He’d assumed they’d pick Jake or one of the alternate captains, maybe Vorny, but most of them had already attended in prior years and weren’t having “career years” like he was. Of course, that was because they played at the same high level across several years; Ryan’s “career year” seemed like a pathetic blip in comparison.

He also appreciated that Lars was doing his darndest to campaign for him. It was really sweet, the way he managed to work it into every conversation with reporters. He’d also posted several pictures of the two of them on social media, and a few videos of Ryan at practice. When he’d found time to take them, Ryan still didn’t know, but sometimes he’d leave the locker room and see he’d been tagged in new posts from @lnilsson14. He hadn’t personally posted anything and ignored the comments, but Lars’s enthusiasm really was endearing.

“You know, I won’t be disappointed if I don’t make it,” he said. It was mostly true, too. “I’ll miss you but I’m happy to cheer you on.”

Lars scowled. “I’ll be disappointed. Have you seen the list of players on the Fan Vote?” He had, because Lars had shown it to him no less than ten times. “If they make it over you, it’ll prove the fans have no taste and no appreciation for talent.”

And the true victory: Lars put his phone down.

“Maybe they’re just not as biased as you are.” He crossed his arms across his chest and smirked.

“I’m not biased.” Ryan quirked an eyebrow at him. “Okay, I’m a little biased, but you’re a good player and deserve it.”

He preened. He wasn’t nearly as good as Lars thought, but it was nice to bask in his definitely biased praise.

“You know what else you deserve?” Lars asked mischievously. “A blow job before practice.”

Ryan wasn’t going to argue with that one.

* * *

Keeping Lars focused was harder than he thought. As the game approached, Lars drifted further and further away. Sometimes the only way Ryan could bring him back was with drastic measures, normally involving his tongue or his hands. Not exactly ideal since he couldn’t do any of those things at the rink or in public.

It got really bad as they got dressed for the game itself. Their stalls weren’t near each other, and he could hear Tomas egging him on.

“They won last time. We can’t let that happen here,” Tomas was saying. Lars nodded along grimly, like a gladiator about to step into the arena with his life on the line. “God, if I had to play against my brother, I’d never hear the fucking end of it if he won.”

Jesus, what the fuck was Tomas doing?

As they got ready to go down the tunnel for warm-ups, Ryan grabbed Lars by the elbow and pulled him aside. They were behind an open door, barely any privacy at all, but the rest of the team was lining up and loud enough they shouldn’t hear anything.

“Hey,” Ryan whispered despite the noise.

“Hey.” Lars’s eyes softened but he didn’t smile. Not a good sign.

Ryan looked over his shoulder to make sure the locker room was clear, then he surged forward and kissed him. Not a gentle kiss, either, but a possessive one. When Lars gasped, Ryan took advantage and slipped his tongue in to dominate his mouth and take further control. When he pulled away, Lars was panting and his eyes were hooded.

“I need you to do me a favor tonight,” he purred and enjoyed the way Lars shivered.

“What favor?” he asked, breathless.

Ryan dared to kiss him again, a quick peck on the cheek this time that Lars leaned forward to chase.

“If you do it,” Ryan said, “I’ll do anything you want me to do when we get back tonight. Anything.”

Lars closed his eyes and whimpered. When he opened them, they were clear and determined. “What’s the favor?”

“I need you to not fight with your brother at all this game.”

Lars froze, then scowled petulantly. “Ryan⁠—”

“Anything you want,” he said. “I’ll eat you out, I’ll ride you, I’ll deepthroat you, I’ll even try to cook you dinner if that’s what you want. All you have to do is play hockey and not fight Anders.”

“But what if he⁠—?”

“Nope. Not even then.”

He pouted, a look that shouldn’t be so adorable on a grown-ass man and yet it was. “I⁠—”

Ryan leaned in and cut him off by nipping at his bottom lip and cupping his crotch. There was little either of them could feel in the gesture through all the gear, but the pressure would hopefully be enough to rile him up.

“That’s not fair,” Lars protested once his lip was free.

“Do we have a deal?”

The noise from their teammates was growing distant—they must be heading onto the ice now—and they only had a few more seconds before they were missed.

“Fine,” Lars grumbled. “It’s a deal, you tease.”

Ryan rewarded him with a peck on the cheek before rushing to follow the rest of the team.

It wasn’t easy for Ryan to split his attention. He went through his usual routine all while keeping an eye on Lars, just to make sure he didn’t drift too close to center ice. He didn’t, and he didn’t so much as glance towards Anders during warm-ups, which was a relief. He knew Lars would keep his word, but Ryan worried it would be hard for him. It looked like he was going for an “out of sight, out of mind” approach. It wouldn’t work during the game when they’d likely square off against each other, but it was a start.

“You’re quieter than usual, Nilsy,” Jordy said on the bench before the first period. “You sick or something?”

Lars shook his head. “Just focused.”

A few of the forwards shared a skeptical look.

“It’s just that the last time we played the Otters you were a little more…” Jordy struggled for a word. “Intense.”

A few people nodded but stopped whenever Lars looked their way.

Lars stole a glance at Ryan then licked his lips. “Well, last time, we lost. I’m trying something different this time.”

“If it works, it works, I guess.” Jordy didn’t sound convinced.

It was zero surprise to see that the Otters matched Anders against Lars as often as possible. Ryan watched from the bench anxiously, but he was optimistic when Lars avoided an open ice check and didn't retaliate when Anders knocked him out of the crease.

He was clearly frustrated in the locker room between periods, practically vibrating with unspent energy that he’d been saving up specifically to throw himself at Anders. Instead he spent it aggressively re-taping his stick and disappearing into the bathroom for the rest of the intermission.

“You okay?” Ryan asked as they waited to get on the ice for the second period.

Lars scowled at him, angrier than Ryan would’ve hoped. “Did you see when he pushed me? How was that not a crosscheck?”

Ryan had been watching. Anders was a large, physical defensemen and had cleanly bodied Lars out of the crease, keeping him from screening the goalie, i.e. his literal job. It hadn’t looked particularly aggressive (not like if Lars had attempted the same to Anders…), but Ryan understood his role here wasn’t to be the voice of logic. He was the supportive (boy)friend.

“You’re the best on the team, he’s gotta cover you,” Ryan soothed. “And he probably does it knowing he can draw a penalty or two from you. By not giving him that, you’re winning.”

A pensive look overtook the anger as he considered this. “I win by not taking penalties,” he said slowly, trying out the idea. He huffed in annoyance. “It’s more satisfying to take the penalties.”

Ryan tried a different tact. “Well, right now Anders looks like the bad guy, right?” He waited for Lars to nod. “Good, now your mormor can’t be upset with you, and you’re setting a good example for your niece and nephew.”

That seemed to land better. “I suppose…”

The second period was much the same, except Anders seemed to have realized Lars wouldn’t retaliate so he got rougher and rougher. Lars’s frustration was a palpable thing on the bench, everyone giving him a wide berth because he looked like he was one wrong word away from smashing his stick into pieces. Ryan was about to tell Lars not to worry about it, that he could play however he wanted even if that meant punching his brother in the face, but Anders got carried away with a hip check along the boards that the refs finally deemed penalty-worthy.

Even after the penalty was drawn, Lars looked like he was about two seconds away from going after him.

“Lasse!” Ryan called sternly from the bench. That earned him a few looks, but he ignored them. What he really needed was for Lars to⁠—

Lars stopped, stared daggers at his brother for a moment, then skated to the face-off circle to start the Power Play. Ryan smiled, pleased that his gamble had worked, and made the mistake of making eye contact with Anders. Anders Nilsson, all six foot four inches of him, was staring at Ryan with what could only be called a piercing look that made him want to melt into the floor. He couldn’t help it: he looked away first.

Lars scored ten seconds into the resulting Power Play, which seemed to soothe a lot of his aggravation.

“I told you,” Ryan said once the period was over. “You play clean. You draw the penalties. You win.”

“Did you see Ander’s face when he got called? He was pissed,” Lars said with delight.

Ryan patted his shoulder. He still didn’t get the brotherly dynamic there. Sure, he’d enjoyed the same childish mirth whenever one of his older sisters got caught doing something they shouldn’t have…but he also had helped them hide a fair share of sneaking out, cigarettes, and secret boyfriends. He honestly wasn’t sure what one of them would have to do to warrant this type of long-term animosity.

The third period was less eventful on the Nilsson front, mostly because Coach Thompkins did his best to exploit the home team advantage. Any time he could adjust the lines so that Lars wasn’t out against Anders, he did. That meant Lars got easier matchups and was able to avoid the temptation to whale on Anders.

It also meant that more often than not, Ryan was sent out as the sacrificial lamb.

He wouldn’t say he minded, except after the second time he got knocked down to the ice, he wasn’t exactly pleased to be taking the brunt of Anders’s physicality.

“I can see why Lars doesn’t like you,” he muttered the third time as he got to his feet. Anders, about to skate away, stopped to stare at him with icy blue eyes. They were the same color as Lars’s; up close, he could see there was more to the family resemblance than their eyes and blond hair. Same nose, same cleft in their jaw, same ability to pin Ryan in place with a single look.

“Mind your business,” Anders said stiffly, then sprinted away to catch up with the play.

Yep, definitely a charmer, that one.

There was one moment, his last shift of the game, where he and Anders were racing for the puck in the corner. He had a step or two on Anders and braced, fully expecting Anders to take him out with a crushing hit because that’s what he’d been doing to everyone all game. It was what the guy was known for: being big and landing hits. But when the moment came, there was no hit. He didn’t make it easy for Ryan, but Ryan didn’t end up flattened like a pancake.

He didn’t necessarily understand it, but he definitely appreciated walking away from that one without any bruises.

The Crabs managed to eke out a 2-1 victory, thankfully. Ryan wasn’t prepared to lose that game after begging Lars to be on his best behavior.

“Great game, everyone,” Jake said in the locker room after Thompkins had given his usual spiel about a solid win. He turned to Lars. “I’m impressed you reeled it in and didn’t go after your brother like last time. I appreciate the clean game. It really helped us stay solid out there.”

Lars shrugged and continued to take off his gear.

“You two are like magnets on the ice,” Tomas said. “Except instead of magnets, you’re freight trains trying to knock each other off the track. I don’t know how you two are going to handle playing on a team together at the All Star game.”

There was a record scratch in Ryan’s head. He’d been so distracted about his own All Star candidacy and the whole living with Lars situation that he hadn’t thought that far ahead. If it was hard enough to get Lars to play nice for a single game, a whole weekend⁠—

But Lars made a dismissive gesture. “We won’t.”

“But you’re both going,” Tomas said slowly, with the same uncertainty Ryan felt. “We’re the same division. You’d have to be on the same team. He said⁠—”

“Anders won’t go.” Lars threw the last of his gear in his bag and stood up. “He never does.” Then he walked away to the showers, leaving the rest of them floundering.

“Not gonna lie,” Vorny mumbled, “I think I liked it better when he was trying to pummel his brother. Much more entertaining.”

Ryan shot him a dirty look and mentally prepared for an awkward ride home.

* * *

The ride was quiet for the first ten minutes or so as they left the arena and started to navigate into city traffic. By then, they were basically at Lars’s condo, and it seemed the wrong time to brave talking about the previous game, so instead he made some inane comments about their upcoming trip to New York.

It wasn’t until they were settled in the kitchen over steaming plates of pasta that Lars was the one to broach the topic.

“Why didn’t you want me to fight Anders?” he asked as he twirled noodles around his fork. He didn’t seem frustrated or angry anymore, mostly curious.

“I understand it’s not really my business,” Ryan said, his short altercation with Anders on his mind, “whatever your relationship is with your brother, but as your teammate and your—” He faltered here and gave up. “I just didn’t like it, the last time. The Lars I know completely disappeared behind this stranger. It was intense and kind of uncomfortable to be around, and it was maybe okay, then, because we barely knew each other. I didn’t want to see that now.”

The admission sat heavy between them, and Ryan worried he’d confessed more than he’d meant to. But Lars merely considered as he took a bite and chewed.

“I don’t know that I like who I am when I play Anders,” Lars said slowly. “It is intense. A lot to feel, a lot to prove. He makes me very angry, and when I visit the family, I can mostly ignore it. When we play, though, then it’s something I can win. It’s like I can prove something if I win, if I score on him.” He took another bite, his eyes never leaving his food even as he’d spoken.

“You still looked really good tonight. I mean, you always look good, but your playing looked good. You don’t have to go 110% against him to prove something. The league knows you’re good. Anders knows it, too.”

Lars smirked. “Damn right he knows. Did you see how he was on me all night?”

“I did. He was.” Until he was on me. “I did make that promise…You held up your end of the deal, so…”

Lars’s smirk broadened into a leer. “So I can have my way with you?”

“Yep. Decided how you want me?”

“Yes,” he said seriously. “It was very mean of you to tease me like that. I had to jerk off between periods so I could focus on not fighting Anders.”

“Would you have listened to me if I hadn’t made that offer?” Ryan asked pointedly.

Lars’s expression was answer an enough: absolutely the fuck not. 

“Eat your dinner,” Ryan said. “I’m guessing we’ll need our strength for what you’ve got planned.”

The anticipation was palpable, and they dragged it out with dessert and after-dinner drinks (a beer for Lars, a protein shake for Ryan). Ryan was hard before they even made it to the bedroom, and he suspected the same was true for Lars.

He stood in the doorway, hand on the waistband of his sweats while he waited for instructions.

Lars ignored him, placing the remains of his beer on the nightstand after taking another swig.

“Come here and take off my clothes,” he said, his voice tinged with heat.

Ryan did what he was told, stepping right into Lars’s space. Their chests brushed again and again as he worked Lars’s shirt off him and dropped it at their feet. Then he fell to his knees to work on Lars’s pants, first his joggers, straining against Lars’s erection, then his boxers. With Lars finally bare before him, he stroked the outside of his thighs and pressed kisses along his hip bone.

“What next?” Ryan asked between kisses.

“I'm going to get comfortable on the bed,” he said as he ran his thumb along Ryan’s jaw, “then you’ll open me up with your tongue before you fuck me senseless.”

Ryan gulped and stared longingly as Lars crawled onto the bed. Somehow his dick got harder. “Should I…?”

“Lose the shirt and pants.” Lars was rearranging pillows. “Keep the underwear for now.”

Ryan groaned but did as he was told. He’d known what he was signing up for. By the time he’d added his clothes to the pile, Lars was propped up on the pillows with his gorgeous ass on display.

“I've been thinking about this all evening,” Lars said when Ryan settled between his legs. “I knew the moment you suggested it, I needed it.”

Ryan leaned down and kissed his left cheek before centering himself properly. He caressed up and down Lars’s back. “Good choice,” he breathed against his skin, earning him a slight shudder from Lars. “I was kinda hoping you’d pick this.”

He didn’t give Lars a chance to reply. He pressed forward to press a kiss to Lars’s hole, enjoyed the way the muscle tightened at the contact then relaxed right as Ryan licked a circle around his pucker.

“Fuck.” Lars bucked. “Do that again,” he begged.

Instead of teasing him, Ryan rewarded him with another pass of his tongue, then another and another, sometimes dipping his tongue down to his balls. He got Lars’s hole nice and wet before he pressed his tongue inside. With slow thrusts of his tongue, he worked it gradually inside and then added a finger. He kept working him open, little by little, until Lars was a writhing mess beneath him. He rutted down against the pillows and spread his legs as wide as possible in invitation, and while Ryan would love to stay there all night, he had more orders to follow.

He placed one last kiss to Lars’s ass before reaching into the nightstand for a bottle of lube and a condom. Lars whined when Ryan had pulled away but sighed happily when he had to lay himself across his back to reach the drawer.

“So impatient,” Ryan teased. He settled on his knees behind Lars and put a generous amount of lube on his fingers to finish opening him up.

“I almost jerked off again in the shower,” Lars confessed. He hadn’t stopped moving since they started. “I cleaned up and stretched myself out. Had to stop or I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it as much with you.”

Ryan groaned at the mental image of Lars prepping himself in a lonely shower stall at the rink while Ryan was only a room away, blissfully unaware.

“Is that why it’s so easy”—he pushed in two fingers up to the first knuckle with no resistance and began to spread the lube with shallow thrusts—“to open you up?”

Lars shivered. Goosebumps trailed down his arms and legs, his fingers buried in the sheets as he clung for dear life. “Yes,” he gasped.

He made quick work of stretching Lars out. Normally he might drag it out until Lars was absolutely begging for Ryan to fuck him. Not tonight. Tonight was about properly rewarding Lars and giving him exactly what he wanted. Based on the breathy gasps and the way he was thrusting back to meet his fingers, Lars wasn’t interested in being teased.

“Ready?” Ryan asked, his voice deeper than he’d expected.

“Ja,” Lars said, and a lump formed in Ryan’s throat. Lars didn’t talk much during sex, but when he did, it was in Swedish more often than not, or heavily accented English. His accent was mostly smoothed out, not as thick as it’d been in Switzerland, but it was never thicker than when he was on his knees or his back (or had Ryan there).

“I can take these off?” Ryan asked. He didn’t bother pointing to his tented boxer briefs, since Lars’s eyes were barely open.

“Take them off,” he confirmed, almost incomprehensible. Ryan hadn’t known he’d have a language kink, yet here he was, his dick leaking more precome with each syllable. Maybe because this was more Lars, somehow, some distilled version of him closer to his core. A piece that most people rarely, if ever, got to see.

Ryan realized he was wasting time marveling at the man in front of him instead of fucking him. He quickly lost his boxer briefs and rolled the condom on, slicking himself up while Lars squirmed restlessly. He moved closer, lifted Lars’s hips up to get the perfect angle, and used his hand to line his cock with Lars’s wet hole. When he applied pressure, there was the slightest bit of resistance and knew it wouldn’t take much more to be inside him.

“Rea—?”

“Fuck me already.” Lars twisted to throw him a bitchy look over his shoulder, one rendered infinitely less bitchy by his lust-blown eyes and the slight tremble in his lips.

“Got you,” Ryan promised and then pushed in.

They’d done this before. They’d taken turns fucking each other, though they often didn’t have the time or privacy. Hotel rooms where they had to be quiet, nights when they were too physically exhausted to do more than use their hands or too worked up to get their clothes off. So while the sensations that rolled through him weren’t new, they were still potent enough that Ryan shuddered under their weight.

Slowly, gently, he pushed inside. Over and over, he pulled back nearly all the way out, gave a few shallow thrusts before he’d slide in another inch, then waited a few seconds before starting again. It was a predictable rhythm, designed for Lars’s comfort and completely ignoring how much it drove Ryan crazy. All he wanted to do was move with wanton abandon, to drive into Lars again and again until he fell apart.

Which he would…once he’d made sure Lars fell apart first.

He bottomed out and stayed there, buried in Lars’s tight heat. It felt divine. He could barely think straight when they were joined like this, regardless of who was buried in whom.

He pulled back experimentally then slammed in. They moaned together. His second thrust was longer, harder, and soon they found the perfect rhythm. Lars didn't have much leverage to meet him, but Ryan was happy to take charge. His grip was bruising and his movements steady as he drove them at a grueling pace to orgasm.

Lars must be close. He used the friction of the pillows and was so far gone there was a steady stream of incomprehensible Swedish pouring from his lips. Ryan wished their positions were better for him to stare into blue eyes, watch for that second when Lars was completely undone.

He didn’t want to think about why he enjoyed watching that moment or the thrill it gave him to make it happen.

“Come for me, baby,” he coaxed. His thighs burned and pleasure coiled in his gut, ready to spring. He curled over Lars and kissed over the planes of his back. “Please.”

Lars whimpered and nodded, beyond words. Ryan could feel it when he did come, his ass tightening even more around his dick and beautiful noises filling the room. He tensed and then went completely lax against the bed, giving Ryan free rein to finish however he’d like.

He pulled out and tossed aside the condom so he could jerk himself off. His eyes roamed Lars’s naked body, from his sculpted legs and firm ass—his hole lube-slick—up to his torso flexing with heavy breaths, and finally to the messy blond hair that really needed a trim.

“Beautiful,” he whispered—hopefully too softly to be heard—and came in long spurts across Lars’s back. He watched as each streak left a mark, a claim that he’d remember the next time he jerked off.

Ryan really wanted to collapse onto Lars and sleep, but they’d made a mess and no amount of fatigue was worth sleeping in dry come. Lars barely moved, so Ryan took over cleaning up and replacing the dirty covers. Finally, he was rewarded with a warm spot under the thick down blanket, curled around Lars.

“Jag är kär i dig.” Lars didn’t often use Swedish after he’d come, and rarely sounded so soft when he did.

“What’s that?” Ryan asked around a yawn. He could sleep for a week.

“Nothing,” Lars mumbled. He sounded just as tired, fucked out and loopy. “It’s not important. Go to sleep, käraste.”

“ ‘kay.” Then he did, dreaming of rolling hills covered in wheat the color of Lars’s hair, cool lakes the color of his eyes, and a home made among them.

Chapter 27

Lars

Lars waited for his turn to get on the team bus. They’d arrived in New York and were heading to the hotel before a team dinner. Usually when teams traveled, they were expected to dress up. The Prowlers had been particularly strict, requiring suits and going so far as to schedule appointments with a local tailor for rookies and new players whose wardrobes were found lacking. The Crabs were a lot more lax. Khakis and button-downs were acceptable, though suits were preferred, and if they had a departure or arrival past 2 a.m., the team turned a blind eye to more casual clothes.

The simple joy of flying while wearing sweatpants was one he’d never truly experienced before this season.

No such luck today. With their current 3 p.m. arrival in New York to play the Rough Riders, there’d been no such leeway, which meant Lars was currently pulling at the neck of a shirt he’d already unbuttoned as low as he dared and wiggling in a blazer that he maybe hadn’t worn in years and that strained uncomfortably against his biceps whenever he moved. No matter how many years he spent in the NHL, he was too used to sports apparel to ever feel completely himself when “dressed up.”

He was near the end of the line and tapped his foot impatiently. Ryan had long ago disappeared into the bus, but Lars had made a detour to the bathroom on the way out of the airport and was paying for it now. What if someone sat next to Ryan? Would Ryan save the seat for him or think it best to downplay things and take advantage of the opportunity? Oh no, what if he invited someone to sit next to him for that reason?

No amount of fidgeting made the line move any faster, though, and he was stuck with his increasingly anxious and outlandish concerns. When he finally got into the bus and had a clear view, he saw with relief that Ryan was in the middle of the bus with an empty window seat waiting.

“Is this seat taken?” Lars asked with a grin.

“Goal scorers only,” Ryan said.

“Do my two yesterday not count?”

Ryan made a show of considering. “Hmm, I suppose that’ll do.” He moved to make it easier for Lars to wiggle by.

Lars was too happy to get to sit by Ryan to worry about how it looked. Jake usually sat with Pavel, Bergsy with Funk and Johnny. The Ivans were obviously inseparable. The goalies stuck mostly to defense. There were definitely factions and preferred bus/plane buddies, so there was no reason to think anyone cared or even noticed that he and Ryan were glued at the hip. Right?

The real trouble, he thought as he settled in, wasn’t the seats or what other people thought. Lars’s head was in a weird place because of what he’d said to Ryan a few nights ago.

Jag är kär i dig.

I’m falling in love with you.

What a stupid thing to say, to think. Thank fuck he’d said it in Swedish, where it couldn’t do any damage except to him.

“Hey, everyone!” One of the social media interns stepped onto the bus, her phone up and recording the team. They dutifully waved for the camera with as much enthusiasm as they could muster after a two-hour plane ride.

“Big news! I’m here with the Baltimore Blue Crabs to announce that…” The players took the hint and started banging on the seats in an impromptu drum roll. “...RJ has officially been voted into this year’s All Star competition!”

The bus broke out into applause. Lars took Ryan’s arm and lifted it triumphantly over their heads, shaking it and cheering with everyone else. Jordy appeared from the seat behind them, reaching over to muss Ryan’s hair and then slap him on the shoulder. Ryan sat there dumbfounded as a shy smile slowly formed a dimple at the right side of his mouth. Lars really wanted to kiss that dimple.

“Speech!” Tomas yelled and the rest of the team took it up until Ryan stood up.

He looked adorably nervous. “Thanks to all the fans who voted for me. It’s really an honor to get to represent this team in Vancouver next weekend. I really appreciate it and I’ll try not to mess it up.”

More applause and hollers until the intern gave them a thumbs up and put her camera down. “And thank you for not swearing while we were live.”

“We were live?” someone asked. “Holy shit!”

The team laughed, the attention shifted away from Ryan as he sat back down.

“Congrats,” Lars said. Not a whisper, but quietly enough that it was just for them.

“Thanks.” He still seemed a little shell-shocked. “You don’t mind me tagging along on your weekend in BC, do you?”

Lars raised an eyebrow and Ryan huffed a laugh.

“Yeah, dumb question.”

* * *

If it weren’t absolutely necessary that they win as often as possible to keep competitive for a wild card spot, Lars might’ve been tempted to dial down his effort. For the first time since his rookie season, he was distracted and eager to get to the All Star game, and everything else seemed a secondary consideration. Most players who bowed out of the All Star weekend did it to avoid injury; in a strange twist, Lars was worried he’d get injured and miss the weekend.

A weekend with just him and Ryan.

…and dozens of other NHL players. But oh well. They’d be expected to be glued at the hip as teammates, and Lars would definitely take advantage. He’d get to see firsthand as Ryan got the praise and recognition he deserved. He was already calculating how many other centers would attend for the Metro Division, and if they could maybe gerrymander the lines so they were out together during⁠—

“Are you even listening?”

Lars blinked back to reality. Right. They were in his apartment, talking about…something. Dinner, maybe?

“Yes,” he lied.

Ryan shook his head. “Well, on the off chance you weren’t,” he said, “they sent us our flight info for Wednesday. We’ll get in late and we each have interviews early Thursday and the opening ceremony stuff is that evening. That’s probably when we’ll get the details about our events?”

He said it like a question, probably because he’d never been to one of these things and Lars was supposed to be the experienced one helping him out.

“Yeah, and we’ll have a big dinner with everyone but mostly with our team. Does it have our hotel info?”

“You really didn’t hear anything, did you?” Ryan teased. “I’m 301. You’re in 443. Should I be offended I’m on a lower floor?”

Lars shrugged. Normally he’d only ever seen his own room and had no basis for comparison. He suspected they were all basically identical, though. “We’ll just see which room is nicer and use that one.”

Ryan’s grim face gave his pause, and his heart lurched.

“You don’t want to share a room?” Lars asked. Maybe he’d taken it for granted, but since they’d finally hooked up, it was never a question of “if,” only “where.” It hadn’t occurred to him that this would be different.

“Is it a good idea?” Ryan looked genuinely worried, all his excitement about the weekend long gone. “There’ll be a lot of players, and don’t some of them bring their families?”

Fuck, he was right. “They do,” he acknowledged.

“So there’ll be a lot of people there at the hotel. Would make it hard to avoid notice.”

Lars’s shoulders slumped. It was definitely a lot more hectic than team trips, and not everyone was as chill as the Crabs seemed to be about this sort of thing. Lars had the first hand experience to prove it, and going back into that world should’ve made him the cautious one.

“Not impossible,” he said, then let out a sigh. “You’re right, of course. It’s too big of a risk.”

Ryan seemed deflated by the agreement. “I was hoping you’d tell me I was wrong.”

“I wish I could. We can play it by ear, and if we think it’s feasible⁠—”

“More like if one of us gets horny enough.”

“—then we can try to figure it out.”

“Fine,” Ryan agreed, then his giddiness returned. “I can’t believe I get to go. What do you think the skill contests will be?”

“Well,” Lars considered, “there’s always some sort of passing one, which is where they’ll probably put you. Shooting, too, which is probably where they’ll put me. I’m too old for them to put in the fastest skater.” He missed that contest. He’d won two years in a row but then lost by a half-second to some kid who no longer even played. He’d been moved to shooting after that, no longer of interest for his speed.

“Shut up. I’m older than you, and I’m not old.”

“Yes,” Lars acknowledged. “But that’s what they say when they wonder why I don’t get put in the races anymore. I’m too old and past my prime. Overrated. Selfish. Too dependent on more skilled linemates.”

Lars meant it as a joke, but Ryan looked stricken. “Lars⁠—”

“I’m a big boy,” he interrupted and winked. “I can take it, and it doesn’t bother me what they say because I know they’re wrong about me. When they say bullshit about you, though…” He grabbed Ryan by the wrist and pulled him onto his lap. “It makes me want to punch them when they say that shit about you, because you don’t seem to get that they’re wrong.”

Ryan didn’t say anything. He hadn’t argued with Lars as much recently about his worth to the team, but Lars suspected it wasn’t because he’d learned to appreciate his own skill. Rather, he’d learned it wasn’t worth the effort to disagree. Instead, Ryan drew his hands up and down Lars’s arms, the feather-light touch tickling him. It was gentle, with no intent behind it. Soothing. Affectionate.

Boyfriend-like.

“Let’s sleep on the couch,” Lars said abruptly. He slid down to his right and dragged Ryan with him. Their legs tangled together and they were nose to nose. “We can watch a movie.”

Ryan chuckled, indulgent. “Why?”

“So that we’re squished together and it’s uncomfortable. Then when I have a whole bed to myself this weekend, I might actually appreciate it.”

“You like being squished, though.” To prove his point, Ryan wiggled closer to him. Lars was pinned snuggly between the couch and Ryan’s heat, and it was disappointingly perfect.

* * *

The team threw them a send-off party before their flight out, with stupid decorations of their faces strung up around the locker room after practice, root beers and a cake shaped like a deformed crab. At least, they were told it was meant to be a crab. Jake apparently baked it himself and his kids helped with the icing, so it was more of an edible craft project, but Lars absolutely loved it. He posted a selfie of him and Ryan with it, making a joke about crab cakes that hopefully made sense in English.

They flew commercial, which Lars so rarely did with other people that he didn’t realize their seats wouldn’t be together until they were on board, but Lars was able to trade seats for the mere price of a selfie and signed hat. Even flying first class, he missed the team plane. As they Ubered to the hotel, Lars was riding a high that he didn’t think would be dampened even by the room situation. He literally didn’t care how he did at any of the events or in the game, as long as Ryan had a good time.

Unfortunately, that bubble burst as soon as they entered the hotel lobby.

“Farbor!”

Lars turned automatically and grinned wide as his nephew ran over and hugged him tight around the knee. He lifted Anton up as high as he could—not as high as it’d been even a year ago—and laughed in delight.

“Anton! Jag saknade dig!” He had missed Anton, so he wrapped him in a hug before putting him down, which was about the exact moment when his brain caught up with events.

Anton wouldn’t be here unattended.

Amanda wouldn’t have brought Anton here just to watch Lars.

…he wouldn’t.

“Anton, don’t run off,” Anders scolded in Swedish, and then he was there. In the lobby. In Vancouver.

The motherfucker had decided this was the All Star game he would attend? Lars clenched his fists, wondering briefly if a right or a left hook would take his brother more off guard⁠—

You’re in a fucking hotel lobby in front of your nephew. Get a fucking grip.

He forced his hands to relax. Unfortunately he couldn’t quite get his face to cooperate; he’d be wearing a scowl for the next hour, at least.

“Anders,” he said coldly. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I was nominated, too,” he said, his tone as annoyingly devoid of emotion as ever. If anything, there was a note of patience like when he was talking to Astrid and Anton. “Anton wanted to skate on ice with the other children whose fathers go.”

There was something strange in the way Anders spoke, but Lars ignored it.

“You’ve never taken Astrid,” he pointed out. He flashed a smile to Anton to assure him he wasn’t angry at him. He wasn’t angry at all, in fact. Nope, not even a little.

“She’s never wanted to go,” Anders said with a shrug. His hand was on Anton’s shoulder, as if he, too, wanted to comfort him. “I invite her every year, but she says it would be too embarrassing. Anton’s old enough that I let him decide.”

“I can’t wait!” Anton said enthusiastically. “Pappa said I could skate with him if I wanted to, but could I skate with you, too?”

“Of course,” Lars said. He winked at his nephew. “Just make sure you have a Team Sweden jersey.”

“This your teammate?” Anders said pointedly, and finally Lars understood what was wrong. Anders was speaking in English. They never spoke in English to each other.

Worse, Lars had forgotten Ryan was there.

“Yes,” he said and hoped no one noticed his burning cheeks. “Ryan, this is my brother. Anders, this is”—he faltered briefly—“Ryan Russell.”

Anders held out his hand and the two politely shook.

“Honor to meet you off the ice,” Ryan said stiffly. “Think I’m still sore from our last game.”

Anders’s lips twitched but he didn’t allow a smile. “We’ll be on the same team this weekend, so no worries. I’ll make sure you’re on my line. No goals while we’re out.”

Lars’s head whipped around. “Make sure?” He had no idea if he’d said it in Swedish or English.

Anders gave him an almost pitying look. “I’m the captain of the Metro team. Didn’t you hear?”

He hadn’t. Maybe he should’ve, but he hadn’t paid attention. He’d been convinced Anders wouldn’t be there, and since no one had contacted him to say he was the captain (a responsibility he’d blissfully avoided every year), it’d been a non-issue.

“Fantastic,” he mumbled. “We have to go check in.” He kneeled down and offered his fist to Anton, who didn’t so much bump it as punch it as hard as he could. “I’ll see you on the ice, Lillen,” he said quietly. “Have you been practicing?”

Anton nodded solemnly. The little boy had made it clear he didn’t want to play hockey professionally or even competitively, but he was enthusiastic about playing knee hockey with his uncle when he visited.

“Tell your pappa to text me your room. I’ll come play with you tonight, okay?”

“Yes!” Anton yelled eagerly. “I brought a foam puck. Pappa said I can use it if I’m careful.”

“Good. But we’ll have to do it before your bed time so your mamma doesn’t get upset with me.”

Anton leaned in. “I won’t tell her and Pappa won’t either,” he promised.

“But I’ll have to tell her,” Lars said apologetically. “And I’m old. I need my sleep.”

He didn’t bother saying goodbye to Anders, simply shooting him a glare before he pointedly walked away with Ryan in tow.

“Sorry,” he said as soon as they were out of earshot. “I shouldn’t have made that so awkward for you.”

“It was fine,” Ryan said. Lars might’ve believed him, if he hadn’t added, “Totally normal. Not weird or awkward in the slightest.”

Lars grimaced. “Sorry.”

“You said that.”

“I am, though.”

“Well, let’s check in so you can make it up to me.”

Lars’s eyebrows rose. They didn’t even have rooms yet, and Ryan was breaking his own rule?

“It’s the middle of the day, Lasse,” he teased, as if he could read Lars’s mind. “No one will think anything of it if two teammates hang out.”

Ryan pulled ahead of him towards the check-in desk, and Lars couldn’t help look over his shoulder. Anton was babbling excitedly to Anders, his whole body in motion as he spoke; Anders was staring directly at Ryan, his expression unreadable.

One person might think something of it, he thought, then dismissed the concern. Even if Anders walked in on him and Ryan having sex, word wouldn’t travel. Lars wasn’t Anders’s biggest fan, not by a long shot, but he knew his brother wasn’t purposefully cruel. He wouldn’t say or do anything to hurt them.

As if sensing Lars’s attention on him, his gaze shifted and their eyes met. He nodded slightly, then turned back to Anton, a rare smile breaking on his face as he responded to whatever it was the boy was saying. Lars tried to ignore the way that made his chest ache.

Chapter 28

Ryan

Ryan was able to command Lars’s attention for a whole forty-five minutes. Long enough to check both rooms (equally sized and identical except for being mirror images of each other, which was strangely comforting) and trade handjobs. Before the afterglow could settle in, Lars was on his back staring at the ceiling, his hands clasped on his chest and eyes distant.

“You okay?” Ryan asked.

Lars didn’t answer him at first. He’d been so sure Anders wouldn’t be here, and Ryan had assumed Lars knew his brother well enough to believe him. Lars had been so blindsided, Ryan himself had felt it like whiplash.

It was so hard to get to the NHL. The circumstances that would have to align for two brothers to make it were even rarer, and being on the same team was pretty much unheard of. Yeah, it happened, but Ryan had the gut feeling Lars had told his agent to make damn sure it didn’t happen to him. They’d be together this weekend in the same jersey for the first time since…

Had they even played for Team Sweden together? There hadn’t been any Olympics that allowed NHL players since Ryan and Lars were old enough to qualify. The brothers were so far apart in age, this might very well be the first time they were officially on the same roster.

“I’m glad my nephew is here,” he finally answered. “He’s a good boy. He’ll have fun.”

What he didn’t say rang much louder.

I’m not happy my brother is here.

He’s awful.

I won’t be able to relax at all this weekend now.

Ryan didn’t get it. In general, he didn’t like giving people he disliked power over his mood and therefore his performance. He doubly didn’t get Lars’s animosity. Yeah, Anders was rough on the ice, but in the lobby he’d been perfectly polite to both of them. Not warm or anything, but Ryan got the impression his distance was more about respecting Lars’s boundaries than anything to do with his own feelings about it.

Like when his big sisters had given him space in public because he’d found them embarrassing.

He didn’t think Lars would appreciate the comparison.

* * *

The All Star fanfare reminded him a lot of Juniors, except this time people seemed to notice Ryan as a person and not just the team he played for. It was great, doing all the interviews and talking to the other players, all of whom knew him. They congratulated him and brought up his Michigan goal like Ryan Russell was actually a name known around the league. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t let it go to his head, but he did allow himself to enjoy it for now. What was one weekend as a star? Better than none, that was for sure.

He’d worried briefly that Lars’s mood would suffer because of his brother’s unexpected appearance, but Lars did a good job of pretending he was unbothered. He played with his nephew Anton in the hotel as promised and the two were glued at the hip on the rink. Whenever Ryan dared to sneak a glance at Anders, he was wearing the closest thing to a smile Ryan had ever seen on his face.

It was surprisingly easy to ignore Anders most of the time. Aside from keeping an eye on Anton, he never imposed himself on Lars. He talked to the other players, to the refs, basically anyone who wasn’t Lars Nilsson. Lars was great at keeping his back to Anders 99% of the time, like he was pretending he didn’t know that Anders was there yet knew exactly where he was, but was forced to watch Anders compete in the hardest shot competition. He won with a 102 mph shot that Lars clapped for only when his nephew jumped up and down in excitement.

It was very different from when Lars was in the trick shot contest. He did it with Anton, a play where Lars skated in hard, faked a shot, then did a drop pass for his nephew. The goalie did a great job pretending to try and stop the puck, and Anton looked extremely pleased. Anders had filmed the whole thing, actually grinning when his son scored and whooping happily. He’d put his phone away before Lars could see, though.

Even though the brothers were playing nice, Ryan was apprehensive about taking his own turn. He wasn’t babysitting them, exactly, but he liked being there in case Lars broke their unspoken truce and took a swing at Anders. But as his competition came up, Lars was practically vibrating with excitement. Ryan decided to hell with the Nilsson brothers: this was his first (and probably only) All Star weekend. He was going to enjoy it.

He was put in the timed passing contest, just as Lars had predicted. It was simple enough—basically hitting pucks into small nets at different distances and heights, with the fastest time winning. He’d done a million of these in practices over his life, but this was the first time the whole damned hockey world was watching him do it.

“You’ll be great,” Lars promised over the cheers as his name was called. “I promise.”

Ryan got in position, first puck at the ready, and waited. As soon as the timer sounded, he sank the first puck. And the second, then the third. It was only on the fourth that he messed up, needing three tries to get his saucer pass over the little barrier and into the net. The last two went smoothly, much to his utter relief. He’d done it, and as an added bonus, he hadn’t completely sucked! He didn’t even remember to look at his time before he practically rushed back to Lars on the bench, who high-fived him and grinned proudly.

Although he didn’t win, he got a respectable third place out of eight participants, losing to last season’s point leader and MVP, respectively. Honestly, not bad at all. Definitely none of the nightmare scenarios he’d conjured up the night before where he couldn’t get any of them before time expired and he was kicked off the ice. As much as he didn’t want to embarrass himself (still possible), he didn’t want to let down the people who’d voted for him. For whatever reason, whether it was Lars canvassing for votes or general fan support, there were people out there who thought he deserved a shot, and he felt he hadn’t let them down.

That got them through Thursday and Friday with no issues, but Saturday was what had Ryan’s stomach in knots. The mini-tournament divided each division into a team, and then had the eastern teams play each other for a spot in the finals while the west did the same. As the Metropolitan division team, they’d face the Atlantic team in a 3-on-3 style game. Which was all well and good, but that meant there were only eleven players on their team: no way Lars and Anders could ignore each other. The other players on their team seemed uneasy as well, no doubt well aware of the Nilsson Brothers’ rivalry now sitting in the locker room with them.

“For some reason,” Anders said as he addressed them before the game, little Anton at his heels with a clipboard that appeared to have a coloring page from Paw Patrol on it, “they think as captain, I should be responsible for lines as well. I’m not a coach, nor do I want to be. I’ve put together lines as a starting point. We can always fall back on them if no one has any preferences.” He pinned a piece of paper to a whiteboard using a bright pink magnet. “I don’t care if you follow them or not. As long as we have three players on the ice and a goalie in net, feel free to make changes. If you’re a forward and want to try defense, now’s your chance. If two centers want to be out, by all means.”

Ryan stole a glance at Lars, sure this last bit was directed at them; Lars looked unmoved. He didn’t look as pissy as he usually did around his brother, but that was most likely due to Anton’s presence.

“However,” Anders continued, “my son will be on the bench with us, so watch your language. Other than that, have fun, and let’s win some games.”

There was a semi-enthusiastic round of applause. There was absolutely nothing on the line in this exhibition tournament: no advantages were awarded for their teams or division for winning, and there were barely any bragging rights, since no one ever really gave it their all. Ryan wouldn’t phone it in, but he couldn’t afford to go all out, either.

While players chatted and got dressed, Lars went over to inspect the lines.

“Are we doing a top line, second line, third line?” he asked. It was the most polite Ryan had ever heard Lars be when addressing Anders. It also sounded like a student talking to their teacher.

Anders hesitated a fraction of a second. “With a roster of All Star players, they’re all top lines,” he said diplomatically.

Ah. He didn’t want to offend anyone.

Lars nodded. He picked up a marker. “May I?”

Anders raised an eyebrow and gave a slight nod. Lars uncapped the marker and made a few changes. Ryan held his breath when Anders leaned in to inspect his handiwork.

“Speed Line,” Lars said and pointed. “Shut-Down Line. Possession Line.”

Anders read it over, his lips moving faintly as he did so. “Hmm,” he said with an air of approval. “Do you want to coach?”

Lars shrugged with an air of indifference that Ryan could almost believe, except for the proud glint in his eyes.

When Lars sat down next to him to get his gear on, he leaned over to whisper conspiratorially, “I got us on a line together.”

“I’m guessing we’re not Speed Line,” he teased. His heart beat faster in his chest. Would they have chemistry on the ice when actually on a line together? Would it mean something if they didn’t?

“Possession Line. We’ll have the puck the whole time for sure.”

“Where’d you put Anders? Shut-Down Line?”

Lars stood to pull on his hockey pants. “Possession Line. With us.”

Ryan froze. He’d misheard that, surely.

“We’re really the top line,” Lars said, confidently but still quietly. “But if Anders refuses to label it, the score sheet will.”

“You…wanted to be on a line…with Anders…?” Nope, even out loud it didn’t make sense.

“I don’t like him,” Lars said, sparing a glare at his brother, one that immediately softened when he noticed his nephew. “But he’s a good player. Best defenseman here by far.”

“Then shouldn’t you balance out the lines⁠—?”

“This is a scoring tournament. So the three of us will get enough goals to even out anything else. Besides”—he stopped briefly to pull his jersey on, an ugly, neon blue monstrosity that hurt your eyes if you looked at it for too long—“that’s what people want to see. Me and Anders. Together.”

He didn’t sound particularly happy about it. More like he was resigned to making a spectacle of himself. Or maybe he saw it as a necessary evil. The only way to finagle the two of them on a line together. A way to please his nephew and temporarily appease the rest of his family after years of fighting.

“Okay,” Ryan said, because he had zero clue what else he could say. “Cool,” he added lamely.

Ugh.

The game itself was…surreal.

The speed of the play was intense. Playing 3-on-3 felt faster than regular games, mostly because of the open ice, but also the higher talent level (and lack of defense). It was like an NHL team distilled down to its fastest, most showboating members.

And somehow Ryan was with them.

He’d never clicked so well with linemates. Anders really was a solid defenseman, even by himself. He and Lars made it look easy; despite their animosity towards each other, they barely needed to speak a word to know where each other were and what they wanted. And maybe watching Lars all season had put Ryan on a similar wavelength, because after a shift or two, Ryan fell into step with them. He knew when Anders was going to pinch and covered him defensively. He knew when Lars wanted him to spring him for a breakaway and sent the pass. He knew when both were buying time for him to get open and set him up for a one-timer.

And it was easy. He’d rarely skated so hard, but didn’t feel nearly as tired as he should. In fact, he left the ice at the end of his shifts refreshed; he even had a fleeting moment where he felt he could do this forever.

Better than that: it was fun. Remove the stakes—this game didn’t affect their stats, didn’t have to do with standings points, had no bearing on whether or not the Crabs wanted to re-sign him—and it turned out he still really liked playing hockey. He especially liked playing with Lars.

It was magic.

They ended their game against the Atlantic 10-4, all three of them with two goals. They weren’t able to get anyone a hat trick because once they were close enough, they kept passing and passing, no one willing to take the shot. It was one of the rare times where no one was selfish enough.

They had two hours before they played the winner of the Western Conference game, and everyone was hydrating and eating snacks. The three of them had migrated to three stalls in the corner, otherwise apart from their other teammates. Ryan couldn’t stop smiling because this was just too surreal and he kinda loved it.

“Who has the least hat tricks?” Anders asked as he handed them both protein bars.

“Career?” Lars asked. “I’ve got twelve.”

“No playoffs,” Anders chided. “I have four.”

“Fine,” Lars grumbled. “Ten.”

And Ryan was again reminded that he didn’t fit in with elite company.

“One,” he said, then was so embarrassed that he added, “I had a few in the AHL, but only one NHL hat trick.”

“That’s—” Lars started, but was immediately cut off.

“How long were you in the AHL?” Anders interrupted.

Ryan’s shoulders tensed. “Almost a full season.”

“Less than a season and you scored several hat tricks?” Anders asked with a raised eyebrow. “How many?”

Ryan made a face. It had been a huge blow to be drafted, play two games, then get moved to the AHL farm team. It shouldn’t have mattered—it was an important part of player development—but the team had made it clear when they’d moved him that he wouldn’t be coming back up that season, period. After that brief taste of the NHL, moving down had been almost too easy. It’d been below his skill level, but he’d unfortunately found little on-ice support from his team. Granted, it’d been a better fit for his confidence level.

“I don’t know.” He knew. “Like two or three?” It’d been six.

“What team drafted you?”

Ryan looked to Lars, who had dropped out of the conversation. He nodded at him to answer.

“Rangers.”

Anders made a noise that sounded almost like a growl and spit out something in Swedish.

“No cursing around Anton,” Lars drawled, and Anders threw a guilty look over his shoulder: Anton was distracted with the goalies.

“The Rangers are shit with development,” Anders said, his voice a normal volume except when he said “shit.” “They’ve ruined plenty of good players. Good for you that you got out of that organization. Lillen, you remember Henrik?”

Lars scowled at the nickname. “Yes.”

“One of my best friends from Juniors. Drafted the year after me by Austin. Completely ruined his career by constantly moving him up and down, no notice. He lost all his confidence and had no stability to improve his game. Got a few single-year contracts around the league but retired early.”

“Oh.” Ryan had never considered that his early struggles in his career were because of the team that was responsible for developing him and not simply because he wasn’t good enough. “I can’t complain too much. Won the Calder Cup that year. The Rangers didn’t even make the playoffs.”

Anders’s eyes glinted with enjoyment, making him look so suddenly like Lars that Ryan had to focus on his crooked nose and the freckles and all the other little differences.

“Good for you. You are fortunate that you got that opportunity and they didn’t stop you from continuing to play. The Crabs are…” He made a face that made it clear he was trying to be diplomatic. “They are rebuilding well, I think. Good addition this summer. Just need a few more pieces to be a contender.”

“Hey!” Lars interrupted. “We have two All Stars! We’re already contenders!”

Anders merely waved his brother’s protests aside. “Tell me that in April,” he said without so much as looking at Lars. “You are doing well with them this year. We will get you a hat trick next game. Better than an NHL hat trick, since so few players get the chance to play in this game.”

Lars, who looked about ready to start yelling at his brother, immediately perked up. “Yes! We’ll get Ryan a hat trick to win this stupid tournament!”

Anders winked at Ryan, and then the brothers got distracted arguing with each other about how best to arrange Ryan’s upcoming goals. When Lars briefly disappeared to help Anton get set up on his tablet, Ryan wondered if he’d be responsible for making small talk with Anders. Hopefully not. Anders seemed the quiet, brooding type.

Which was why he was surprised when Anders said, “Everyone else calls you RJ.”

Ryan couldn’t tell if there was an accusation there, and he didn’t know if he should play dumb. Given how supportive Anders had been today, it felt wrong to.

“They do,” he acknowledged and braced for more questions.

There were none: Anders merely nodded and began to put his gear back on.

They ended up losing to the Central Division team 7-9. Ryan did get his hat trick in the last shift of the game. Anders’s and Lars’s excitement for a goal that didn’t even get the team within tying baffled the other players, but Ryan loved getting smashed between them and nearly going deaf from Lars’s cheers.

It was the best possible end to the weekend, made only better when Lars enthusiastically sucked him off in his hotel room as they packed.

Instagram: Hockey in Other Languages

[Transcript from an Instagram reel featured on @bmorebluecrabsnhl]

Crabby the mascot holds up a sign that reads: Hockey around the world!

A photo of Pierre Lauren with a Quebec flag pops up on the screen before it shows him sitting at a high top table with a stack of cards. Jordy Foster sits across from him.

Pierre Lauren, holding up a sign: Not one you'll hear much, but⁠—

Jordy Foster: Bone party.

Lauren makes a face.

Foster: Buns par tea. Bon parry. What am I doing wrong?

Lauren: You are butchering my language with your American mouth. Bonne partie.

Foster: Bonne partie.

Lauren: Better.

Foster: What’s it mean?

Lauren: Good game.

Foster: …you said I wouldn’t hear it much.

Lauren: Oui.

A photo of Vladislav Voronin with a Russian flag before he appears with Logan Stewart at the same table.

Vladislav Voronin: (holds up the word “вратарь.”)

Logan Stewart, laughing: I’m sorry, what? How do those letters make those sounds?

Voronin: вратарь.

Stewart: Vrah tar.

Voronin shrugs: Not bad.

Stewart: What’s it mean?

Voronin: Goalie.

Stewart: Hey, that’s me!

They both high five.

A picture of Tomas Novotny in a Team Czechia jersey, then he appears with Johnny Carr at the table.

Tomas Novotny: (holds up a sign that reads “hokejové kluziště.”)

Johnny Carr: I know this one! Hockey rink.

Novotny, looking impressed: How did you know that?

Carr: My dad played in the Czech league.

Novotny: Can you say it, though?

Carr: God, no! Haha!

A picture of Lars Nilsson holding up a large Swedish flag before he appears with RJ Russell at the table.

Lars Nilsson, flipping through cards: Let me find a good one.

RJ Russell: Okay. Don’t make it too hard.

Nilsson: This one is good for you. En tekning.

Russell: En tekning.

Nilsson gives him a thumbs up: Very good. That’s a face-off. Let's try this one. (He holds up another card.)

Russell: You’re not going to pronounce it for me?

Nilsson: No, you try.

Russell: Macka.

Nilsson: Yes, very good. This one…well, it means sandwich, but in hockey it means, like, a good pass. You serve a lot of macka.

Russell: Yummy.

Chapter 29

Lars

They were in the team gym, spotting each other at the squat bar. Lars set the bar back on the rack and breathed deeply as he recovered, only to have Ryan ruin it.

“So, my apartment is done,” he said conversationally, like he wasn’t dropping a bombshell that effectively destroyed the really good thing they had going where they lived together and never had to acknowledge it. Stupid reality.

Lars no longer felt like he could stay on his feet, so he stepped aside and gave up his third set.

“Oh,” Lars said with fake nonchalance as he watched Ryan change the weight on the rack. God, he was hot. He ogled a little more, then, because as both a friend and possible boyfriend he should, he offered, “Want me to help you get settled back in?”

Ryan nodded. As he began his set, a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. Lars watched it; he had to bite his tongue to keep from leaning over to lick it up. He was a terrible spotter.

“We can stop by your place to grab my stuff, pick up dinner…” Ryan left the other activities up to Lars’s imagination, a gap he was more than happy to fill in. “Even if I hadn’t been out of there a month, there’d be nothing worth cooking.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure there are some creative recipes where you can make brownies with protein powder or creatine cupcakes.”

“Ew.”

“You’d totally eat those, bro,” Jordy said as he walked by.

“You guys suck,” Ryan called after him. To Lars he said, “I mean, I’d try them, but I’m no cook. I can’t make regular food taste good. No way I can make weird food edible.”

“You made scrambled eggs that one time. They were good.”

“It was supposed to be an omelet.”

“Still good.”

“Shut up and finish your reps,” Ryan grumbled as he stepped aside for Lars to take over, though there was no bite to it.

Lars was distracted for the rest of training. He had to lower his weights and run a lighter speed on the treadmill or he’d hurt himself, because all he could think about was Ryan’s apartment. Which was stupid. He’d been to his apartment before. Slept there, ate there, fucked there. And it wasn’t like Ryan was moving out. His stay had always been temporary. A convenience thing, not long-term or a commitment or anything like that. They weren’t breaking up. They weren’t technically even together.

That last thought was way less reassuring than it should’ve been. 

After a lackluster workout, Lars found excuse after excuse to delay leaving. Talking to Coach Thompkins about some ideas for the Power Play. Reminiscing about past All Star games with Jake. Complaining about American food to the Russians (and then about Russian food with the other Europeans). As long as Ryan’s stuff was still at his condo, nothing was changing.

Eventually there were no more excuses and he found Ryan in the lobby. He was playing a game on his phone, as patient as ever while he waited for Lars to get his shit together.

Unbothered by the change in their living arrangements.

Of course he was. He wasn’t losing anything. He was regaining his home, his privacy.

Lars knew his mood was darkening. He felt like he had when Anders had appeared in Vancouver: a bucket of cold water to ruin his expectations and make him act like a wet blanket. He tried to smile more and be extra helpful as they gathered Ryan’s things to combat his…annoyance? Hurt? Confusion? Fuck, he didn’t know what he was feeling, but he didn’t like it.

It didn’t take long to pack Ryan’s things. Despite nearly a month there, he hadn’t brought much other than clothes, and he’d kept those as organized as he did on road trips. There was a book he’d only opened once, his nice razor, the lucky necklace he only wore on game days, and that was it. Lars was secretly pleased when Ryan didn’t take any of his other toiletries—the toothbrush, the deodorant, the shampoo+body wash he preferred that smelled like nothing in the bottle but somehow gave Ryan a faintly pine smell—because it implied not only would be he be staying here again, but hopefully soon. Lars’s relief made his smiles come more easily, and he was able to joke on the drive to Ryan’s place without forcing it.

They took the elevator as usual. He remembered that surprising him, that Ryan didn’t take the stairs. For someone so intent on unnecessary exercise, it delighted Lars to see Ryan take it easy for once. When they arrived at his floor, Lars’s stomach lurched just as the doors swung open.

“Bro, you’re back!”

Ryan had barely taken a step off the elevator before a short-ish, skinny guy wrapped him in a hug. Lars watched curiously as the shaggy-haired guy with too-loose clothes and untied shoes hugged Ryan, who was left to awkwardly pat his back since his own arms were pinned to his sides. Ryan looked happy, though, with a shy smile not unlike the one he had when the coach praised his playing. Lars decided immediately that he liked this guy; he clearly appreciated Ryan the way he deserved.

“I’m back,” Ryan confirmed when he was released. “Thanks for your help. Everything good?”

“Yeah, it looks great. When you said you were coming back today, I double-checked that they fixed everything and got it cleaned up. The landlord had them replace all the damaged stuff, so it looks better than before, honestly. I forgot you wouldn’t have any food or I would’ve⁠—”

“It’s alright,” Ryan interrupted. “We picked some up on the way.”

“We?” And then he finally noticed Lars standing there.

Lars waved and held up the bag of food to prove Ryan wasn’t making up the meal. Or his guest.

“Tanner, this is my teammate, Lars. Lars, this is my neighbor, Tanner. He lives in the apartment below mine.”

Lars offered a hand; Tanner’s eyes went wide as he shook it limply.

“Lars Nilsson?” he said with the type of awe Lars was all too familiar with. He’d probably have to sign an autograph if the guy was a fan. He wondered briefly why Ryan hadn’t asked on his neighbor’s behalf before, until: “The Lars from Ryan’s hookup in Switzerland?”

He wondered briefly if he was dreaming.

“I’m sorry, what⁠—?”

“Yes, that Lars.” Ryan sounded both amused and very put upon.

Tanner’s handshake became much more enthusiastic. “Sweet! Nice to meet you, dude. I’m glad you and Ryan figured your shit out, or I’d maybe have to have words with you.”

At this Lars raised an eyebrow. “Words about what, exactly?” Then he put it together and was instantly mortified (and once again happy Ryan had a friend like Tanner). “You told him I forgot?” He put on his best wounded expression. He was pretty sure it was convincing, even though his niece and nephew never bought it.

“In my defense, I never thought you two would meet,” Ryan joked.

“Hard same,” Tanner agreed. “I’ll let you two enjoy your dinner. Bro, come visit sometime this week. I got that new DLC I was talking about and I need your help in co-op to get the last few achievements.”

“Sure. And thanks again for your help, man. You’re the best.”

Tanner beamed at the praise and then disappeared into the elevator. Lars regretted not inviting him to eat with them, but he got the impression Tanner didn’t want to be a third wheel. Or rather, he didn’t want to be a third wheel tonight. He seemed the type who was completely comfortable crashing a date.

The apartment smelled faintly of paint, but there was no other sign anything had been wrong. At least not to Lars’s eye, and granted, he was more acquainted with the bed than the plumbing.

“You know,” Lars said as he unpacked the food, “I’m a little offended you told your neighbor we had sex before you told me.”

“Whose fault is it that you needed to be told?” Ryan said with a wink, then disappeared into his bedroom with his duffle bag and roller suitcase. All right, fair point. It was probably good that Ryan had had an outlet to talk about the weirdness of becoming teammates with a guy he’d fucked and who subsequently had forgotten he’d existed.

It was also probably in Lars’s best interest that he had forgotten. He couldn’t imagine remembering Ryan and not wanting to see him again. It would’ve wreaked havoc on his entry into the NHL, always looking for his next game against Ryan and pining. It might’ve made for a rocky start in Baltimore, but Lars firmly believed things had happened for the best.

“It’s weird being back,” Ryan said when he reappeared. “I think I got used to your place.”

“It is pretty nice,” Lars said. “All the natural light.”

“The giant sofa.” He sounded wistful as he looked to his worn leather sofa, just large enough for them to sit side by side but not long enough for either of them to lie on. “Though my bed is better, hands down.”

Lars made a face. “Is it?”

“I have twice as many pillows, my down comforter is fantastic, and the mattress is better for my back. Yours feels like there’s a lump on the right side that has a grudge against my kidney.”

“That lump’s there to force you closer to me,” he teased. He pulled Ryan in so they were hip to hip. Cozy. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks.” Ryan hesitated. “It’s good to be back. Not because I wasn’t enjoying being at your place, but it was constant anxiety, y’know? It’s nice to have that done so I can, like, focus on other stuff.”

Lars trailed his thumbs back and forth along the skin right above the waistband of Ryan’s pants, where his shirt had ridden up. Ryan had a lot of things that stressed him out, Lars knew. That was why Ryan worked so hard to stay in shape, why he put more into practice than all but the AHL and rookie players trying to earn their place. He had never seemed stressed about his apartment while he was staying with Lars, but of course he must have been.

…was Lars a source of stress? Because this thing between them was happening and they hadn’t put any labels on it?

“I…” he started slowly, trying to simultaneously find the right words and gauge Ryan’s reaction to them. “I want you to know…I liked living with you…I’m glad you have your space back and don’t have to worry about it…but…I’ll miss having you all to myself…” The words got stuck and he couldn’t push more out.

Ryan’s expression gave nothing away but he sucked in a deep breath, held it a moment and then let it out in a rush. His left hand held Lars’s bicep while his right came up to rest at the back of his head where his fingers curled into his hair. Lars loved when Ryan did that, the tactile soothing nature of the gesture, and he had avoided cutting his hair to encourage the habit. It was too long most of the time, starting to get in his eyes, but moments like this reminded him why he did it.

“I liked staying with you.” Ryan spoke with the same caution Lars had, like he was wading into a river and didn’t know how deep it was. “And not just because it was less awkward than staying with Tanner would’ve been. I…really enjoyed getting to see you all the time…and don’t want to stop seeing you all the time…just…” He tilted his head to indicate the room around them. “I want to do some of it here again.”

It wasn’t everything. There were still things left unsaid, questions unasked and feelings unowned. Still, it felt like they’d shared something, made some progress. Not bad for two guys who’d never had a real relationship before.

“Good. Me too.” He moved his hands higher to wrap around Ryan’s back. Their chests bumped and Lars thought he could feel Ryan’s heart. He rubbed their noses together before stealing a quick kiss. “Let’s eat dinner so you can try to convince me your bed is, in fact, better.”

The Trade Deadline: Are the Blue Crabs Buyers or Sellers?

Abigail Cunningham, The Baltimore Sun

WITH THE TRADE DEADLINE about a week away, it’s time to time to review what that means for the league and, more importantly, what it means for the Blue Crabs.

What is the trade deadline?

The NHL imposes a deadline on when trades can take place. Before this date, any team can make any and as many trades as they like. After, no trades can happen again until free agency opens on July 1st. The trade deadline this year is 3 p.m. EST on March 5, and there will likely be a flurry of activity as teams scramble to perfect their rosters before the last push of the regular season and the start of playoffs.

Buyers and Sellers

Teams first have to decide if they think they stand a chance of making the playoffs and competing for the Stanley Cup this year. It’s a grueling task to fight for sixteen wins across four rounds over two months, and this far into the season, teams will know where their weak spots are.

Usually teams with little to no playoff hope are “sellers”—they’ll take advantage of other teams’ desperation to make the playoffs, and use that to gain draft picks and unload players who will become free agents. Free agents are players with expiring contracts, and the decision to either renew a contract or look for another team is a difficult one for both clubs and players. Trading these players during the season can remove some of this tension, especially if the team doesn’t plan to re-sign them.

The “buyers” are the playoff-bound teams. They’ll want to plug holes in their roster or replace injured players. They’re willing to pay a lot to better their chances of making and succeeding in the playoffs, and don’t mind picking up free agents to do so. If the postseason goes well, those players could see lucrative contracts with the team that picks them up.

Are the Crabs Buyers or Sellers? 

Typically, the Crabs are outside of the playoff bubble. It’s been five years since they’ve seen the postseason, twelve since they’ve made it past the first round. They’ve been in the Sellers column for longer than I’ve covered them, or they’ve ignored the trade deadline altogether. Things might change this year.

They’re two points out of a wild card position and have been steadily winning games. At this pace, they might very well earn a playoff spot. That makes them potential Buyers. The question is: what are they looking for? Goaltending has been solid, but defensively they’ve struggled. The top two forward lines are scoring consistently, but the team seems to lack depth: the bottom six haven’t scored in the last ten games and in the same span have given up fifteen goals.

Who are the Free Agents on the Crabs? 

Whether they’re traded in March or not, these players will be free agents come July. The Crabs will have to make a decision sooner rather than later about their future on the team.

Forwards: Johnny Carr, Ivan Petrovich, RJ Russell

Defense: Connor Carter

Both goaltenders are signed through the end of next season.

Granted, a team can trade anyone. As long as a player doesn’t have a no-trade clause, a team could elect to trade them and the other team takes up the rest of their contract. Teams will do what they can to either push for the Cup this year or attempt to put pieces in place for next year.

Fan Poll: Who do you think the Crabs are most likely to trade this season?

Johnny Carr: 32%

Ivan Petrovich: 13%

RJ Russell: 15%

Connor Carter: 17%

Someone else: 3%

No one: 20%

Chapter 30

Ryan

They were at Lars’s condo, their usual on the day after a home game. His place was closer to the arena and the practice facility, while Ryan’s was closer to the airport, and to the rink where they’d volunteered again in mid-February. It was a pragmatic way to share the time, to fill otherwise lonely nights and empty spaces with someone who brightened the space. Definitely not about anything other than convenient logistics.

It was perfect, honestly. Ryan couldn’t remember being so content. It was helping him play better, and he was hopeful about negotiating a new contract at the end of the season. Especially if they could get their foot in the door for the playoffs. He wasn’t by nature optimistic, but he’d been doing well. He didn’t dare consider the team going all the way—he wouldn’t be able to get through a single game with that kind of pressure riding on him—but he trained with the hopes of putting up a fight.

He should’ve known things were looking too good, that he’d been too happy for things to last.

His mistake was ignoring the date. He’d been so focused on the game schedule, he’d forgotten it was March. When had he ever been able to forget March? He’d been terrified of it since his rookie year when he’d seen more of the AHL than the NHL. This year of all years, he should’ve been wary and known not to take anything for granted.

And yet when he was called into the GM’s office before practice on March 5, he hadn’t realized what was happening until the door shut behind him and he saw Monroe’s grim face.

Time froze for a moment, the knowledge of what was to come weighing him down with the understanding that it wouldn’t just disrupt his career, his life. It would fucking ruin everything.

Not seeing any point from running from it, he decided to dive on the grenade.

“Where you sending me?” he asked and didn’t bother masking the accusation in his tone.

Monroe looked briefly surprised, then apologetic. “Cincinnati. I’m sorry, Ryan.”

He gulped. How many years had he spent trying to put on a brave face and not burn any bridges? God, that felt so stupid now when it was always someone else hacking it to bits. “Why?” he asked quietly. “I’ve been playing well. Really well. I’ve got career highs across the board⁠—”

“Which is why this move is happening,” Monroe explained gently. “You have been doing an exceptional job. I’ve had a lot of teams interested in you for months. Some of their offers were quite honestly too tempting to ignore. You’ve done a lot for us over the past couple years, but when I get offered two picks and two players for one guy who’s going into free agency and will be asking more than I can afford to give him, well…” He shrugged, some of his sympathy gone.

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: he wanted there 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 even want the 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.

“Jag kommer,” Lars gritted out. One of the few pieces of Swedish Ryan had actually picked up. I’m coming.

“Me too,” he said, then leaned down to kiss him again. Lars got a hand on Ryan’s cock, his hold perfect but his movements sloppy as he got closer to the edge. Not that it mattered; Ryan was sure this was the closest he’d ever gotten to coming untouched, and the added friction nearly ripped the orgasm out of him.

Ryan came first, hot streaks across Lars’s shirt they’d somehow never gotten off him, and he could feel the moment Lars came, a few more thrusts and then he held Ryan down as his cock twitched inside him.

“That was…” Lars looked dazed. Ryan shamelessly took advantage. He tucked Lars’s hair behind his ear and pressed a kiss to his temple before he got to work cleaning them up. He’d have to find Lars a new shirt; hopefully there was something decent he hadn’t packed.

By the time they were cleaned up and dressed, Lars’s expression was pensive.

“Why weren’t you at practice?” He said the words slowly, like he was weighing them out and worried what they’d add up to.

Ryan’s heart skipped a beat. “Because I’m not on the team anymore.” Even though he knew it was true, saying it out loud hurt. He wasn’t on the Blue Crabs. He never would be again.

“What?” Lars bolted off the couch. “What happened? Are you hurt?” He gave Ryan a once over with a truly heartbreaking amount of concern. “They can’t end a contract mid-season⁠—”

“Lars.” God, why couldn’t he just figure it out? As neutrally as he could, he said it, pulled the band-aid right off: “I was traded.”

Ryan watched as understanding dawned on his face. The shock, the devastation, the hint of anger that Ryan had fucked him before he’d explained.

“When?”

“Today. I fly out at five,” he said. He checked his phone. “I’ve gotta be at the airport in about an hour.”

“An hour?” Lars’s hands went into fists and a whole string of Swedish poured out, none of it sounding particularly happy. “What the fuck? Why did they do this?”

Ryan didn’t want to get into it. He didn’t want to rehash his conversation with Monroe, and didn’t think it was a good idea to give that sort of baggage to Lars. He was staying, after all, and having a grudge against his GM wasn’t a good way to move forward.

“They thought this would be a good move for me,” he repeated, because he thought Monroe meant that part. Yeah, he’d traded Ryan to help the Crabs, but he wasn’t sending Ryan to a bad team or one that would completely ruin his career.

“Where?”

He’d known that was an obvious question. He’d been prepared for it, or had been up until he had to say it. He cleared his throat, made himself look Lars in the eye as he said, “Cincinnati.”

The change was instant. Lars had been distressed before, but that was nothing. The color drained from his face and his jaw went slack, like he’d found out Ryan was dying, not changing teams.

“The Otters?” He looked absolutely pissed. He started pacing in the small space between the TV and kitchen, nearly bumping into the coffee table with each pass as he spewed angry Swedish and the occasional English like “What the fuck?” and “How could that asshole do this?” and “The fucking Otters.”

“Lars,” Ryan pleaded. “Please. I have to go soon. Could we not…” Fight? Were they fighting? Not really. “...waste time?”

Lars glowered. Guess not, then.

“This is such shit,” he said, his accent thick. It made him sound like he was going to cry. “How could they do this?”

“Let it go. There’s no point getting upset. It’s not like we can change anything.” I control how I respond had been his mantra when he got traded, his way of surviving the hurt of not being wanted or needed by a place he’d come to want and need.

“Let it go?” Lars all but shouted. “How am I supposed to let this go? Why should I?”

So easy for him to get angry, to be all self-righteous about how Ryan had been treated. He’d never had to experience a mid-season trade. Yeah, he’d left Portland, but he’d at least made a choice. He decided to leave and decided where to go.

“It’s just I don’t think you get to be the upset one here,” Ryan said patiently. “You didn’t lose anything. I’m the one who has to leave.” He ran a hand down his face in frustration. "I play badly, I get traded. I play mediocre, I get traded. I play well, guess what? Still traded. I’m the one no one wants on their team, and you’re the one who’s upset.”

All this time Lars had been saying Ryan was worth something, and Ryan had believed him. How could he not understand how much this gutted Ryan? Shouldn’t he, of all people, get it?

“Didn’t lose anything?” Lars looked like he’d been slapped. “I’ve lost you!”

Ryan went rigid. “Lost me? I’m moving. That’s only losing me if you let it.” A long pause. “Lars. Say something.”

“This”—Lars motioned between them—“only worked because we were on the same team. How is it supposed to work when you’re in Ohio?”

“It’s not the moon, Lars. There are phones. Text messages. Video chat⁠—”

“And those might work for couples, but that’s not us.”

The words hung between them, the final bombshell that Ryan hadn’t expected, even though he should have.

“Ryan,” Lars started apologetically. “I didn’t⁠—”

“No, no, it’s fine.” It wasn’t. “Better to know before I leave that there’s nothing left for me in Baltimore.”

“That’s not…” Lars huffed in frustration. “You know it’s not that simple.”

“I knew it wouldn’t be simple,” he agreed. “Keeping this going long distance would definitely not be simple. But if you’re not willing to even try, then it actually is really fucking simple.”

Lars flinched at the curse. His shoulders sagged and he looked like a scolded child. “Maybe if it weren’t Ohio,” he started, and Ryan had heard enough.

“Nope. That’s it. Go home, Lars. I have to finish packing,” he lied.

“I could drive you to the airport,” he offered miserably. An hour ago, Ryan would’ve said yes, but he couldn’t deal with dragging this out. Whatever they had, it was apparently more fragile than he’d thought.

Though he shouldn’t be surprised. They hadn’t been able to talk about it, to say the words to give it more shape and stability. If their relationship couldn’t survive a conversation, how could it possibly have survived this?

“Tanner’s driving me,” he said. He hadn’t asked, but he was sure Tanner would. “Please go.” Then, conciliatory, “I’ll text when I land. If you want to talk then, we can.”

Lars nodded glumly. The fact that he didn’t put up a fight wasn’t a great sign. He left without a word, without a kiss goodbye, without a look back. When the door clicked shut behind him, Ryan doubted very much that they’d ever be in the same room again.

Chapter 31

Lars

It wasn’t like he’d never lost teammates before. Lars had been on the Prowlers long enough to see players come and go. Some he’d barely known. Some he hadn’t even liked. There’d been a few, ones he knew better from being linemates or hanging out, that he’d kind of missed. But he’d never felt anyone’s absence. He’d noticed they were gone, waded through the somber, heavy atmosphere in the locker room as the team pretended they hadn’t lost a friend all while having to put on a smile to welcome their replacement.

Lars felt Ryan’s loss.

It wasn’t just in the locker room or on the bench. It was every moment of every day. All the places in his life that Ryan used to occupy and were suddenly empty. No one to carpool with. No buddy on the bus or the plane. Meals alone, a lonely bed, quiet in his condo that the TV and music did nothing to fill.

It was like he had a hole inside him, and he couldn’t fix it.

The Crabs reeled a little at the loss, blindsided by it as much as he was. Lars enjoyed that the other players struggled, because it meant they had to recognize that they’d lost a key piece of the team. He also resented that they somehow thought their loss was in any way equal to his. And then two new guys appeared, one to take over as center and one to make the defense fight amongst themselves to keep a spot in the lineup. Lars kept out of it, and did his best to be distantly polite to the new center.

He played like shit, too. If he was lucky, he could fall into the game and disassociate long enough to score. His production definitely suffered, but they played mostly struggling teams and he was able to rely on muscle memory to get by. It hadn’t gotten so bad that Thompkins had said anything, but Lars knew his play sucked.

His heart wasn’t in it.

On some level, he understood it was his fault. Not the trade, obviously, though maybe if he hadn’t pushed Ryan into the limelight, other teams wouldn’t have noticed him. But his current loneliness and isolation from Ryan were definitely his fault. He had plenty of texts where Ryan had reached out to bridge the gap, to at least stay friendly until they could talk in person and figure out the other parts.

The texts had trickled to a stop, almost assuredly because Lars never sent a genuine response and had never initiated one.

arrived in Cincinnati

👍

game in a few hours. I haven’t even had a practice

with these guys and they put me on the top line

Hope I don’t blow it

you’ll do fine

good luck

got a place downtown

(Picture of a view from high up overlooking the city)

👍

saw some stuff on insta from the crabs

You growing a beard?

almost playoffs

Getting an early start

miss you

same

There were others sprinkled in. Pictures and memes Ryan thought Lars might like. Comments about games and practices, the new team. For every one of Ryan’s that made it to him, there were a dozen unsent ones from Lars. 

I can’t stand going to Rangoons without you

I tried reading that book you left at my place.

It’s awful. You have terrible taste.

Tanner dropped off a box of your crab-themed clothes

they’re really ugly which is kind of fantastic

I saw the highlights from your game yesterday

you were fucking fantastic

I wear the shirt you gave me every night to bed

because then I can pretend you’re still here

I’m not the only one who misses you

the guys talk about you all the time

don’t let the trade make you think you weren’t part of this team

I’m going to wear your crab bowtie tomorrow

think anyone will notice it’s yours?

i don’t know what to do with everything i feel about you

you’re gone, you’re not coming back

this can’t work, right?

Even in his unsent messages, they both very obviously avoided the two most obvious things they should talk about: their relationship and Anders.

Fuck Anders. Lars didn’t want to feel like shit and analyze his own part in his misery. He couldn’t afford to hold a grudge against Monroe or the Crabs, and, honestly (ew, honesty), the trade did seem to be in the Crabs’ and Ryan’s best interests. They didn’t know about Lars and Ryan, didn’t know that they’d complicated things and made Lars miserable.

Anders, though. He fucking knew.

He must know. He’d seen them in Vancouver together, and maybe he didn’t realize they were sleeping together, but it was obvious they were friends. It was obvious that Ryan leaving would hurt him. And no, Anders didn’t have the power to make a trade, but he could’ve put in a good word. Lars imagined the coaches asked him about “that guy from the All Star game” and of course Anders would’ve said Ryan was awesome. Anders wasn’t blind, he could recognize talent.

It was easier to blame Anders because he already bore so much of Lars’s anger. What was one more grievance on the list?

Whenever Lars happened to catch a glimpse of Ryan on TV in that ugly yellow and orange jersey with that stupid otter, Anders was nearby. With his insides twisted in knots, Lars always thought the same thing:

Good job, Ryan.

Fuck you, Anders.

* * *

In the mess of losing Ryan, Lars was too inside his own head to pay attention to the schedule. Wild card this, playoff berth that, 14 games left, blah blah blah. At most, he thought one game out, mostly so he knew if he needed to be at the airport or not. The away games were kind of nice, less lonely than his apartment, but he knew there was a home game coming up. He just didn’t realize it was that game.

“Are you looking forward to your rematch against the Prowlers tonight?”

Lars startled. Shit, was that who they were playing?

The reporter had a phone out, waiting and recording, so he couldn’t say what he really thought.

I don’t give a shit about Portland. I was upset before but if I hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have met Ryan again. Fuck the Prowlers and their unearned sense of superiority.

“Sure,” he said with a winning smile, remembered there was no camera, and gave up the effort. “They’re a tough team and I look forward to showing them that we are, too.”

Which was true, he supposed. Except for the part where he looked forward to anything.

“Anything we can expect with you mic’d up tonight?”

Again, Lars was taken off guard. He had agreed to be mic’d for an upcoming game, but had he really been so out of it that he’d agreed to this game?

“I’ll only curse in Swedish,” he promised with a wink. The reporter laughed, and luckily the rest of his questions were the usual garbage that didn’t require an actual response. “Stick to our game” bullshit to fill sound bites but saying nothing.

He chugged an energy drink before the game. He maybe didn’t care about much at the moment, but he did dislike the Prowlers enough to want to beat the shit out of them tonight. Bad enough losing to them in Portland; like hell he was going to let it happen in Baltimore. It at least gave him something to focus on.

Fuck, he needed Ryan here to calm him down. Maybe he could call⁠—

And say what, exactly? He wasn’t sure Ryan would want to pick up, never mind be able to. A couple weeks of lackluster texts and then his first and only call was because he couldn’t get his shit together? He didn’t need the mix of guilt and self-disgust the idea brought, so he let it go.

Instead, he took a moment to imagine how it’d be if Ryan were here, still on the team.

“You’ve got this,” Ryan said confidently. “You were the best part of their team and the best part of this team. We know it, they know it, that’s why they’re so p.o.’d.”

Yes, even Imaginary Ryan didn’t curse much.

“So you’re gonna go out there, score some goals, and then when we get back to your place tonight, I’ll fuck you so hard the headboard breaks. Sound good?”

It sounded very good. And despite the promise being one Imaginary Ryan could never fulfill, it did help him calm down.

He endured having the mic put on. He endured the team pump-up music in the locker room. He endured the glares he got from the Prowlers during warm-ups. He endured forcing conversation with Jake so the media team would have something to work with besides him sullenly breathing. He endured the craziness in the tunnel before the first period, the loud chants, the body slams, the layers of superstition each cluster of players performed religiously so the hockey gods would favor them with a goal or a positive plus/minus.

Not that Lars could judge. As messed up as he felt right now, he had his own routine: he put a gloved hand over his heart and shut his eyes, thinking of his parents and his grandfather and promising he’d do his best to make them proud.

He also indulged in a “Let’s fucking go!” right before they paraded out onto the ice, already breaking his only cursing in Swedish promise, but oh, well. He knew the fans enjoyed the bleeped out parts of player audio.

It was eerily similar to the game in Portland, with the fans fired up and his former teammates looking at him like he was a traitor. It was encouraging, though, that the fans were angry on his behalf, booing the Prowlers when they skated onto the ice and again when the starting lineup was announced.

“Ready to lose again, Nilsson?” the opposite center sneered before the opening face-off.

Lars shrugged, knowing his indifference would only bother him more. “It’s a game. I’m aware there will be a loser.”

It was brutal. They came after him again and again. The refs were more inclined to help the home team, and the Prowlers took penalty after penalty, but a lot happened when the refs turned their backs. It was hard to control his temper when he was getting hammered every shift. Looking only at the penalty list, he was tripped twice, boarded once, cross checked three times, and high sticked (though thankfully in the back of the head so he didn’t get hurt). He was constantly interfered with—though it was called exactly zero times—and cheap shots were taken at him long after the play ended.

The Crabs tried to help. Jake was there at every whistle to work his way between Lars and whichever Prowler was trying to get at him, and once Voronin tackled someone in front of the net who had given up trying to play hockey and was camped in front of the crease simply to slash the fuck out of Lars’s legs. Their help was appreciated, but it didn’t matter. Lars would be bruised and sore for a week, and for what? This was the first game since March 5th where he was actively trying to score, and he couldn’t. He’d gotten a few chances, but every inch he gained on the ice felt hard-earned, forced to work through a team that wasn’t so much interested in hockey but knocking him on his ass and keeping him there.

Their intense focus on Lars had its perks, though. They seemed too exhausted to do much when any other line was out, and having their sights set on Lars had allowed Jake and Tomas to each score.

“You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” a different center asked him. They weren’t keeping the lines consistent, like everyone on the Prowlers had a personal score to settle with him and Coach Jones was doing his best to allow it.

“Look at the scoreboard,” Lars said without taking his eyes off the ref’s hand. “You’re down by three.”

The next time it was someone Lars didn’t even recognize. Clearly a trade deadline acquisition who’d bought into the team’s anti-Lars agenda. “How’s it feel leaving for a team that sucks? Won’t even make the playoffs.”

“Who are you?” said with the practiced disdain he knew bothered players who weren’t “top tier” (whatever the fuck that meant). “You new to the league or something?”

He regretted it once he said it, mostly because it would make him sound like a prick if they chose that clip to play. It wasn’t the NHL who’d asked him, though, it was the Crabs; maybe they’d be merciful and scrub that one from the record.

“Couldn’t cut it with a real team so had to come out East to play with some scrubs?”

That one was somewhat baffling to him. Lars had always led the Prowlers in points and goals, and aside from the Prowlers’ two runs to the Cup, it was generally an Eastern Conference team who won. But he supposed logic wasn’t really a piece of it.

For better or worse, the Crabs were rising to the occasion. Instead of staying level-headed, they vented on the bench about how the Prowlers were all jerks and the league should do something about the way they were blatantly targeting Lars and maybe they should give the Prowlers a taste of their own medicine, etc.

“We’re just as big as them,” Tomas was saying. “We’re just as fast. We can throw our weight around and give ‘em a few bruises to remember Baltimore.”

“They fucking deserve it,” Jordy added in. “One of the guys nearly hit Vorny in the head because he was going for Nilsy. None of that’s okay.”

“Let’s fuck ‘em up!”

Lars kept looking to Ryan’s spot on the bench, desperately wishing he were there to be the voice of reason, to calm everyone down. Imaginary Ryan couldn’t cut it, quieter and quieter as he urged Lars to stay positive and play a clean game. By the start of the third, Lars couldn’t hear him at all. 

Early in the third, Pavel laid a huge open-ice hit that had the crowd roaring and the Prowlers seething. Of course, they went right for Lars in retaliation, as though Pavel didn’t exist and was merely an extension of Lars Nilsson.

When one of his former linemates, Alex Zigmund, came after him, Lars finally got fed up. He dodged the check and then cross checked him right in the chest. He heard the whistle, knew he was going to the box for finally sticking up for himself, and it made him even angrier.

“What the fuck is your problem, Zigs?” Lars shouted at him, giving him another shove. “I went to your fucking wedding. Players leave, shithead, and it doesn’t mean you get to treat them like this.”

Zigmund’s response was probably one he should’ve anticipated: he dropped his gloves.

Well, shit.

Lars dropped his as well, circling Zigmund and wondering if he could fight someone who he’d barely thought about in months.

“You left in the middle of the night,” Zigmund said as he threw a punch. Lars dodged it, but Zigmund got a hold of his jersey. “You’re right, you went to my wedding.” Another punch, this one wide; Lars grabbed onto Zigmund’s jersey to try and keep some distance. “And you left without even saying why. So why”—this punch grazed his chin—“did you”—another, one that somehow hit his shoulder, the pads absorbing it—“leave!?”

The last one connected, right into his cheek. It surprised him that it was harder than when Anders punched him, which made no sense since Anders easily had five inches and fifty pounds on Zigmund. It surprised him a lot more to learn he hadn’t actually lost his temper until then.

Lars tightened his grip on Zigmund’s jersey, got both hands buried in the material and shook him hard. It threw him off balance, his hands coming up to Lars’s arms to try and steady himself, and Lars took the opportunity to punch him square in the jaw. He did it again for good measure, even though he saw the first hit had busted Zigmund’s lip, and then he threw him to the ice.

“I left because they found out I’m gay and Mackey told me to get the fuck out!” he screamed down at Zigmund. “Is that a good enough reason for you, asshole?”

And then he turned his back on Zigmund’s stunned expression and bloody lip, and dutifully skated to the penalty box without so much as glancing at the refs. As the adrenaline wore off, Lars found himself shaking in the box. He stared straight ahead, ignoring Zigmund in the neighboring penalty box and definitely ignoring the fans banging on the glass around him and the scoreboard replaying the incident above him. It was so loud in the arena that Lars wasn’t sure who’d heard his outburst. Zigmund had, he was sure, but had the refs? Were there other players close enough?

“What the fuck am I doing?” he grumbled to himself. As he gingerly touched his cheek to inspect the damage, he remembered the one thing he really shouldn’t have forgotten.

He was still wearing a mic.

Chapter 32

Ryan

Ryan didn’t like being traded. He felt he’d earned that dislike. No one had ever asked him about a trade beforehand or even had the decency to warn him. No one had cared if there were teams he preferred or ones he absolutely didn’t want to go to. They just…did it. And then told him about it, uncaring what he thought about it.

Even without the whole Lars thing, he hadn’t wanted to leave the Crabs. That had been his one goal going into this season: to stay in Baltimore.

The Otters were making it really hard to hate the move, though.

The team was welcoming, which made it sound like the other teams hadn’t been. They had, friendly and patient as he figured things out. This was different, in little ways. The staff was more helpful finding him a place to stay. He was invited out for drinks right after his first game. The coaches were excited to have him, running him through the systems and seeking his input on where he would best fit.

And they let him pick his number. That alone had worn down his defenses.

Most welcoming of all had been Anders.

“I don’t see many of my brother’s former teammates,” he’d said in the locker room the first night and offered his hand. “Good to see you again, Ryan.” A pause. “Or do you prefer RJ?”

Again, people asking what he wanted. Wild.

“Ryan,” he said and accepted Anders’s hand. “Gotta say, I preferred playing with you than against you.”

Anders’s crooked half-smile was on the opposite side of his mouth as Lars’s. “Now that he’s not here to defend himself…” Anders leaned in like he was about to tell him a secret, and Ryan found himself leaning in as well. “Did you like playing with Lars? He can be…”

Anders left the sentence hanging, generously not pinning anything negative on his brother and letting Ryan fill in the blanks.

Ryan briefly considered lying. Trying to get on Anders’s good side by agreeing that Lars could be a pain. It wouldn’t even be a lie, really, just stretching the truth to what Anders expected to hear.

He didn’t have it in him.

“He can be a little intense,” he hedged, “but only when he’s playing you, honestly. He was great to play with. Probably my favorite teammate on the Crabs.”

Or anywhere. But his communication with Lars since he’d left the day before had been lacking, and he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to reveal to a virtual stranger who had a personal stake in the answer.

The crooked smile was back. “Yeah, the kid’s a little shit, isn’t he?”

That was it. A weirdly fond statement about how Lars was kind of a dick to him. Not really anything to justify Lars’s absolute loathing for his big brother, except that maybe Anders didn’t take his grudge very seriously.

If Ryan were built like Anders Nilsson, he probably wouldn’t take it seriously, either.

* * *

Ryan scored in his first game as an Otter, which helped endear him to the whole team. They gave him the puck with a label and crudely drawn Otter, and they gave him Player of the Game, complete with a hat that was shaped like an Otter’s head. It was nice to be appreciated, and he couldn’t remember being appreciated like this in years.

Except by Lars, who had only sent him a single 👍 emoji in the last 24 hours.

* * *

“Ryan!”

Ryan whipped around in surprise at the female voice calling his name. He’d just finished his first practice with the Otters and worried he’d have to do media stuff while all sweaty and exhausted. They’d already done a bunch of promo pictures of him in his new jersey, and he’d thought that would buy him some more time.

But when he turned around, there was a beautiful blond in an Otters jersey, something about her familiar but unplaceable.

She took pity on him and smiled brightly, perfect white teeth shining. “Sorry, I’m Amanda. Anders’s wife. The boys have talked so much about you, I feel like I know you already, but of course we’ve never actually met.”

Anders’s wife? Yeah, that fit the blotchy mental picture he had. “I remember you guys coming to our game in town. You were there with your kids and had a sign for Lars.”

She beamed at him. “Oh my gosh, the kids love Uncle Lasse. We do it every time Lars comes to town. Used to only be once a season. The kids were so excited when they found out he was moving closer and it could be twice.”

“I met Anton at the All Star Game,” he said. “Cute kid. Made Lars act like a kid, too.” He laughed, realizing she must know Lars as well as he did. “Well, more of a kid.”

She giggled. “He and Anton get along well. Must be a younger brother, thing. They team up against Astrid sometimes. Drives her bonkers, but Lars is good about evening it out.”

Anders. Amanda. Astrid. Anton.

“That’s…a lot of A names,” he blurted out, then felt bad. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it! Most people are too polite to say anything, but we obviously did it on purpose. I love when people notice!”

She was tiny, probably not more than 5’5”, and so very pretty and very bubbly. Opposite to Anders’s stoic demeanor in every way Ryan could pinpoint.

“I’m glad you don’t think I’m polite.”

She slapped a hand over her mouth then put it on his shoulder. “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—” Then she saw his grin and swatted his arm. “You’re mean, teasing me like that! You’ll fit in well here. Welcome to the team, by the way. Anders has been singing your praises since Vancouver. Anton, too, but any hockey player who gives him the time of day is suddenly his favorite person ever. If Anders likes someone, that’s something. He’s happy to have you on the team, by the way. Anders, I mean. Anton, too, probably. He had no idea you were coming but boy was he happy.”

She seemed like a babbler, happy to talk and make the listener feel important. Anders, man of few words. Amanda, woman of many.

Ryan couldn’t lie: he liked her.

And it felt like she was trying to tell him something without directly saying it. That his being here wasn’t Anders’s doing. Ryan had never considered the possibility—players controlled so little of the big picture—but he realized too late that Lars might think that.

“Tell Anton he was my favorite player at the All Star Game.” They exchanged numbers, Amanda insisting that as the Captain’s wife she needed everyone’s contact info for social gatherings like their pre-playoffs kickoff party.

Ryan headed to his car, imagining a world where Lars and Anders played together and had Amanda as a positive influence between them. They probably had world peace in that alternate reality, with that kind of magic.

* * *

Usually, after a move, he’d get laid. Burn off some pent-up energy and frustration and all that. First road trip, that was always his game plan. The thought didn’t even occur to him on their night off in Austin, and not just because he hated Austin. Or rather, it did occur to him when he was alone in his hotel room after a pleasant evening out with the guys. It was only then that he realized he’d missed his opportunity, and more importantly, he didn’t care.

There was only one person he wanted, and he’d be willing to give up sex to have him, which was a whole sort of complicated he didn’t want to unpack.

i miss you

Three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Reappeared. They danced on and off the screen until finally he got a “same” back. If Ryan hadn’t been watching, it’d be easy to think Lars didn’t care or that this was easy for him. That things had run their course. Despite the lack of communication, Ryan was fairly certain that wasn’t the case at all.

Ryan was trying, and even if it barely showed, Lars was, too. Ryan was struggling, but he had the distraction of a new team, a new town, a new everything. The only life Lars had had in Baltimore included Ryan. It must be hard to look around and see all the places Ryan had been but suddenly wasn’t. The closest things Ryan had to deal with were an empty hotel room bed, and any time he looked at Anders and saw just enough similarities to know he was a Nilsson, but the wrong one.

Being around Anders was actually comforting: each time he spotted another difference between the two brothers, he was glad he could still remember Lars so clearly.

* * *

It was two, maybe three weeks after the trade that the news came in. They’d been on a plane to Alberta, arriving on a cloudless Saturday afternoon. As they walked off the plane, a lot of guys reached for their phones to turn off airplane mode. Usually it was guys with significant others or kids, checking on how their family was after they’d been in the air and assuring everyone at home they’d landed safely. Ryan was normally in no rush, but he’d gotten into the habit of checking his phone in case Lars had messaged him.

He’d wished Lars luck before his game, a rematch against the Prowlers. Not so much because he thought Lars could use the luck, but because he knew it was hard for him to face his old team. They’d been such jerks to him last time, and he wanted Lars to hear something positive from someone who understood. Not that he expected a reply besides 👍 or maybe ✔️, but it was better than no reply.

As his phone reconnected with the world, several alerts came through at once. He ignored most of them, starting with Lars’s predictable thumbs up and working his way from there.

Tanner

bro. this is a big deal right?

There was a link to a TikTok attached. Ryan didn’t click it; this wouldn’t be the first time Tanner had sent him a video of some game or other. It was either too quiet for him to listen to in public or too loud, and he’d have to shut it off and apologize. It could wait until the hotel.

He had another message, one from Amanda Nilsson. She’d messaged him once or twice with recommendations for places in Cincinnati, which he’d appreciated, but he couldn’t think why she’d text him now. Weirder, when he opened the message he saw it was sent to both him and Anders. Was it a meme or something? She seemed like the type to send memes to friends, but he couldn’t imagine there was very much overlap between him and Anders. And why not send it separately? Unless maybe it was a press thing about them?

Amanda Nilsson

red alert

And then a link to what looked like the same TikTok. That was ominous.

He looked up from his phone to Anders, who was frowning down at his own. They made eye contact, Ryan shrugging when Anders arched an eyebrow in question. Maybe he should watch it now.

Anders had been in front of him as they filed through the airport to the team bus, but he hung back to wait for Ryan. They shared a concerned look before they each clicked on the link.

It was footage of someone’s TV broadcast of the Crabs game, somewhere in the lower bowl. Ryan immediately recognized the blue and maroon jerseys and almost as quickly saw it was today’s matinee versus the Prowlers. Lars was against the boards, one of the Prowlers coming in hard and—oh, God—was he about to watch Lars get injured?

He heard something like a growl from Anders, no doubt thinking the same thing. The idea of Lars being hurt made him want to throw up. He couldn’t look away, though.

Lars nimbly dodged the check, and the player flew straight into the boards. The crowd cheered, then again when Lars blatantly cross checked the guy. Ryan gulped as they both dropped the gloves. Was this what Amanda wanted to show them?

The player from the Prowlers was shouting as he threw some punches, and Ryan held his breath for each. But then Lars grabbed the other guy and got a couple very good hits in. Ryan’s relief at the guy falling to the ice was short lived, because Lars then stood over him and screamed. Most of it wasn’t clear, but enough was.

“…because they found out I’m gay…asshole!”

The crowd screamed again and the video ended, looping into another video that Ryan couldn’t care less about.

Ryan and Anders sucked in a breath. 

“Shit,” Ryan said at the same time Anders said, “Jäklar.”

They shared another wide-eyed look.

“You don’t think…?” Ryan started, but was unsure what else to say.

For the first time since Ryan had met him, Anders looked concerned. “Even if the audio wasn’t clear, there’s probably an angle where you can read his lips.” He frowned. “I wondered why he left Portland. Did you know?”

“I…well, I didn’t know, but he’d implied.”

Anders’s scowl deepened. “Will this hurt him on the Crabs? It’s too late to change teams this season⁠—”

“He’ll be fine,” Ryan assured him. “The Crabs are cool. They don’t care, I promise. They’ll support him.”

“Good.” He looked relieved. “I don’t know that that means he’ll be fine, though.”

“Yeah, good point.” Ryan clutched his phone to his chest. He hadn’t seen or heard Lars outside of TV clips since he’d left Baltimore. Would Lars even want to hear from him now?

Fuck it, he decided. Maybe Lars did and maybe he didn’t, but it was important that Ryan give him the choice, so he at least knew Ryan was thinking about him and he wasn’t alone in this if he didn’t want to be.

“Could you…buy me some time?” he asked, already backing away to find a quiet space. “Five minutes?”

Anders stared at him and nodded. “Five minutes. Good luck.”

Chapter 33

Lars

As soon as he stepped out of the box, Lars knew more than Zigmund had heard everything he’d said.

Screamed, he reminded himself. While mic’d.

The Prowlers laid off of him, like they were scared or ashamed or something. If he were in a better mental state, he’d capitalize on it. He could’ve had a hat trick, but his only goal was to get through the game and hide. Hide from the looks people were giving him, the questions the media would ask, the comments on social media, the calls, the concern/support in equal measures. There would be so much once the game ended and he could no longer hide on the bench.

It did finally end and Lars was the first one down the tunnel. How quickly could he get changed and out of here? He dreaded a postgame interview, but Coach Thompkins took one look at him and declined to let the media into the locker room.

“This changes nothing on our end,” Thompkins said with a gruff, non-nonsense manner that was probably more for the reporters he’d have to face alone than for Lars. “Zilch. You decide how to handle it and we follow suit.” He clapped a hand on Lars’s shoulder and headed for the door. “Let us know.”

While they changed, everyone else walked on eggshells. Lars knew he had their support—he’d known since his talk with Monroe months ago—but this was their first time realizing it. They didn’t know what to say, and Lars would rather not say anything.

“You’re better off with us than those dickheads, anyway.” It was Jordy who broke the silence, and there were nods and faint agreement, and that was that. The tension drained out of Lars a little, and he thanked them and carried on. One down, only a million other aspects of his life to go.

His phone was garbage. There were so many notifications it would be impossible to go through them all. Even as he tried to clear them, more replaced them instantly. He would have to make a decision, make a statement of some sort where he denied or accepted what he’d said, or pieces of it. He’d have to call his agent and get Max’s help, maybe schedule a meeting with…he didn’t even know who. But right now, there were only two voices he wanted to hear and one he didn’t think he had much right to at the moment.

“Lillen.” His mormor picked up on the first ring, expectant. She tsked in that half-scolding, half-sympathetic way, not unlike if she caught him staying up late or stealing snacks. “How are you doing?”

“You know?”

She’d have been watching, of course, but there’d been some hope viewers hadn’t heard anything and the team hadn’t released the audio from his mic. Safe from the world at large until someone who’d been there spread it.

“Yes,” she said apologetically. “You were quite loud. We couldn’t make out all of it, but enough.”

Lars had suspected this; it didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“No one on the Crabs is saying anything,” she went on, “but several players on the Prowlers apologized. They won’t admit that’s why you left, because of course they won’t, but they’ve acknowledged that’s why you felt you had to leave and they understand their behavior after the fact was uncalled for. Months too late, but perhaps they’ll learn something from it after all.”

None of his teammates on the Prowlers had come across as homophobes or bigots, but they all knew the GM was an old-fashioned asshole. It would seem completely possible that Mackey would give a player the boot for not fitting into the proper mold, even one of Lars’s caliber. Whatever they’d imagined as his reason for bailing, he didn’t know, but it was a little gratifying to hear they were ashamed now.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confessed. “I can ignore what I said or I can admit it.”

“You never planned to come out, I think,” she said gently.

“No. It was none of their business, and I thought it would make it harder for me. It did make it harder.”

She hummed in acknowledgement.

“It has nothing to do with hockey except when they make it. I just want to play. And kiss boys.”

“Sometimes at the same time,” she teased, then became serious again. “I don’t think you can unsay it, Lillen, but if you don’t want to be the focus of your life, then you’d best ignore it until it blows over. But if you think maybe it’s time to be more open with that part of yourself, then I think you’re with the right team to try it.”

He was quiet as he thought about it. “What do you think I should do?” There was a pleading note he couldn’t quite hide, and she chuckled.

“No, this isn’t my decision. There are pros and cons to each, yes? Only you can know what’s best for you. You’re a smart boy when you’re not fighting people. You’ll know what to do.”

He wished he had her confidence.

They chatted a little more about anything but hockey, his mormor no doubt knowing it would soothe him. It did until he hung up and was alone once more with his thoughts. He imagined both worlds: the one where he openly acknowledged his sexuality and the responsibility that came with it; the one where he brushed off what he said, denied it all and made everyone focus on his playing.

He hadn’t made any decisions when his phone rang.

To be fair, it had rung a couple times already, but a cursory glance at an unknown number had him ending them all. This time he looked and he felt like he’d swallowed his heart.

Incoming call: Ryan.

“Ryan,” he breathed as he accepted the call. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

It was him, it was really him. Fuck, he’d missed Ryan’s voice.

“I uh…I heard what happened,” Ryan said. “You okay?”

How can I not be okay when we’re talking again?

Oh, right.

“I’ve been better.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “I wish you’d been there. You would’ve kept me from losing my shit like that.”

“Not possible. I’m sure they deserved it.”

“The cross check? Yes, Zigs deserved it, but I mean you would’ve made sure I kept my mouth shut.”

“I dunno,” Ryan drawled. “I prefer your mouth open.”

That startled a laugh from him. “Are you flirting with me right now? I need comfort and moral support, and you’re making inappropriate advances.”

“I’m not good at that stuff, but I’m great at inappropriate advances.”

Lars smiled, and he was sure Ryan was, too.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confessed. “I was mic’d.”

“Jesus— Lars!”

“I know,” he whined. “It was dumb.”

“That’s not going to be easy to deny,” Ryan said slowly, like he was inviting Lars to prove him wrong. “What does Monroe want you to do?”

“No idea. Thompkins said they would do whatever I wanted.”

“And you have no idea what you want.”

A brief flash of the future. One where he could hold Ryan’s hand in public and they could meet each other’s families but introduce each other as their boyfriend instead of an ex-teammate. Where people didn’t trade them away from each other because that was messed up and they’d know it. A world where the next time he won the Cup, he’d get to hold it up with Ryan, because they were still on the Crabs and had done it together.

And just like that, the bubble burst and he was forced to acknowledge it as a fantasy. What he wanted most in that scenario was Ryan, ideally on the Crabs with him, and the latter was nearly impossible. People rarely went back to teams that had traded them. It wasn’t like Lars needed to be out to be with Ryan, either; they’d managed fine before. It was really that he needed to get his head out of his ass and tell Ryan he wanted to continue being with him and then put in the effort to make it happen.

“You still with me?” Ryan asked gently.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m here. No, I don’t know what I want. I know some things, obviously.” Like everything that has to do with you. “Still no clue how to handle this.” A pause. “You’re not out, either. What would you do?”

Ryan sighed heavily. “You want a real answer?”

“Yes.” He was kind of scared to hear it, but Ryan was in a unique position of understanding his situation more than Mormor or Thompkins or anyone, since he was living it, to a degree.

“Honestly? I don’t know. It seems like a lot to take on, all the attention. And I get moved around so much, I’d worry about ending up in a place like Portland, or maybe a team doesn’t want me at all because it’s too much trouble with the media. But…I assumed if I were ever serious about a relationship, man or woman, I wouldn’t want that to be something I’d have to hide. I’ve never been in that kind relationship.” Lars flinched, feeling his own words hurled back at him. “So I guess if there were maybe a guy I wanted to openly date, I’d consider it. Maybe. Screaming it at a former teammate during a nationally broadcast game while I’m mic’d up isn’t the way I’d go about it, personally, but you’ve always had more flair for that sort of thing.”

“I can be dramatic,” he acknowledged, nodding solemnly and forgetting that Ryan couldn’t see him. “I don’t think this is a door I can open,” he said. “I didn’t mean to accuse them of anything. Even if it’s true, Mackey isn’t going to let me do that without firing shots back. I just want to play hockey. Why does it matter who I am as long as I’m not, like, murdering puppies or something?”

“How did our serious, heartfelt conversation get to puppy murder?”

“It happens.”

“Not with anyone else, it doesn’t.” A pause. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah.” He was going to hang up soon, so Lars scrambled to think of something to say to keep him on the line a little longer. “You’re number six now. Did you pick it?”

“Yeah, actually.” He sounded pleased.

“Can I ask why you picked it?”

“I’m the youngest of six,” Ryan said simply. “My mom always says it’s her lucky number. Like the family wasn’t complete until me. Dunno. It’s dumb but I liked it when she said it when I was a kid.”

“It’s not dumb. That’s kinda cute.” Ew, was he being sentimental?

“Hey, I gotta go. The bus is waiting on me. I wanted to check in and…”

And he’d done that, and now they’d go back to awkward silence via text message and drift further apart.

“...we’re in town in a week, right? So I was wondering if I could…maybe…see you? Before the game?”

It was like the wind had been knocked out of him. Lars had completely forgotten that they would play the Otters again. After years of facing Anders twice a season, the third had slipped his mind. This time it brought with it the awful prospect of playing against Ryan. Lovely.

“Will you have time?” Lars’s heart hammered in his chest with hope. “They might not let you leave the hotel⁠—”

“I’m a big boy. I’ll manage to sneak away. Besides, I still have a place there. It’s completely reasonable for me to need to take care of stuff for a few hours.”

He hesitated long enough that Ryan started to backtrack.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t even know your schedule and you’re busy with this Prowlers thing⁠—”

Ever the polite one, giving him excuses.

“I want to see you.” Lars swallowed a lump. “My place? Text me when you’ll be free and I’ll be there.”

“Awesome.” Ryan sounded so happy in that one little word, and it was something Lars had given to him. That made his chest loosen a little, the burdens from the day eased. “I really have missed you.”

“You just miss my nice condo.” And then because he felt like a dick for not saying it out loud, he muttered, “I’ve missed you, too. See you in a week.”

“In a week,” Ryan agreed, the silence lingering a moment before the call ended.

Twitter: #Crabs/Prowlers

lnilsson14: Thanks for all the messages and support. Yes, I’m gay. Yes, there were uncomfortable circumstances about things in Portland and that’s part of why I left. No, I don’t want to talk about it. I want to play hockey and make the playoffs and fight for the Cup. End of discussion.

baltimorebluecrabsnhl : The Blue Crabs support all of their players regardless of their race, sexuality, or religion. We especially want to highlight Lars Nilsson for coming out despite the known prejudices within the sport—such a simple thing can also be a brave one. 

ziggyzigs: I can only speak for myself, but @lnilsson14 I’m sorry about what’s happened this season—I should’ve kept a cooler head and remembered there’s two sides to every story. Sorry bro, won’t happen again. GL in playoffs

abigailbmoresun: An inside source has leaked that Prowlers players are upset w/GM Mackey as well as coaching re: queer players & staff. Nilsson is just the tip of the iceberg, as more stories of discrimination are coming to light, and they want changes or they want new teams. Ownership not happy, investigations are forthcoming.

andersnilsson7: OFC I knew my brother was gay, stop asking me. I don’t see how it’s relevant to hockey. I’m more interested in whether the Otters will play the Crabs in the first or second round. Why don’t you ask me about that?

jacobcampbell: Lars is a great hockey player and an awesome teammate and an even better human being. He’s been really brave in the wake of the media hounding him about what he said during our last game, and I know he’ll inspire other players out there to be more confident in who they are both on and off the ice.

ryanrusselljunior: hey @larsnilsson14 how come when I get mic’d up I lose followers but you do it and you gain a few mil - what am I doing wrong?

larsnilsson14: @ryanrusselljunior have you tried dropping multiple f-bombs on national television? works like a charm. not sure I’d recommend what it does to your DMs though

crabbythecrab 🦀: 👱‍♂️🇸🇪🏳️‍🌈😍🏒💪

Chapter 34

Ryan

Flying to Baltimore made Ryan’s stomach turn. It’d been years since he’d first arrived, and the similarity was unnerving. Nothing quite like joining a new team then returning to play an old one to make you want to throw up.

Then there was the Lars situation. Ryan couldn’t tell if that made things better or not, knowing he was going to see Lars in—he checked his watch— forty minutes. Obviously he wanted to see Lars, but there was the nerves of a reunion, their upcoming game, and the inevitable goodbye.

What were they even going to say to each other? Were they going to have The Talk? What would Ryan say? What did he want? What did Lars want?

“You don’t look so good,” a teammate observed. Shupp, maybe? Stroh? Ugh, he hated learning so many new names all at once. No, Sampson. Sampsy.

“He came from the Crabs, remember?” Anders said from a few aisles down, a book in hand. “Leave him be.”

“Shit, sorry,” Sampsy said with a sympathetic look. “We’ll get ‘em.”

Ryan had stopped paying any attention to him, instead focused on Anders. He was sitting by himself and had been nice enough to Ryan so far. Would he mind if…?

Before he could second guess the wisdom of his plan, Ryan got up and sat next to Anders.

“Hey.”

Anders gave him a once over. Whatever he saw, he deemed it was going to require his full attention, because he carefully closed his book and waited expectantly.

“So like…I’m really confused,” Ryan said. He looked around to make sure no one was listening—nothing but empty seats, sleeping teammates, and headphones barely muffling music—and continued, “Do you hate your brother? Because he seems to hate you, but he visits you every summer, and the few times I’ve seen you together, you don’t seem to hate him. And I think you liked me because Lars likes me, and you get upset when people talk shit about him⁠—”

“I don’t hate Lasse,” Anders interrupted.

…aaaand that was it.

“Okay.” That wasn’t helpful. The only thing he’d learned was that Anders would stop him from babbling. “But do you like him?” Ryan pressed.

Anders sighed. There was something about the way he did it that conveyed he in no way wanted to have this conversation but he would, and only because it was Ryan asking, otherwise he’d tell Ryan to fuck off and mind his own business.

“He’s my brother. I love him. He’s just…very spoiled, and we’re very different ages. We didn’t spend much time together as he was growing up because I left, and that’s what he remembers. But before I moved, I spent every day with him. I made toys for him and taught him how to skate and played hockey with him.” A pause. “He hates that I left. He’s never forgiven me. He’s never understood that my life at home wasn’t the same as his. That Pappa had set expectations for me that Lars hadn’t experienced yet. When they died, it was simple for him to mourn Mamma and Pappa. It was…more complicated for me.”

Ryan nodded. Each revelation sat heavy inside him, explaining so much and reminding him painfully of his sisters. When they’d eventually moved out, he’d missed them, but it had been a gradual process where they went one by one. Even after they left, his parents had been there. It didn’t hurt that he’d been a lot older than Lars had. Ryan couldn’t imagine his family shattering when he was five.

It also made him feel like a dick that he’d asked. This was personal and he’d pried. As much as he wanted to know, it wasn’t his business to dig deeper.

Okay, it was maybe his place to say something on Lars’s behalf. 

“Does Lars know all that?”

Anders shrugged. “He doesn’t want to understand. Like I said, spoiled. Only sees what’s convenient.”

Again, so much given so freely. Anders barely knew him, and only in connection to Lars, but that shouldn’t be enough. Why?

He didn’t ask, but the question must have been evident on his face because Anders answered it. “My brother likes you. He doesn’t like many people.”

Ryan laughed. “Lars likes everybody.”

He shook his head. “He charms everyone. That’s not the same. But he smiles at you even when you’re not looking. And he doesn’t talk to me unless he has to, but he texted me when he found out about the trade and told me to look out for you.” He rolled his eyes. “Told me. The little shit never asks, only tells.”

“Sounds about right.” Ryan also assumed Anders hadn’t dignified that particular demand with a response. “Thanks for talking with me.”

“I’d say any time, but I would prefer not to do it again. Hockey, yes. My idiot brother, I’ll leave to you.” His eyes narrowed. “Coach said you’d be leaving the team to deal with your apartment.”

“Which is completely plausible, since I do still have an apartment in town.”

“But you’ll be staying at the hotel…?”

As much as Ryan didn’t want to answer, he felt he owed Anders a bit of honesty.

“Yeah. Seemed smart to keep my old life and new life separate so I could focus.” Then as a whisper, he added, “But I wanted to see him. Especially after…” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “Everything.”

“I think you are a good influence,” Anders said approvingly. “There are only twenty minutes before we land, and I’d like to finish my book.”

Ryan accepted the dismissal and went back to his seat (and nervously tapping on the armrests).

* * *

When Ryan went right instead of left with the rest of the team, going to find a taxi while they went to the bus, it drew his teammates’ attention. There was lots of teasing about meeting up with a girlfriend or a booty call with an old flame, and it only made his cheeks heat up more when Anders told them to shut up.

The ride to Lars’s place was longer than he remembered. His heart was beating so hard he didn’t see much point in knocking—surely the whole building knew he was there—but he did and stood there in absolute torture. What if, what if, what if?

The door opened and he was abruptly pulled inside. He barely registered it shutting behind him before he was being kissed. Ryan melted right into it, giving in to Lars’s onslaught. It had been a long twenty-six days since he’d last seen Lars. Twenty-six days where he’d alternated between being so busy and so stressed that he had barely jerked off; once he’d found out he’d be here, in this painfully familiar condo held in wonderfully familiar arms, he’d avoided it altogether. He was so fucking pent up he’d probably be done as soon as Lars touched his dick.

He was reacquainting himself with the feel of Lars’s ass (still fantastic) and the taste of his mouth (intoxicating, more than usual), when Lars abruptly pulled away.

“Wha—?”

“Sorry,” Lars said. His eyes didn’t leave Ryan’s lips, but he’d put a frankly illegal amount of space between them. Lars’s chest was no longer pressed against his and both their hands were empty. What the fuck? “We didn’t…you never said if…I shouldn’t…”

Was it weird that he completely understood Lars’s non-sentences?

We didn’t clarify what we’re doing.

You never said if you were still interested.

I shouldn’t assume.

He put both hands on Lars’s cheeks to make him actually look at him. “Jag saknade dig,” he said, hoping his practice with Google translate was enough to make the words comprehensible; he was sure Lars would hear the sentiment behind them, even if he butchered the pronunciation.

I missed you.

Lars’s answering moan was absolutely obscene. “You’re killing me,” he groaned, his arms back around him and his hard cock back against Ryan’s as he crowded in again. “You’re fucking killing me.”

“Me?” he accused and ran a hand through Lars’s beard. An actual beard, darker than his hair (which was also longer, so long Ryan imagined wrapping the strands around his fingers and giving it a good yank) and making him look both older and more distinguished. He wanted that beard rubbing against his thighs yesterday. “I’m gonna die if you don’t kiss me right the fuck now.”

Never one to disappoint, Lars stole his lips again and ran his tongue along Ryan’s teeth before dipping deeper. “Du smakar gott,” he mumbled, and then took Ryan’s bottom lip into his mouth. “You taste good.”

“Then taste me,” he challenged. “Shut up and make me come.”

Predictably, Lars accepted his challenge.

Somehow they ended up on the couch, which was a small miracle in and of itself. Ryan had managed to lose his pants and briefs, Lars his shirt and pants, and the mismatch didn’t occur to him until he was thrown backward onto the couch and Lars climbed over him. Suddenly his dick was surrounded by Lars’s hot mouth, and he was nosing at Lars’s boxers like an idiot. Lars was deepthroating him like his life depended on it while Ryan had to somehow find the presence of mind to work Lars’s boxers down his massive thighs so he could lick teasingly at his cock.

Holy shit he’d missed this. Lars was awesome, obviously, but sex with Lars was next level. Best sex he’d ever had, and it only seemed to get better as they’d learned each other’s bodies and preferences. Like he knew if he licked along Lars’s taint before sucking one of his balls into his mouth, Lars would⁠—

“Heliga fan,” Lars swore, abandoning Ryan’s dick to press his forehead against his hip. He stayed very still, only a slight tremble in his legs giving away how terribly thin his self control was. “Please,” he begged, and it was only from experience that Ryan knew it was a plea to stop.

His mouth plopped off with a wet smack, and he returned his attention to Lars’s dick; Lars took a moment before he returned the favor, devouring Ryan’s dick with an enthusiasm that made Ryan dizzy. It was intense, trying to balance what he felt and what he was doing, trying to exact the same pleasure he was receiving. This moment was everything, made those twenty-six days disappear. How could they matter, when it was still this good?

Ryan came first, thrusting weakly into Lars’s mouth. He couldn’t decide if he’d rather have Lars come down his throat or onto his chest, decided on the latter, then realized too late he still had his shirt on and made a mess of himself.

They lay there on the couch, wiggling so they were side by side. Ryan rested his head on Lars’s legs and marveled at the freckles hidden there while he tried to catch his breath. There were things he knew he should say, but he didn’t want to ruin the moment. And then by avoiding the bigger things, he ruined it anyway by saying: “We need to be at the rink in an hour for practice.”

Lars groaned. He pressed a kiss to Ryan’s foot and then untangled himself from his legs.

“Where’s your bag?” he said as he nodded to Ryan’s shirt.

Ryan made a face as he inspected it. “I had them bring it to the hotel for me. Which I’m now realizing was probably not my best move.”

“You’ll have to wear CCM or Bauer or something. I don’t own any Otters shirts.”

They didn’t speak as they hastily cleaned up and got dressed, Ryan digging through Lars’s shirts not so much for a non-Crabs one but for one that smelled like Lars.

“What hotel?” Lars’s voice was gruff, a neutral edge he was barely holding onto. “I’ll drop you off.” That explained his bland white tee and a baseball cap. Lars must have thought it qualified as a disguise, though the messy blond hair escaping the hat gave him away.

Ryan was nauseous on the drive. The brief moments of comfort, of coming home, were replaced with an unease that spread through him like dread.

“How’s Ohio?” Lars asked as they left his parking garage. Ryan tensed, worried it was a jab, but it sounded like he was making a genuine effort to pretend things were normal.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I miss seafood, but I’m a Montana boy. Easy come, easy go. I can get used to meat and potatoes again.”

“I’ve always been near the ocean. I don’t think I would like living away from fresh fish.”

The conversation fizzled out.

“Your brother, he’s not as bad as I thought he’d be.” Ryan thought of their talk on the plane, Anders’s concern for Lars after the Prowlers incident, his easy acceptance of Ryan. “I don’t know if you give him enough credit.”

The car jerked to a stop at a red light, Lars having hit the brakes too sharply. “I think I know my own brother,” he said and hit the gas too harshly as the light turned green.

Spoiled echoed in his head. He doesn’t want to understand.

“Sure,” Ryan agreed. “I know my sisters well, too, but sometimes people know them in ways that I can’t see, because they’ve never had to share a bathroom with them or gotten bossed around by them or⁠—”

“It’s not the same.”

“Okay. How?” Lars sent him a sideways glare, and Ryan held up his hands in surrender. “I’m trying to understand. The Anders you see and the Anders I see don’t match very well, and I⁠—”

“And you think I’m wrong. You think you’ve been in Cincinnati a whole month⁠—”

(“Twenty-six days,” he wanted to say. “Haven’t you been keeping track?”)

“—and you’re suddenly best friends? One month to twenty-six years of dealing with his shit and everyone thinking he walks on water? What, he say you’re a great center and you were flattered and decided to give him a shot?”

Ryan sat there, speechless. Okay. This was an argument they were having. A day before playing against each other. With no plans to see each other again after the game. Perfect.

But there was no time to mount a defense, no opportunity to apologize and walk it back. They were in front of the hotel, and Ryan had to go before someone recognized them and asked questions they couldn’t even answer for each other.

“You used to say I was a great center,” he said quietly. “If it helps, I didn’t believe either of you.”

Then he got out of the car and didn’t look back, hands buried in his pockets so no one would notice them shaking.

Chapter 35

Lars

Lars questioned if he was relationship material.

In the span of an hour, he’d managed to destroy the progress they’d made in the wake of the Prowlers game. Worse, he knew he was the problem. It wasn’t Ryan, and their circumstances could only be blamed so much. Lars just couldn’t keep his mouth shut and he was shit at hiding what he was feeling.

He regretted his bad mood and harsh words the moment Ryan was gone and it was too late to apologize. Convenient, because then he could convince himself he really would’ve apologized instead of making another dickish comment. He resolved to do it before the game, because doing it over text seemed worse. If it made him miserable for the next twenty-four hours, well, he had no one to blame but himself.

During warm-ups, that proved harder than he’d expected. As soon as the team had done a few laps, there was pretty much a line at center ice to talk to Ryan. Ryan often talked to players on the other team, which Lars found both endearing and odd, since personally he never wanted his pre-game rituals to be dependent upon other people. One by one, the Crabs came to pay respects to the only player they’d lost at the trade deadline.

Ryan had sent a message to the team chat about the trade just before he’d gotten on the plane to leave Baltimore. Generic stuff about keeping in touch, sorry to go, good luck, etc. Then he’d unceremoniously left the chat, leaving the rest of the team unsure what to say or who to say it to.

When it cleared up enough for Lars to get his turn, only seconds left before they had to go back to their locker rooms, they weren’t quite alone. They had space, sure, but Lars imagined every person in the arena as watching them.

“Hey,” Lars said, offering him a gloved fist.

Ryan looked at him dubiously and returned the fist bump half-heartedly. “Nilsy.”

He deflated. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said in the car⁠—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ryan said dismissively. He offered a smile that might’ve convinced someone else, but Lars knew it was fake.

“But I have to worry about it,” he insisted. “I was being a dick. I…” He scanned the ice as he tried to find the right words. His eyes landed briefly on his brother, watching them as he stretched. Lars’s cheeks grew hot; he forced himself to turn away and only just stopped himself from giving Anders the finger. “I don’t want to leave things like that.”

“I know you’re not a dick,” Ryan said, “even when you act like one.”

That didn’t really sound like accepting an apology.

Before Lars could try again, the horn blared for the end of warm-ups. Ryan tapped his stick to Lars’s shins before skating off, and Lars wondered how many more chances he’d get before Ryan was tired of his fucking up.

Before the game started, there was a video tribute for Ryan. As far as Lars knew, no other team had ever done this for him. His longest stint had been on the Crabs, and he’d been so determined to stay he’d made a bigger impact on the community than Lars had given him credit for. He watched Ryan more than the video (which he knew included a whole thirty seconds of footage of the two of them with a voice over he’d had to record saying how important Ryan was to the team), noting the way he teared up and the genuine appreciation on his face when he waved to the crowd. They roared in appreciation; it definitely wasn’t the fans who’d traded him.

As they squared up for the opening face-off—the first he could ever remember taking against Ryan in an actual game—he’d hoped to have another chance to apologize. He was wrong.

“I’m not Ryan right now,” he said to Lars sternly. “I’m RJ. We’re former teammates and we’re not going to take it easy on each other. You want Ryan, you’re going to have to wait a few hours. Got it?”

Lars scowled. He missed being able to switch off seeing the other players as obstacles and not people. It would probably never work on Ryan ever again. Like Anders, Ryan had made it to the level of “this is a person I feel a lot of things about and have to play against them like a professional even though it’s not possible for me to do that with them.”

“And don’t try anything funny with my defensemen,” Ryan warned, as if reading his mind. “Let’s just play hockey, okay?”

Lars didn’t meet his gaze. Instead he dropped into position for the face-off. “Then shut up and play.”

He lost the face-off.

Playing the Otters was never easy. They were a good team and they didn’t like him. He hadn’t ever given them a reason not to hate him, but still. It was like the Prowlers game all over again, though admittedly the hits were clean. They targeted him and gave him zero room, and he was always, always matched up against Ryan and Anders. He was faster than them, but the combo proved tricky. They both knew him too well, and often they cut him off from the move he wanted to make before he knew that was the move he wanted. Again and again, they stripped him of the puck and kept his line hemmed in their defensive zone. It was exhausting.

Then the real problems started.

First it was Anders making a hit on him and Ryan swooping in to grab the loose puck.

Then it was Ryan and Lars going at it along the boards in the Crabs’ zone, close enough he could smell Ryan’s aftershave, and it was maybe that revelation that distracted him. He lost control of the puck, and Ryan kicked it up to the point so Anders could take a shot.

It wasn’t a pattern until Anders blocked Lars’s shot during a power play and Ryan scooped it up to clear it.

Anders and Ryan were a really good team.

Anders and Ryan got to be a team. They could be on the ice together and assist on each other’s goals and talk on the bench and go to the playoffs together and hang out on the plane.

By the time the third period rolled around, Lars was frustrated and lonely. Sure, there were nineteen other guys on the bench. Lars had spent the better part of a season with them, and the usual brothers-in-arms mentality had taken root. It was in no way the same.

It was a 1-1 game near the end of the regular season. Of course it got scrappy in the third. Everyone was desperately trying to get the two points, and no one wanted to make it easy for the other team. Lars got manhandled more than usual, and of course it was usually Anders dishing it out. And he tried to ignore the fact that it was Anders, he really did. He tried to play the way Ryan had wanted him to, but after they spent a solid minute in the crease with Anders pushing and shoving and slashing, after the whistle, Lars felt he needed to say something.

“Fucking quit it,” he said in Swedish and got in his brother’s face.

Aaand then Ryan was there between them, a gentle but firm hand pushing Lars back. Pushing him, like he was the aggressor.

“Stop,” he said and jerked away from Ryan. “I’m allowed to tell him to fuck off.”

“He’s just protecting the goalie,” Ryan said evenly. “Let’s calm it down.”

“Calm it down?” He was struggling to keep his voice even. “I think I’ve done a pretty good job of being calm.” Given the circumstances and his record vs Anders, he honestly thought he should be considered for sainthood.

“So let’s keep it clean for another seven minutes, yeah?” Ryan said.

“You don’t have to be so fucking patronizing, you know that?” Lars snapped. He was pissed and looking to wound. “Mind your business.”

“Lillen—” The second a heavy hand came into his shoulder, he snapped. It was the last straw. 

Lars swung around and threw a punch. He lost his glove as he came back on for another. The crunch of Anders’s nose under his knuckles was sickeningly satisfying.

“Mom and Dad leave me,” he yelled in Swedish, swinging wildly. “You leave! Morfar leaves! You take Mormor! You take my boyfriend, too! Enough!”

Anders stumbled back and held a hand to his face and kept one outstretched to fend Lars off. Hands closed around Lars’s arm to stop the next blow. He instinctively pulled himself free, punched Anders again and after he went down on the ice, Lars wheeled around to go after whoever had tried to interfere.

It was Ryan. Of course it was.

Lars deflected his hand so it ended up grazing Ryan’s chest, right across the stupid otter logo.

“Ryan, I’m sorry⁠—”

“You done?” Ryan snapped.

“Get the trainer!”

Both their heads snapped around as a ref leaned over Anders and a lineman called to the bench. There was a lot of blood on the ice and Anders was cradling his nose. 

“Storebror,” Lars choked out. He felt like he was five, crying in Anders’s room the night he heard about the plane crash. “Jag är ledsen. Det var en olycka.”

Big brother. I’m sorry. It was an accident.

He tried to move forward to check on Anders, but a ref swooped in and dragged him away.

“You’re done, Nilsson,” he said. “Five minute major and a misconduct for sure. C’mon, get to the bench.”

Lars drifted backwards under the ref’s guidance, watching as a trainer coaxed Anders to let go of his face to assess the damage. He did, and more blood trickled to the ice. Fuck.

When he got to the bench, he didn’t bother waiting for the penalty call. He muttered what maybe amounted to an apology and stormed down the tunnel to the locker room. What the fuck was he doing?

The trainers avoided him like they could see his bad mood, and he was left alone in the back to stew in his misery. The TV broadcast the game, and he was able to watch helplessly as they announced Anders likely had a broken nose and wouldn’t return for the rest of the game. Lars would likely have a call from Player Safety. Neither the Crabs nor the Otters scored in the dying minutes of regulation.

Weird to watch an Otters/Crabs game go to Overtime with no Nilssons there to decide the outcome.

Whose fault is that?

He watched silently from his locker stall, his hand throbbing and his pride wounded. He deserved it, watching the game play out back here instead of being out there on the ice.

When Ryan won the face-off, he felt a swell of pride. Belatedly, he remembered that he didn’t want that to happen, and he hated the conflicting loyalties.

One of the defenseman picked up the puck and immediately launched it to Ryan. He had a step on Pavel, maybe two, and as he sprinted into the offensive zone, Ryan would have the added confidence of knowing with absolute certainty that he was faster than Pavel. It was effectively him and Voronin, like in a million practices and drills before.

The Crabs needed this game more than the Otters, and Lars worried Ryan was thinking about that. That he’d shank the shot or not go full speed or something. That some sort of misguided loyalty might make him take pity on the Crabs. Unlike Lars, Ryan was sometimes too nice for his own good.

Ryan swept in at full speed, drawing Voronin to one side of the net. He had no support, no pass and no time to do anything but shoot.

“Russell’s in all alone,” the commentator said. Lars couldn’t tell if it was the TV feed or the in-house radio announcer. “Voronin squares up. Russell comes in hard on the right, fakes a shot, toe drag across the crease—RUSSELL POKES IT IN THE FIVE HOLE! GOAL! RJ Russell wins it in overtime for the Otters about twenty seconds in. I bet the Crabs are missing their former center right now, watching Russell get congratulated by his bench. What a fantastic game for him on his return. The fans don’t know whether to cheer or boo after that impressive display…”

There was a fair amount of both that Lars could hear from above as the sound leaked through the seats into the locker room. Lars watched the Otters swarm him on the ice and caught a few glimpses of his wide grin.

“Good job, sötnos,” he said and clapped in the empty room.

Chapter 36

Ryan

Ryan was smiling from the win, but inside he felt sick.

There was a lot of commotion in the locker room by the time he got back from his post-game interview. The team had to get to the airport, but everyone was too worked up from the game, and there was no way to calm them down without word on how Anders was doing.

When he appeared with his nose looking absolutely awful and his face all the wrong sorts of colors, they cheered for him.

“He’s out at least a week,” a trainer scoffed. “I wouldn’t cheer too hard.”

“Your brother is such an asshole,” one of the younger players said, and though Ryan bristled, he was inclined to agree at the moment.

Anders glared at the poor kid, who wilted under the intensity of Anders’s scorn. He said nothing, but the message was clear: don’t talk about my brother like that, even when he is an asshole.

The talk quickly turned from Lars to their schedule, and if they could hold onto first in the Metro division without Anders.

Later, when he was near Ryan and only they could hear him, Anders said, “I might have deserved it.” His voice was more nasal than usual, his accent thicker and the words harsher. “Don’t be too hard on him.”

There wasn’t a chance to press for more, to ask what exactly Lars had been yelling while he beat the shit out of Anders, who’d taken a broken nose and not once attempted to retaliate. Not for the first time, Ryan wished he’d put some effort into learning some Swedish. All he’d understood from Lars’s outburst was that he’d mentioned their parents and grandma.

“Why do you let him get away with so much?” Ryan asked, because he was running out of patience with Lars and half of it wasn’t even about their relationship.

Anders made a dismissive gesture. “He’s not by nature this angry. He’s only like this when he’s stressed. The Prowlers thing stressed him out. I stress him out.” He gave Ryan a hard look. “You stress him out.”

“I don’t⁠—”

“You do right now,” Anders said. “It’s not your fault. The trade.” He shrugged. “Lasse isn’t his best right now.”

Ryan considered this. There definitely was the Lars he knew in private, in practice, even in public. He was sweet and easygoing and quick to smile or tell a joke. And there was definitely a different Lars—a grumpier, angrier, more intense version—who only showed up when the Prowlers or Anders were there.

…and in the car earlier with Ryan. After a month of dealing first with Ryan’s trade, outing himself on national television, and playing against his brother for a third game after being forced together at the All Star Game. It was admittedly a lot for one person to deal with in such a short span of time. It wasn’t enough to excuse his behavior, but it definitely put it more into perspective.

“Do you think he’s going to get in trouble with Player Safety?” It wouldn’t be career-ruining, but Ryan knew the Crabs were hurting for standings points. If they lost Lars for a few games, they might not make the playoffs. They were barely holding onto a Wild Card spot as it was.

Anders rolled his eyes. “They will talk to him, but they won’t do anything.” He seemed to take in Ryan’s worried skepticism and added, “He’s one of three openly gay players in the NHL who just came out a few weeks ago under difficult circumstances that make the league look bad. He’s never injured someone before and it was me. He’ll get a slap on the wrist.” A pause as he considered. “Amanda won’t be happy with us, either. I should call home.”

He got up abruptly, phone in hand, and disappeared to a quieter spot, leaving Ryan to wonder what exactly he should do about Lars.

* * *

i’m sorry i almost punched you

i wasn’t thinking

and i shouldn’t have said that stuff in the car

forget about it

actually no don’t forget about it

i know it’s been A Lot lately but you can’t do that shit. you need to apologize to your family

i did. i talked to mormor and amanda and to the kids

…seriously? you haven’t talked to your brother?

i apologized on the ice.

great but that was before you found out his nose was broken

you used to have my back

i do have your back

i don’t remember ever saying “yeah go attack anders for sure that’s a good idea”

he’s your brother, even if you don’t get along

he’s missed three games so far. three games we’ve lost. we’re fighting for first in the metro, we have playoffs coming up. we need him back

“we”

“we” meant something different a month ago.

Ryan growled in frustration and threw his phone across his bed. The way-too-big, way-too-empty bed he’d splurged on when he’d moved to Cincinnati. The cost of living in Ohio was a lot more manageable than it had been in Maryland, and maybe he’d thought a nicer bed might come in handy if someone visited.

Fat chance of that.

He had no idea why this bothered him so much. They were fuck buddies and friends. Lars’s family was none of his business, even if he worked with Anders. Anders didn’t even seem bothered by it, traveling with the team and practicing with them wearing a bubble on his helmet that made it look like he was a ginormous college student. If anything, he was amused by the whole situation.

“This isn’t even the worst Lars has done to me,” he confided to the media. “Once, when he was eight, he chipped one of my teeth.” He opened his mouth and pointed to one, then winced as the effort no doubt hurt his nose. “He took a slapshot and it went right into my mouth. Can you imagine? Eight years old and already causing problems.”

He said it with a sort of pride Ryan could easily pick out but that he thought maybe Lars didn’t hear at all. Then again, he only knew that Lars didn’t like his brother: he had no idea how Lars saw Anders’s view of him. Did he know his brother loved him? Did he know Anders was ironically indulgent of the brother he admonished as spoiled?

It didn’t matter. Whether it was his business or not, it wasn’t a conversation to have over the phone or via text. He needed to focus on finishing up the season and then getting ready for playoffs. The first playoffs he’d be a part of after nearly four years. Lars might be his favorite distraction, but he couldn’t afford any right now.

* * *

The Otters still had three games left in the season when the Nilssons threw their promised Playoff Party. The Otters had clinched a playoff spot weeks ago, and a short break between home games offered the perfect opportunity for them to start psyching themselves up for the postseason.

They hosted it at their home, a large house on a few acres of land. There was a huge canopy set up in the backyard between the pool and the guest house, a buffet laid out in the shade and kids running around everywhere in between. It was like a big family picnic, the type his parents had hosted all the time when he was a kid, and he liked the coziness of it.

He didn’t like how awkward he felt, but that was hardly anyone’s fault. He was the newest on the team and hadn’t brought a partner, which left him the odd man out. He moved from group to group, chatting with people and getting introduced to wives, girlfriends, children, and dogs, but with most of the team and staff married or seriously involved, sooner or later the conversation would turn to schools or taxes or summer plans. With nothing to contribute, he’d move on and start again.

He was navigating between a group of tweens playing badminton and a few moms with toddlers when a familiar voice caught up with him.

“You don’t drink.”

Ryan turned to find Amanda smiling up at him. Unlike most people who said it with an air of accusation or suspicion, she made it sound like just an observation.

“Not usually, no. Not during the season.”

“Anders used to be the same, but he’s gotten more lax as he’s gotten older. Meatball?” She offered a tray covered in meatballs that smelled too good to pass up. Ryan popped one in his mouth and grabbed two more. “Good, right?” she encouraged. “Mormor made them. She’s way better at making herring and kroppkakor, but Swedish, so…” She shrugged and smiled.

“Kroppkakor,” Ryan said around a meatball, mentally scolded himself for having no manners, and waited until he’d swallowed to try again. “I think Lars made those once. Potato dumplings, right? Pretty good.”

Amanda brightened. “Did he? You’ll have to tell Mormor! Anders can’t cook but Lars always helps with meals when he visits and they’re amazing, the two of them. I gain three pounds every summer because of them.”

He smiled wistfully. He wanted to see that Lars. He also didn’t understand that Lars, the one who could ignore how much he hated Anders to stay in his home for a month.

“He behaves when he’s here,” she said, as if reading his mind. “But he stays in the guesthouse, which helps, I think. He can have his space when we get to be too much.” She made him take another meatball before she disappeared to keep up her rounds as hostess.

Ryan wandered a bit. He tried to superimpose Lars over the spaces. Did Lars do cannonballs into the pool? Did he race his niece and nephew around the yard? Had he made s’mores around the fire pit? It brought him to the guest house with a sign on the door about where to find the bathroom. After only a second’s hesitation, he went inside.

There was a bedroom in the back, the door closed but not locked, and against his better judgment he stepped in and closed the door behind him.

Neat and tidy like Lars’s condo, all the pieces of his personality hidden in plain sight where only a knowing eye could spot them. A few hockey sticks in the corner. Worn books on the shelf, including one he was pretty sure he’d seen Lars read. A Prowlers keychain with a lonely key. A half-empty bottle of his usual lotion.

Ryan sat on the bed, wondering briefly if Lars had ever shared it with anyone before. If it still smelled like him from his Christmas visit. Ryan could picture it then so clearly, a future where he and Lars occupied this space together. Not just to fuck each other senseless, though that certainly was bound to happen, but a future where they fell asleep together while watching a movie on their tablets or one of them reading while the other slept.

He rubbed at his eyes, suddenly misty, with the back of his hand and reached for a pile of papers on the nightstand, the only visible disorder in the whole room. He didn’t really care what the pile was; he simply needed the distraction or he’d have to face some realizations he wasn’t ready for.

There were some post-its on top, blue and yellow and green, each with Lars’s blocky handwriting where all the letters were capitals. There was a mix of Swedish and English, sometimes within the same note. One looked like a list of movies, including some they’d watched together. A few might’ve been recipes or maybe grocery lists. Flight info to BWI. A crudely drawn hockey player that he hoped Anton and not Lars had drawn, with the label “farbror” that definitely was written by a kid. More and more little pieces of Lars’s life outside of Ryan, outside of hockey.

He put the papers back gingerly. He wished there was a blank one and a pen so he could leave a piece of himself behind. A little note for Lars.

The nightstand drawer stuck a little as he opened it. There was a stack of post-its and a couple pens. He hadn’t figured out what he’d write but completely forgot his plan when he found a stack of photographs underneath. These were…fantastic.

They were old and faded, actual film photos instead of digital ones printed at home. He flipped through Lars’s life in reverse. Him and his grandparents at the draft. Teenage Lars in various jerseys with various medals and trophies, usually with his grandparents in tow. And then toward the bottom, Anders appeared: the four of them when Anders was drafted; the two brothers in the driveway together; a peewee Lars smiling with a missing tooth, his older brother perched beside him with a hand on his shoulder and mirroring a chipped tooth. The last picture finally had their parents. Mats after his Cup win, two little boys, wide-eyed as they watched their father lift it.

He stayed longer than he should’ve. He memorized each picture and then carefully put them back. There was so much to say, so Ryan picked the one he felt the most right now:

Wish you were here

xoxo

Ryan

He left it on Lars’s pillow. He’d have to see it as soon as he came into the room. Maybe by then, that indeterminate point in the summer after playoffs, they’d have figured themselves out. If not…

One problem at a time, he told himself. He slipped out of the guesthouse, bypassing the chatty duo outside the bathroom and marching back to the largest group he could find. He would jam himself into any conversation to help him forget where he’d been and who he’d been thinking of.

Escape was apparently not an option: after a few minutes in the tent, he found himself volunteering to find more ice for the cooler and couldn’t find the basement in the main house.

“You’re lost. What do you need?”

He jumped, hand on his heart as he laughed at how stupid he was being. An older woman with silvery-blond hair stood behind him in the kitchen. She’d apparently been watching him as he opened three consecutive doors and still hadn’t discovered the basement.

“Yes. I’m supposed to get ice⁠—”

“You’re the boyfriend.”

This must of course be Alba Lingren, Lars’s grandma. He could see it in her smile, maybe a little more knowing than Lars’s but with the same shape of it and the way it lit up her eyes. Then he processed what she’d said, and his heart stopped. He felt cracked open like a nut, one well-placed blow to have his insides spilled out for her to do with as she pleased.

“I— I don’t— I’m not⁠—”

She made a dismissive gesture that shut him up. “Come, I’ll show you where the ice is.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“You want to bring it, but can’t find it. I know where it is, but can’t carry it. Teamwork, yes?”

He wasn’t given a chance to protest as she disappeared back into the kitchen and down another hallway. The last thing he was going to do was leave her alone and abandon his task, so he quickly ran after.

“So you’re the infamous Mormor.” He trailed behind her on the steps down. If she was going to accuse him of being a boyfriend, he didn’t see much point in playing coy. She knew who he was; he knew who she was.

“Those boys talk too much.” She flicked on a light switch and waddled over to a large freezer next to a washer and dryer. “You’re infamous around here, too, you know.”

Ryan made a face. “Good things, right?”

“Mostly. Anders likes you, which isn’t easy. He’s very picky about new players, especially so late in the season. Worries about the team chemistry. You are a good player, but I think it’s more than that.” She laid a hand on the freezer, barring him from getting the ice. “Lars is very complimentary of his teammates, almost all of it superficial. Things he’s heard or thinks he’s supposed to say.”

“I know I’m not that good⁠—”

“You are,” she scolded. “When he talks about you, I can tell he sees you as a person, not a name on a roster. He doesn’t have crushes often, that one. Too busy with family and hockey, always. Even as a boy, he never liked a boy he knew. Always celebrity crushes, someone unattainable he could like but otherwise ignore.”

Ryan was dying to ask who his celebrity crushes had been, but he bit his lip. Not the time.

“He’s never brought a boy home, either,” she continued, her look mischievous. “And now here you are, home but without him. The wrong brother brought you. Lillen must hate that.”

“He does,” Ryan conceded. “I don’t know what to do about it.”

She took her hand off the lid and opened the freezer for him. “He’ll come around, but he’ll have to do it on his own. He’s a good boy. He stayed home and helped when his morfar was sick. He helped me move. He visits and is good with the barn. The children. He’s too damned stubborn, though. Won’t let Anders outdo him. Playoffs coming up, too.” She tsked. “It’ll get worse before it gets better, I think.”

Ryan stepped forward to grab a couple bags of ice. “Thanks.” He swallowed. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome, but I have a favor to ask before you go back up.”

“Sure. Anything.”

Her grin made her look decades younger, her eyes bright and shining. She took out her phone. “Could we take a selfie together? For Lillen? He’d be so jealous.”

The request startled a laugh out of him. “Yes, definitely.”

NHL Playoffs: Round One Summary

Abigail Cunningham, The Baltimore Sun

THE NHL PLAYOFFS ARE underway, and for the first time in over five years, the Blue Crabs are part of the action! We’ve all been excited to cheer them on against the Florida Pythons and I know I personally was ecstatic when they won Game Six here in Baltimore, but before Round Two starts in a few days, let’s go through and see where things stand around the league.

The Western Conference

There’s honestly not a whole lot to talk about here. Yes, games have been played, teams have been eliminated, and it’s been a wild ride. It’s simply too early to turn our gaze West with the Crabs barely out of the first round. If and when the Crabs get further along in their hunt for the Stanley Cup, we’ll take a look at potential match-ups, but as my coach always said, the only game that matters is the next one: our focus needs to stay East for now.

That being said, I know every Crabs fan watched that Prowlers/Mounties series. The teams have faced each other many times in the playoffs, usually with the Prowlers coming out on top. Given the bad blood between them and the Crabs this season due to Lars Nilsson’s arrival in Baltimore, there was a certain degree of satisfaction seeing the Mounties beat them in five games. When asked about it, Nilsson declined to comment.

The Eastern Conference 

The Crabs earned the first Wildcard playoff spot in the East, putting them up against the Pythons, who were first in the Metro. The Crabs were hopeful given how well they’d matched up against them in the regular season. Analysts’ expectations were low going into the playoffs, but the Crabs said from the get-go that being satisfied with just making the playoffs is a loser’s mentality. They are 100% invested in this run, critics and odds be damned.

It was absolutely fantastic seeing the boys go up two games in the series, then pull out the home win in Game Six. The series overall showed how deep the Crabs could dig: two wins by only a single goal, a shut-out for Voronin in Game Two (his first ever in the playoffs), and a great defensive effort all around. The double-overtime goal in Game Four by Campbell, Nilsson’s hat trick to seal the series in Game Six, and all four lines netting at least two goals are a lot of positives giving the Crabs momentum into Round Two.

Again, we should focus where we need to. We need to talk about the Otters.

The Otters were expected to win the Metro, but Anders Nilsson’s injury at the end of the season had them losing that honor to the Pythons by a single point. While not necessarily Cup favorites, most analysts have them make it to the Conference Finals. They have offense. They have defense. They have a goalie duo that led the league in shutouts during the regular season. They crushed the Nor’easters in four games, never giving up a lead in nearly 255 minutes of play time. They’re a juggernaut in the East…and the Crabs will be facing them in two days.

The main storylines here are oddly personal. Lars and Anders Nilsson, despite the longstanding rivalry between the Swedish brothers, have never faced each other in the postseason. I mentioned Anders’s injury at the end of the regular season; I left out the reminder that Lars was the one who caused it, breaking his older brother’s nose when the Otters came to Baltimore at the end of March. Will Anders and the Otters be looking for revenge?

The other storyline is more bittersweet. RJ Russell, fan-favorite former center for the Blue Crabs, has been having a breakout season. He had a career-high 35 goals and was snatched up by the Otters in the waning hours of the trade deadline. He’d been trading first line duties with Lars Nilsson in Baltimore, then took over the first line on the Otters with twenty games left in the season. Russell has certainly risen to the occasion: he had two game-winning goals in their series versus New England. He also had the game winner the first and only time he’s faced the Crabs since the trade. Will this trade be the Crabs’ undoing?

And what about Lars? How will he do facing his brother and his former teammate? Sure, players face former teammates all the time, but Lars and Russell were close friends. The league’s interest in Russell at the trade deadline could arguably be attributed to Lars, who championed the other center in the fan vote that ultimately got him into the All Star Game.

“[Russell] is obviously a very talented player,” Lars said. “I appreciate that he doesn’t let up against us, and he knows we won’t take it easy on him. That level of competition, that respect, it means a lot.”

When asked if that was why he played so aggressively against his brother: “Sure.”

A final comment from Lars at the end of our interview: “Where will I be staying in Ohio? No, I won’t be with the team at the hotel. I’ll be at my brother’s house. I always stay there when I’m in Cincinnati for more than two days. It’s where my family is. Why would I be anywhere else?”

Chapter 37

Lars

Lars didn’t like the state of things between him and Ryan.

They were on speaking terms, at least. Er, texting terms. They’d messaged back and forth a little since the start of April, but they hadn’t said anything of substance since Lars broke Anders’s nose. Mostly memes and pictures of food. There was also the picture his mormor had sent of her and Ryan, her looking quite smug and him with his stupid, wonderful smile. All his favorite pieces of his life, intersecting.

Without him.

The plane was taxiing, and Lars couldn’t sit still. He didn’t fidget or pace much by nature, but his right leg hadn’t stopped shaking since they’d landed. This wasn’t hockey nerves—he didn’t really get those anymore, hadn’t even the last time he’d played in the Cup Finals. This was much worse.

He was seeing Ryan today.

Instead of going to the hotel, he’d pick up his suitcase and take a taxi to the address Ryan had sent him. Neither of them had practice today or any team meetings. The hectic playoff life would start again tomorrow: no room to breathe and no extra space in his head to worry about cute boys or family problems.

The taxi driver recognized him, which made it awkward. He’d been very chatty about how impressed everyone was with the Crabs and must’ve been worried about his tip because he didn’t mention Anders or the Otters once. It looked like he wanted to, but Lars appreciated that he didn’t. For the next eighteen hours, he got to pretend he wasn’t here for hockey.

When Ryan opened the door, looking devastatingly handsome with his playoff beard, Lars was struck speechless. Not that he’d had a plan on what he was going to say, but normally he was at least able to form words like “Hi” or “I missed you” or “I’ve been dreaming of you fucking me for weeks.”

Instead it was Ryan who grinned at him and said, “You wanna come in or what?”

He swallowed and stepped inside.

He’d seen a few pictures of the place but honestly they hadn’t done it justice. They were on the 25th floor with huge windows overlooking the city. The apartment was sparsely furnished, all the furniture devoid of personality. Probably came with the place, since Ryan wouldn’t have had time to arrange for his stuff to be shipped over. It was fancy, honestly, and suited Ryan more than his place in Baltimore. Well, except…

“Why would they waste a nice kitchen on you?” he teased, finally finding his tongue. “So you can make ramen?”

“I haven’t even made that,” Ryan said with a laugh. “I have a meal service through the team. If I don’t eat at the rink, I just heat up a pre-made dinner.”

That was a relief, actually. He knew Ryan was particular about calories, carbs, and protein but didn’t do a good job of paying attention to things like taste. It was good he was being taken care of, even if by a faceless meal service.

“You didn’t invite me over for microwave dinners, did you?” he asked, as if he wouldn’t gladly eat or do anything Ryan wanted right now.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe. I ordered dinner, and we can eat that first if you wanna pretend that’s why you’re here…” He trailed off, his expression all sorts of hungry that definitely had nothing to do with food.

“We can eat after.” He was going for nonchalant, but his need was too close to the surface, too long ignored to be easily hidden.

Ryan, as if somehow unaffected by their weeks apart, shot him a crooked smile. It was like when he winked at cameras but all the more potent for it being real. He crossed his arms over his chest and pretended to think it over. “I think I can live with that.”

Lars didn’t know who moved first. Within seconds he had his hands fisted into Ryan’s stupid Otters shirt and Ryan’s arms were circling him. His hands gripped his ass, pulling him close and Lars yelped.

Ryan froze. He’d been leaning in to kiss him but he stopped and frowned. “Are you hurt? I don’t remember any big hits on you in the Pythons series…”

“No. It’s not that.” His cheeks heated up, and he wasn’t thrilled to find out he could still feel embarrassed in front of Ryan. “I’m uhm…I have a plug in.”

The admission earned him a wide-eyed look. Ryan was speechless for a moment before he growled and started backing Lars towards the windows. “How long?”

Lars let himself be manhandled, trusting Ryan to guide him. “Since I left my condo.”

“It’s a two hour flight!”

“I had to add more lube,” he admitted. “Wanted to be ready.”

They hit the window. Ryan snuck a hand beneath the waistband of Lars’s pants, the stupid fancy slacks he’d been forced to wear, and pushed on the end of the plug through his boxers. Lars jerked into him, his dick fully hard and starting to ache as it strained against the zipper. He was also painfully aware of his button-down shirt, making him feel ridiculous when Ryan was in athletic shorts.

“Should I get more lube?” Ryan offered, his voice an octave deeper than it’d been a moment ago. “A condom?”

“Lube, yes,” he said as he pushed his ass back against Ryan’s hand. “Condom, no.”

Ryan sucked in a breath. They’d done that so rarely, only once before that stupid trade, for practical reasons. Right now, Lars honestly didn’t care how much of a mess they made. He wanted to feel everything.

“Get undressed. I’ll be right back.”

Lars stripped in record time and tossed his clothes over the couch. He wasn’t sure what Ryan was planning, but he figured if he’d opted for the living room and not the bedroom, they’d be doing something more fun than fucking on the couch.

Ryan reappeared, naked and with a bottle of lube in hand. He was also rock hard; Lars licked his lips.

“You can suck me off next time,” Ryan said. “I’m not gonna last long enough to fuck you if you try right now.” Then his eyes drifted down and his brow furrowed. “You said you weren’t hurt.”

Lars looked down reflexively. There was a bruise, yellowing and ugly, along his left side. He’d blocked a shot and it had hit a spot between his shoulder pads and hockey pants. It had hurt like a bitch, but luckily it’d been near the end of the period: he’d managed to stay on his feet and saved the doubling over in pain for the locker room.

“It’s fine,” he said dismissively. “Almost healed. How do you want me?”

Ryan’s dark eyes were back on his in an instant. “Turn around. Hands on the window.”

Lars did as he was told. The city had a decent skyline, but he stopped taking it in the moment Ryan was behind him, a hand on his hip and his lips on Lars’s neck.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Ryan gritted out. “I like when your hair is long.” To prove his point, he grabbed a handful and used it to pull Lars’s head back. He kissed along his neck as he mumbled, “Getting a little too long, though.”

“How else would you manhandle me?” he challenged. He liked the feel of Ryan’s beard against his neck. Not normally his thing, but he enjoyed the added sensation since he couldn’t see Ryan. “You going to fuck me or what? I have dinner plans with a cute guy.”

“So impatient,” Ryan said, his warm breath making Lars shiver and his skin prickle.

A hand trailed down Lars’s back, pinched his ass, and then stopped at the base of the plug. He could feel Ryan’s thumb tracing it before he pushed it in deeper, then let up the pressure. He repeated the movement three more times before digging his fingers in and slowly drawing the plug out. Lars bit his lip, bracing for the feeling of emptiness only to moan when Ryan stopped at the widest part of the tapered plug before pushing it back in roughly.

“You didn’t think I’d make it that easy, did you?” Ryan asked. His voice was fucking sinful, and Lars was struck by the difference between this Ryan (confident, sexy as hell, bossy) and the Ryan he’d met in August (shy about his wants, trying too hard to please, weirdly genuine while being superficial). He’d thought that other version of Ryan was cute, but he would do absolutely anything this newer Ryan said. Hell, he’d endured the most physically uncomfortable flight of his life just to get Ryan’s dick in him faster.

“Don’t play hard to get,” he shot back. “I can feel your dick against my ass. You’re harder than I am. Use the lube and get in me.”

Ryan only chuckled, but he finally pulled the plug out. Lars clenched around the emptiness and sighed in anticipation of being filled again. He spread his legs further apart and placed his hands against the window to balance himself better. The glass fogged around his breath, momentarily obscuring the city from view. They could be anywhere, even back in Baltimore.

He heard the lid popping open. Imagined Ryan squeezing lube onto his fingers before slicking himself up. There was a brief moment, maybe two whole seconds, when Lars hoped Ryan would drag things out a little longer. Make him beg for his cock. It wouldn’t take much encouragement: Lars was so gone on Ryan, he’d be on his knees in a second, pleading in whatever language Ryan wanted.

The desire was fleeting: they both needed this too much to wait any longer. If Ryan decided to drag things out, Lars was so needy and desperate he might actually cry. But Ryan was holding Lars steady with one hand and eased his dick against his hole, a gentle but firm pressure until⁠—

“Fuck,” they hissed together when Ryan’s dick pushed past the rim. Lars clenched around him and Ryan whined pitifully, and he was barely inside him. It felt like it took ages for Ryan to push in fully, though in reality it probably took less than a minute.

“You good?” Ryan asked when he was balls deep. His hands were digging into Lars’s hips and his legs were trembling. “You feel amazing.”

Lars nodded. “I’m fine. Move.”

Ryan wasted no time. He settled into a steady rhythm of shallow, hard thrusts occasionally broken up by a longer, even harder one that rocked through Lars so sharply his cock slid against the cold glass, pre-come smearing across the window. It was the only friction on him, but he needed both hands to keep himself upright or they’d both hit the window. He didn’t mind, though; he’d have already come if there were a hand on his dick.

When Ryan came, Lars could feel his come spilling inside him. Warm and deep, it almost pushed Lars over the edge. Instead a spurt of pre-come shot onto the window.

“Fuck that was good,” Ryan mumbled against his ear before sucking the earlobe into his mouth. His right hand wrapped around Lars and slid around his dick. Ryan thumbed across the head before he started to jerk him off. “I should put that plug back in so you’ve got my come in you the rest of the day.”

Beyond words, Lars moaned in response. He wouldn’t say no to that, except he’d been looking forward to the feel of Ryan’s come dripping out of him for weeks now. Maybe next time.

“I’ve wanted to fuck against this window since I moved in,” Ryan admitted. His hand never stopped, and Lars started thrusting into his fist. “One of us trapped against the glass, no one out there knowing.”

The idea of someone knowing made Lars’s insides twist. Not being caught having sex (disaster), but the world knowing they were together. Lars and Ryan. Not teammates, former or otherwise. A pair. Together.

The thought made his head light, almost like he was drunk. He bucked into Ryan’s hand so hard Ryan slid out of him, come sliding down his leg and finally sending Lars over the edge. He came in spurts into Ryan’s hand and then nearly collapsed.

He rested his cheek against the glass and groaned. Ryan was a warm, solid weight behind him. He had both arms around Lars to bear his weight and had buried his nose in Lars’s hair. Despite the burn in his legs and the effort it took to stay upright, Lars really liked the feeling.

“Jag tror att jag är kär i dig,” Lars said as he threaded their fingers together. I think I’m in love with you. Safe to say when he knew Ryan couldn’t understand him. When they didn’t have to worry about the how.

“If you’re saying you’re hungry or that we’re a mess,” Ryan said, “then I agree.” He kissed the back of Lars’s head before easing them both upright. “You should see the shower. It’s got one of those rainwater faucets. It’s great.”

And while food and a shower hadn’t been on Lars’s mind, those things were simpler; he followed Ryan willingly.

* * *

Ryan pulled over in front of Anders’s house, ignoring the long driveway. Things were better between them, but still not as good as they’d been before the trade; they’d taken their time getting cleaned up and continued their pattern of not actually saying anything real as they chatted over dinner. Lars tried not to read too much into Ryan’s choice of drop-off spot.

The car engine continued to thrum, and Lars was forced to acknowledge Ryan was going to leave.

“You sure you don’t want to come in?” There was a pleading note to his voice he couldn’t quite quell.

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “You sure this is a good idea, staying there?”

Lars scoffed. He’d made a big deal of telling reporters that he’d be staying at his brother’s place, liking the way they’d gone wide-eyed and whispered about mind games. He’d promised Coach Thompkins it really was fine. And it was: Lars hated that road trips here were too short, too regimented to allow him a proper visit.

And, sigh, he owed Anders an actual apology.

He had said sorry. Eventually. After the silent treatment from Ryan, Amanda’s gentle nudging, and Mormor’s blunt insistence. In the same manner they always spoke to each other, he’d texted a message in Swedish: sorry I broke your nose it won’t happen again. True, but hardly heartfelt. Anders had, for once, acknowledged his message with an equally warm: good.

“I’ve made a mess of things lately,” he admitted. Ryan gave him a skeptical look. Not because he didn’t agree—Lars knew he did—but probably because he couldn’t believe Lars knew it, too. “I should try to fix them.”

Ryan put a hand on Lars’s knee and squeezed. “Good luck. How do you say that in Swedish?”

“Lycka till.”

“Lycka till.”

It was pitiful that such a benign phrase in Ryan’s mouth made his dick stir with interest. He was screwed if Ryan ever actually learned Swedish.

“Look, I know we didn’t…” Ryan made a pained face and started over. “There’s no mess between us, okay? We’ll figure it out after playoffs. Let’s just try not to kill each other on the ice.”

Lars shook his head grimly. “No promises.” Then, before he lost his nerve, he kissed Ryan goodbye and got out of the car.

It was Anders who answered the door, grim-faced like he was already exasperated with Lars’s presence. Usually Lars didn’t get on his nerves for at least a few hours. This was a new record.

“Lillen,” he said curtly. His face wasn’t as bruised and puffy as it had been (yes, Lars had stalked the Otters’ social media to check), but the bridge of his nose had a distinct bend to it that hadn’t been there before.

“Don’t call me that,” he said automatically and scowled. Then he remembered what he was supposed to be doing, and said, “Could you let me in the guest house?”

Anders raised an eyebrow, no doubt thinking about Lars’s key that he always used to let himself in, often even before stopping by the main house.

“Humor me,” Lars said.

Anders made a sweeping gesture for him to lead the way, and they walked along the stone path that went behind the house. His suitcase rolled along the uneven walkway and provided an awkward musical accompaniment to their otherwise silent march. Lars waited until they were inside the guest house (and yes, he used his own key even though he was tempted to pretend he didn’t have it on him so Anders would have to go back and get the spare) to say anything.

“I’m sorry about your nose,” he grumbled. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his brother as he said it, instead opting to stare at his feet. Anders was barefoot, hadn’t bothered to put on sandals or anything on the way out, and Lars rolled uncomfortably on the balls of his feet.

“It’s okay,” Anders said calmly. Worse, he sounded like he meant it. “I know you didn’t mean to.”

Lars wanted to take his brother’s easy acceptance and run with it, put the mistake behind them and go back to the way things always were between them: mildly uncomfortable silence interspersed with shouting and cursing at each other. But he was trying to be a better person, because he was probably in love with someone who definitely was a better person, and he had to start being good enough for Ryan if he stood a chance.

And, admittedly, a lot of his shittiness as a person was connected to Anders.

“It’s not okay.” His shoulders were slumped and getting the words out was like pulling teeth, but he made himself look up to meet Anders’s gaze as he did it. “I’m really sorry about attacking you. And that I always attack you.”

Anders considered him, probably seeing him more clearly than Lars could see himself. “Why do you attack me?”

Fair question.

“Because I’m still angry at you.” He’d never hidden how upset he was when Anders told them he wouldn’t be coming back to Sweden. He’d been so happy for Anders when he was drafted. Lars had watched as many games as he could given his own busy schedule and the time difference. Sometimes they’d record a game and watch it as a family, him, Mormor, and Morfar. Then that summer when the Otters didn’t make the playoffs, Anders had called to say he was staying in Ohio indefinitely. No visit and please mail over the rest of his things when convenient. Their grandparents hadn’t seemed surprised, but the news had shattered Lars. The four of them were a family, and Anders didn’t care.

Lars had screamed at him over the phone about betrayal and duty. To his credit, Anders had taken it. He’d listened and after Lars had yelled himself hoarse, he’d calmly told Lars he understood why he was upset, but the decision wasn’t about them and he would not put up with Lars throwing another tantrum, so he’d better get used to it.

Anders heaved a deep sigh. “Lasse…I was never leaving you. I was leaving behind memories I didn’t want.”

“What memories?” Lars challenged. He couldn’t see how Sweden and their family weren’t connected, that whatever Anders was fleeing had to do with them, somehow. “We were happy in Sweden.”

“Pappa was a shit father, you know this?” When he saw Lars gape at him, he sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “He was a good hockey player and a good husband, I think, but not a good father. He didn’t want children, he wanted a legacy. He was gone so often to play and didn’t want to spend time with us when he was around⁠—”

“That’s not true.” His cheeks were hot, angry. “He played⁠—”

“Hockey. He would only play hockey, Lasse,” he said gently. “I told you, legacy. He was determined we would be as good as him, and he wasn’t interested in our feelings on the matter. It’s fortunate I liked hockey, or I would’ve been miserable. I sometimes wonder if it’s better he died, because then he couldn’t make me fall out of love with the sport, that he never got a chance to do it to you, either. And then I feel like shit for thinking it.”

The revelation made Lars uncomfortable, but not because he didn’t believe it. As much as he wanted to tell Anders to take it back, to deny and pretend, what Lars really wanted was to not think too closely about it. He had so few memories of his parents, ones he didn’t look at often for fear of wearing them out. If Lars believed they were there, waiting on a shelf for him in the back of his mind, then he would never have to admit otherwise.

Still, there was a hollow ring of truth. He remembered the sound of his father’s voice, a fact he was confident in. He didn’t want to explore that his best memory of it was his father yelling at him to stop being such a baby while they practiced on the driveway in the growing twilight. 

“You think I want to be out here instead of inside eating dinner with your mother? Quit being a baby and hit the last target already. No tears in hockey.”

He’d been three, maybe four.

He had other memories of Mats playing hockey with him, of course, but those were indistinct. They blurred together so much he could no longer separate the individual moments from one another, the real memories from the imagined ones.

…but he had many clear memories of playing with Anders. Anders helping him learn to skate, to shoot, to stick-handle. Anders helping him try on new skates. Anders cutting his new sticks down to size for him. Anders cheering for him at games until he’d moved…

“That’s why you don’t want the kids to play,” Lars said dumbly. Anders loved hockey, and he loved his children. Why separate them? Lars had never understood.

He shrugged. “They can play if they want to. If they want to. I wanted them to learn to skate, since that’s such a big part of my life, but anything more was always their choice. Hell, if they’d cried while skating, I’d have stopped the lessons.”

“And…” More pieces clicked into place. “And that’s why you left. When you were drafted. Because of Pappa.”

“I also owe you an apology, I suppose. I’m sorry I left and didn’t come back. I wanted to be my own person away from Pappa, and for a while that meant being away from Sweden. Did you know when I was drafted, I told Toronto not to bother picking me because I’d never play for them. I’d join the KHL or something if they tried it.” He looked pleased with himself that it had worked. Lars was impressed: he also hadn’t wanted to play for the Terrors, but he hadn’t thought to threaten them. “Maybe I should’ve brought you, but you were happy with Morfor and Mormor, and they didn’t want to leave. I was young, but I…maybe I forget that you were even younger. You couldn’t see why I left. Maybe you thought it was your fault, and I should’ve explained it wasn’t.”

Lars’s heart ached. “I didn’t—” But he couldn’t deny it. He had thought that, a little. He’d been mean to Anders from the very moment he’d moved and made it clear Sweden was no longer his home. It had hurt, and it was easier to be angry than devastated.

“It’s okay,” Anders said. Now he was the one staring at the ground. “It’s been nearly fifteen years. I should’ve said something. I’m older⁠—”

“I know I didn’t make it easy,” Lars said. “I…can’t promise I’ll be able to change that, either. Old habits or whatever. But I’ll try not to break anything when we play each other, and I’ll try to be nicer.” A pause. “Only a little nicer. I still want to win and you’re still a stick in the mud.”

His lips curled in a smirk. “I don’t know what I’d do with you if you stopped being a brat.”

They stood there silently, their peace treaty making the air seem lighter than it had in years. Lars didn’t think they’d be able to go easy on each other during the series, but maybe they could do it without Lars wanting to punch anyone. They might even be happy for each other when Round Two was over.

Maybe.

“This is none of my business…” Anders had a pained look. “But Ryan…?”

Lars’s reflex was to deny deny deny and tell his brother to fuck off; he suppressed the impulse. “It isn’t your business,” he agreed, “but yes.”

Anders seemed more surprised by his honesty than the answer itself. 

“Is that a problem?” Lars challenged, fists clenching without him meaning them to.

Anders didn’t rise to the bait. “He has somehow gotten you to apologize for years of being a brat. Why would it be a problem?”

Lars stuttered through a half-hearted denial, because of course it was true: in no way, shape, or form would he be here having a heart-to-heart with Anders if it weren’t for Ryan Russell. “It’s…it’s not…he didn’t…” He sighed and gave up. “It’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone.”

There was a moment when it looked like Anders wanted to ask more questions, but something on Lars’s face must have given away how draining this conversation had been. Anders shut his mouth and nodded like he agreed. This had been more words than they’d shared in over a decade, after all.

Anders clapped a hand on his shoulder as he passed, then mussed his hair like he had when they were kids. “You need a haircut.”

“Yeah, I’ve been getting that a lot lately.” He ran a hand through it. He’d have to tie it back if it got any longer. “I’ll cut it when I shave at the end of playoffs.”

“You can use my razor,” he said on his way out of the guest house. “I’ll bring it to Baltimore for Game Four.”

Chapter 38

Ryan

Tanner

Good luck tonight!

Or maybe not good luck? I forgot you’re playing your boyfriend

Is he your boyfriend? Did you guys ever figure that out?

I was trying to research hockey stuff but accidentally ended up on

some forum where they post “real person fic” and there’s a lot of you two

Like. A lot.

I didn’t read it tho promise

But is this like a win-win for you cuz if you win you win but if the crabs

win then your boyfriend wins

Or is it lose-lose cuz if you lose then you lose and if they lose then he loses

And I bet it’s complicated bc the crabs made you leave so fuck them

But also Lars is on the crabs so maybe you’re still cheering for them?

Well

Good luck!

I’ll be watching :)

Tanner must be high. He never babbled that much unless he was baked or on the rare occasions when the power was out and his Switch had run out of batteries. And this was next-level babbling. Like holy crap Ryan was glad he wasn’t there in person, because he suspected Tanner would’ve wrapped him in a hug and trapped him while he went on and on while periodically offering him some of his weed. 

thanks bro

hoping to win ofc

if the crabs beat us, lars moving on is a consolation prize

and no i don’t know if he’s my boyfriend. seems like a bad time to ask

He couldn’t even imagine how that conversation would go. Hey, I know we fuck on the regular and our teams are about to face each other for a minimum of four intensely physical games where one of us gets eliminated at the end, with the added baggage of you playing against your brother that you sometimes hate and me playing against the team that didn’t think I was good enough to keep, but hey wanna sit down and figure out our relationship status? And then if that conversation goes to hell, we can both play like shit?

It had been an awkward enough prospect to broach the subject when he’d still been in Baltimore. It was next to impossible now. He’d wait.

Besides, competing against each other beforehand might make it easier. Things between them were fine, steadier than they’d been in the wake of Ryan’s trade, but they hadn’t quite settled. It never really could, with them hundreds of miles apart and never hashing things out. If they couldn’t survive this playoff run, then that difficult conversation never needed to happen. If they did, well, maybe it’d be a much easier talk than he feared.

Don’t pretend you’ll be fine if this falls apart, a voice whispered in the back of his head. You’re probably in love with him. Which would be worse: not winning the Cup or losing Lars?

He couldn’t afford to think about it.

In the last eight years, Ryan had never really gotten a chance to compete for the Stanley Cup. There’d been a few times he’d played in the playoffs, but he’d had minor roles on those teams and they’d never made it past the first round. He’d been in a devastating Game Seven loss where he’d been benched in the third after an accidental Delay of Game penalty. He’d been forced to watch, powerless to do anything while his team got hammered in the last five minutes of the game. They hadn’t even made it to overtime.

For years, it had haunted Ryan. That he hadn’t been good enough, that he’d let himself and his team down. The closest he’d come was a first round exit. Now Ryan was starting to understand that the real tragedy was that he hadn’t played. He could’ve made a difference, and he should’ve stood up for himself with the coaching staff or made it clear with his media interviews after the loss that he should’ve been in that third period. It wasn’t his fault, and he wouldn’t let it be his fault again.

He parked his car in the player garage at the stadium. Others were arriving, all dressed in suits for the walk to the locker room through media and fans. Ryan’s hand had gotten sore from signing autographs the first day of Game One, and he expected a similar experience today. It still surprised him how many RUSSELL #6 jerseys and shirts he saw. He’d been on the team about two months and yet the fans had taken him in with open arms.

As he straightened his suit jacket, he saw a familiar blue Audi pull into the lot. It was Anders’s car, large and sensible for a family and not nearly as ostentatious as some of the other cars their teammates drove. Ryan lingered by the elevator to wait for him. Although he didn’t want to pry, Ryan wondered how things had gone with Lars the day before. He’d sent Lars a text but only gotten back a vague thumbs up in reply, which could’ve meant anything from “we’ve patched everything up and are BFFs” to “I successfully didn’t get murdered by brother and will be able to play tomorrow.”

When the passenger side door popped open before the driver’s side, Ryan barely had time to adjust his expectations before Lars appeared. His hair was tied back in a bun that only just held it out of his eyes, which was distracting enough. Then he slammed the door shut and Ryan got a good look at his outfit. He was wearing possibly the ugliest blazer Ryan had ever seen, a pale blue tweed with navy blue crab patches stitched onto it. It was, quite frankly, a monstrosity. A sin against fashion. An affront to the eyes. And the bastard looked incredible in it: perfectly tailored, the perfect shade of blue to bring out his eyes, he looked like a high-fashion runway model instead of a goofy hockey player wearing an equally goofy outfit.

Ryan wanted nothing more than to tear it off of Lars and run his tongue down⁠—

Anders got out of the car next, looking prim in a mustard suit and orange tie that looked equally ridiculous but suited him. It was unfair that the brothers could look so handsome in clothes that would make Ryan feel like a circus clown, but at least Anders’s appearance had scrubbed the dirty thoughts from Ryan’s mind.

They spoke to each other in Swedish, and though Ryan didn’t understand a word of it, he could hear Lars’s usual playfulness and his brother’s more somber responses. It reminded him of the All Star Game, where they’d bickered but otherwise gotten along.

Maybe things had gone okay, after all.

Ryan was torn between stepping forward to talk to Lars and remaining very still so he wouldn’t be seen. In the end, he stayed put and watched the brothers. It felt like he was back on his parents’ ranch, trying not to spook the horses.

Soon enough, Lars stuck his tongue out, his hands in his pockets, and then walked towards the far end of the garage where he’d no doubt be able to find his own team.

Anders didn’t spot Ryan until he’d nearly reached the elevator, and only a slight stutter in his step gave away his surprise. He nodded to Ryan and they waited in silence until the beep chimed to announce the elevator’s arrival.

“He apologized,” was all Anders said once the doors sealed them in. He wasn’t smiling, but he had a quirk in his lips that was the Anders equivalent of a toothy grin. He looked down his nose at Ryan. “You’re good for him.”

Too stunned to know how to respond to that, Ryan pulled at the collar of his shirt and said, “Think we’ll do the same lines as last time we played the Crabs?”

The lines were basically the same as they’d been since he’d joined the team, and it was clearly an attempt to change the topic, but Anders considered him seriously. “I think so, yes. No reason to change when it’s worked before, and it’s how we beat New England.”

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” Ryan agreed awkwardly. Anders politely let the conversation die. It was a pleasant silence, broken only by the doors opening once again and their footsteps as they went down the long hallway to meet the rest of the team.

* * *

After Ryan went through a few laps on their half of the rink, he made a beeline for center ice where Lars was not-so-casually stick handling.

“Your blazer is really ugly,” he said as he stopped next to him, bumping their shoulders.

Lars’s face scrunched up in confusion, and he looked like he was about to check what he was wearing.

“The crab one,” Ryan said, and when that didn’t seem to make Lars any less confused, he added, “I saw you in the garage wearing it. It’s hideous. Why’d I give you all my nice Crabs clothes if you were just going to buy something like that?”

“You saw me in the garage?” He looked hurt. “You didn’t say hi?”

Ryan winced in a way that hopefully looked apologetic. “Looked like you were having a moment with your brother. I didn’t want to interrupt, y’know? When you two were actually getting along.”

At this Lars huffed. “We can go five minutes without fighting.” When he saw Ryan's skeptical look, he flashed a lopsided smile that made him look mischievous. “I learned my lesson, I promise. No fighting. I have a game to win. I can’t afford distractions.”

Ryan poked Lars in the chest, right on the Blue Crab logo. “Excuse me, but you are not winning in this town.”

Lars brought a hand up to grab Ryan by the wrist and pull him in. Even though the gesture was familiar, it brought them too close. They weren’t teammates anymore. There weren’t a lot of excuses for being in each other’s space. Ryan swallowed reflexively, but he didn’t pull away.

“Can I come over tonight?” Lars asked in a low voice. “And the loser can take out their frustration on the winner?”

His cheeks burned. What a picture that painted…and what awful timing because how the hell was he supposed to focus on hockey after a proposition like that?

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Ryan joked as he shoved Lars away. “More like when I win, I should be able to tell you to get on your kn⁠—”

“Hey, RJ.” Jake hurriedly skated to a stop beside Lars, his voice light but his expression pinched. “Everything all right here?”

Ryan’s brain replayed what he’d just said and wondered how much Jake might have heard. Not that Jake would judge them or do anything, which was why Ryan couldn’t understand why Jake seemed upset.

“We weren’t really arguing,” Lars drawled. “We’re just messing around.”

And then Ryan remembered the pushing and jersey poking, and realized how that might look to an outsider.

“Jake,” he said in disbelief.

Jake relaxed and had the decency to look embarrassed. “Sorry. Had to be sure. Playoffs and all. Lots of emotions.”

Ryan was torn between anger and resentment. Did Jake think so little of him, know him so poorly? Not understand how much he cared about Lars? He couldn’t imagine the circumstances where he’d actually fight him, and even then he was sure he’d pull his punches. Why would Jake⁠—?

“Do I have to hold you back?” Lars whispered. He had a hand on the bottom of Ryan’s jersey and was holding him from drifting closer to Jake, who had already retreated to the Crabs’ side of the ice.

“What? No, I’m not going to fight anyone.” His heart was hammering in his chest; suddenly he wasn’t so sure.

“Good.” Lars let him go. “It’d be awkward to have to pick between you and my team in a fight.” His wry smile suggested it wouldn’t and he’d already made up his mind.

With a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest that almost made him feel drunk, he said, “Good luck tonight. I’m not going to lie, I’m going to do my best to make sure you guys lose, but…”

But I wish this was something we didn’t have to take away from each other. That we could win or lose and have it be completely separate from us.

“I know,” Lars said gently. His eyes flicked up to the scoreboard. They probably didn’t have much time left before warm-ups ended and they were officially enemies for the next few hours. “If it can’t be us, I hope it’s you.”

“Same,” Ryan said wholeheartedly. He knew how much it would cost them each to see the other move on. Anders. The Crabs. The trade. Another year, another chance, gone. He wanted so much to hug Lars or kiss him or do something. The horn blared above them. Time was up. “Promise it doesn’t matter,” he blurted out. “Whoever wins, it won’t change anything.”

Lars’s expression softened. “It doesn’t matter,” he agreed. He didn’t even hesitate, which meant more than his assurance. “I⁠—”

“Nilsson!” Coach Thompkin’s sharp call interrupted and they were forced to face reality. They were the last people on the ice and even the benches had mostly cleared out, with only Thompkins glaring at them and on the Otters’ side, Anders lingering at the entrance to the tunnel. Ryan didn’t dare look at the fans gathered around the rink, their eyes wide and their cameras honed in on them.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lars said breezily. He winked at Ryan before skating off. “I’m coming. What do you think he’s going to do, recruit me?”

Thompkins didn’t seem amused by the sass, and he didn’t even glance Ryan’s way as he followed Lars down the tunnel, as though making sure Lars didn’t turn around or do something stupid.

The doors for the zambonis were already open, the drivers waiting for him. With nothing left, he got off the ice and followed Anders to the Otters’ locker room.

Game time.

Chapter 39

Lars

BLUE CRABS RETURN TO BALTIMORE DOWN 0-2 IN SERIES

Lars aggressively swiped away the notification and glared at his phone for betraying him with that stupid headline. What an awful way to wake up.

He didn’t like losing. Obviously he didn’t like it. You couldn’t get this far in professional sports without having a competitive drive, and that went hand-in-hand with wanting to win. Lars could handle losing. He could bounce back and he could talk himself down from being too upset and spiraling into worse games. It hadn’t been that bad, back on the Prowlers. They won more than they lost, and it never seemed like a dry spell lasted more than three games.

With the Crabs, he’d had to grow some tougher skin. There’d definitely been worse streaks than three losses in a row, and some of those losses had been bad. He’d thought he’d matured a lot over the season by not letting it ruin his focus.

Turned out he was wrong. It was really just having Ryan there suffering with him that had made it okay. Now he was losing to Ryan. In the playoffs. One playoff loss hurt as much as a month’s worth of regular season games, and it was brutal to be around someone who was happy about the series, even if Ryan was doing his best to hide his excitement.

It was fucking awful.

Except he was really proud of Ryan. Ryan, who never necessarily went easy on former teammates but was obviously still friendly with most of them, locked into every game the second the puck dropped. It didn’t matter that they were often in the face-offs against each other or battling along the boards. Ryan genuinely didn’t seem to notice or care if it was Lars or Jake or Vorny or anyone. He played, he went hard, and he was spectacular.

“Why the fuck did they trade him?” Tomas had hissed in the locker room during the first intermission of Game Two; moments before, Ryan had embarrassed the whole team by skating through them and scoring a beautiful backhand goal. “We’d be winning this series right now.”

“Or if you’d do your job and score,” Pavel had muttered as he pulled off his jersey.

“If you’d do your job and stop them from scor⁠—”

“Enough,” Thompkins had snapped. Credit where credit was due: no one had thought the Crabs would get this far and despite not having much playoff experience, Thompkins had done a hell of a job adapting to the Pythons. They just couldn’t seem to get a handle on the Otters. “We’re all going to do our jobs and keep our heads in the game. Let’s win this next period and build from there.”

They hadn’t won that period, or the next. Certainly not the game. It was an uphill battle, and Lars was starting to worry they needed to focus on not getting swept versus actually winning the series. He wasn’t used to being the underdog, and he really didn’t like it.

Ryan’s breath hitched on a snore and then evened out again. He snuggled closer to Lars, his arms around Lars’s waist and his nose buried in his hair.

It was really hard to stay upset when he got to see Ryan every day. The longer this series lasted, the longer they could pretend nothing had changed. Great motivation, honestly. Lars knew where he stood, but there were too many variables to know what that meant for them. He was absolutely in love with Ryan and wanted to continue being with him, and was absolutely dying to call Ryan his boyfriend. He’d never had a real boyfriend, and the idea made him giddy.

And that was as far as he got. What did it mean if they were boyfriends? Would they keep it a secret? Lars was out, a fact that he’d mostly been ignoring but would probably have to deal with sooner rather than later. Ryan wasn’t, though, and he had no idea how feasible going public was. Did the league have any rules against it? And how would things work long distance? Sure, Ohio and Baltimore weren’t far and it was convenient that Ryan was near Lars’s family, but that was only a guarantee until the playoffs ended and Ryan’s contract was up. What if Ryan didn’t even want a relationship and⁠—?

He squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath for ten seconds, let it out slowly and started over. It took effort to clear his head, but he did it. This was a later problem, and one he’d tackle with Ryan. 

His flight wasn’t until the afternoon; he set an alarm on his phone and rolled onto his back, pulling Ryan with him. He fell back to sleep with his fingers trailing along Ryan’s beard.

* * *

“I can’t believe you shoved me out of the crease,” Ryan grumbled as he discarded his dress slacks and began on the buttons of his shirt. They were at Lars’s apartment after Game Three—a narrow victory for the Crabs—waiting for the shower to heat up. Neither wanted to admit it, but they were sore and tired and needed the scalding water to help them relax. “You could’ve hurt me.”

“It was either me or Vorny, and Vorny wouldn’t have been so gentle,” Lars said. He’d seen Vorny winding up to slash Ryan’s legs out from under him, so he’d practically tackled Ryan to get him out of the way. It’d earned him a roughing penalty. “Though they probably wouldn’t have given him a penalty.”

“Can you believe they dinged me for one, too?” Ryan hadn’t known it was Lars who’d knocked him over, so he’d blindly shoved back. When he’d seen who it was, he’d rolled his eyes and huffed an annoyed, “Really?” Lars had even tried arguing with the refs, swearing up and down they weren’t trying to hurt each other. They hadn’t bought it, and the two had shrugged helplessly at each other from their respective penalty boxes. It’d been kind of funny, actually, though their teams hadn’t thought so. Anders, at least, had looked amused when he’d skated by and caught Lars’s eye.

“They didn’t call shit when we played the Pythons,” Lars said. He checked the water, just shy of being too hot, and held the shower curtain back for Ryan. “I could’ve used one when your winger interfered with me.”

“First of all”—Ryan stepped into the tub—“that wasn’t interference. You’re just not as fast as you think you are. Second of all, they barely call interference in the regular season. They sure as heck aren’t calling it now. Most importantly, why aren’t you in the shower with me?”

Lars couldn’t argue; he got into the shower and they stopped talking about hockey (or anything) for the rest of the night.

* * *

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 was just out 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 they had taken 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 best you can, 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.

He quickly assessed his options and started crawling to the bench.

“Get on your left shin.” Ryan came up behind him and started pushing him. “Kick with your right.”

Lars did as he was told. Ryan pushed him a little farther, but once he got the hang of it, Ryan rushed away to catch up to the play that had moved to the Otters’ blue line.

When he got to the bench, there was a mad scramble to get him off the ice and then the equipment manager was fixing his skate. He felt like a horse getting reshod as he watched, helpless, as Ivan hopped over the boards to replace him.

“Real nice of RJ to do that for you,” Logan, the backup goalie, said. His eyes were on the play, but Lars’s skin prickled with awareness; he was definitely paying more attention to Lars than the game. “Wonder why he did it.”

“He probably felt bad.” It wasn’t even a lie. Ryan often apologized to other players. Lars had seen Ryan dump someone into the bench and call “Sorry!” as he skated away. “It was his shot that took me out, wasn’t it?”

“Was it?” Logan asked evenly. He didn’t turn his head, but his gaze briefly flicked to Lars.

“Good as new. Try not to break another one.” The equipment manager patted Lars’s leg and disappeared to his usual spot next to the extra player sticks.

Lars waited until he was gone before he started, “I’m not sure what you⁠—”

Logan finally turned to face Lars and gave him a withering look. “I’m just saying you two are obvious. You got away with shit like that when RJ played with us, but everyone and their brother’s going to be talking about that after the game. If you’re lucky, they’ll talk about sportsmanship and not whether you two are fucking.”

His jaw dropped.

“I’m the backup,” Logan reminded him. “All I do is watch. And you two…” He shook his head. “You guys put on quite the show.”

“I don’t— We—” Realizing he was stuck and a terrible liar, he pivoted. “Who else knows?”

Logan shrugged. “Vorny and I’ve talked about it, but no one else has mentioned it. Heteronormativity’s a helluva drug, and he left before you were out so it probably wasn’t on anyone’s radar, even though most of us know he’s bi.” There was a stoppage in play and a line change. It wasn’t until the bench had settled again that Logan leaned over and asked, “Was it hard when he left?”

“First line, get out there!” Thompkins shouted. “Offensive zone face-off. Jake, line up for a shot off the draw. You better win it clean, Nilsson. RJ’s not out there, so you’ve got a chance at it.”

Lars hesitated before he stood up. “Yes,” he said to Logan. “It fucking sucked.”

“They’re gonna feel like assholes when they find out,” Logan said matter-of-factly, and the thought of Charlie Monroe feeling bad about the trade echoed through his head as Lars got back on the ice. He didn’t know if there would be any “finding out,” but he did like the idea of them regretting the trade.

The rest of the game was a blur. He did his best, he really did, but he couldn’t be on the ice the whole time. A sloppy turnover by the fourth line led to a late goal by the Otters, and it felt like a death sentence. Three minutes to try and tie it when they’d barely gotten off fifteen shots all game.

He did play the last two minutes with only a timeout to buy him a breather. He powered through his exhaustion, pushed and pushed and pushed.

It wasn’t enough.

The arena roared well before the final buzzer sounded and continued long after. Lars fell to his knees on the ice, defeated while the Otters celebrated around him. It was like he didn’t exist.

“Fuck,” he said. Jake and Tomas hung nearby, equally despondent with shoulders sagged and heads down. There was nothing they could do but watch as their season ended. All this way for nothing.

They waited for what felt like ages for things to settle down and a line to form at center ice for handshakes. Admittedly this was a tradition he appreciated, a show of mutual respect for their rivals and the sport that he almost wished they did every game, not just during eliminations. But then he’d have had to shake the Prowlers’ hands after they’d treated him like shit, and he was glad he’d been allowed to turn his back on them without a second thought.

He got in line, somewhere in the middle of the pack so he’d have time to process what he wanted to say. He didn’t know most of the Otters. He’d faced them for years, and he suspected they weren’t his biggest fans, but he’d paid so little attention to them he wouldn’t have more to offer than “good game” and “good luck.” There were two people in particular he actually knew, and he almost dreaded when they’d meet.

Anders was near the front, and Lars was forced to look up at his big brother and offer his hand.

“I’m still better than you,” he said in Swedish.

“The score says otherwise,” Anders said. After they shook hands, Anders pulled him into a hug. Lars was acutely aware that if his brother had done that even a few months ago, Lars would’ve knocked him to the ice.

Today, he reluctantly hugged him back.

“This doesn’t mean I’m happy about this,” Lars grumbled and pulled away. “But I suppose it’s good that one Nilsson is still playing.”

Anders patted his shoulder. “Stop holding up the line. Say good luck and move on.”

He almost gave his brother the finger, then remembered this was a nationally broadcast game and he didn’t need more media attention. “Good luck,” he said with an overly sweet voice that dripped sarcasm.

“I’ll see you at the house,” Anders said, and then they both moved on to the next person.

Even as long as he and Anders had taken, the line was slow-moving as everyone on the Blue Crabs spent extra time wishing Ryan luck. They’d never been able to give him a proper send off, and there wouldn’t be a better time to tell him how much he was missed and appreciated than now when he was moving on after a well-earned victory. Lars’s heart was near to bursting as he waited, and then all too soon it was his turn.

“You played well,” he said, hand out, at the same time that Ryan said, “Jag ålskar dig.”

Lars stood there, frozen. The words didn’t compute. Ryan did all the work to shake their hands and leaned in to whisper, “I’ll meet you at your brother’s place tonight, okay?” and was gone before Lars had gotten a chance to recover.

There was someone else in front of him now, politely shaking his hand and offering platitudes, and Lars was staring over his shoulder at the back of Ryan’s head. It took monumental effort to go through the rest of the handshake line and it passed by in such a daze that he knew he wouldn’t remember any of it later.

Well, except that one part.

Jag ålskar dig.

I love you.

Chapter 40

Ryan

Ryan was drunk, which was both not difficult to accomplish and rare during the season. The team had celebrated in the locker room with a case of beers that seemed to magically appear as soon as their gear was gone. Despite being a solid team, the Otters hadn’t made it to the Conference Finals in four years. Ryan had never made it even close to this far, so he accepted the beer thrust into his hand and drank it.

That wasn’t why he took the second beer, though. That was from nerves.

Why had he said that to Lars?

The idea had come by accident. He’d been in the airport waiting for the team bus, joking with Anders about Lars’s crab blazer and what they thought he would wear next. Anders’s phone rang and he flashed Ryan an apologetic look before answering.

“Amanda, älskling, we just landed…”

Ryan had politely drifted away to give them privacy, though it sounded like they were talking about practical things like dinner arrangements and if Mormor was coming to Game Five. It was only at the end that his full attention went back to Anders.

“Bye, älskling. Jag älskar dig.”

Ryan had definitely heard those words before.

“What’s that mean?” he’d asked Anders. “Jag älskar dig.”

Anders, who’d been sporting a soft smile, suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Have you heard it before?” he hedged.

“Yeah, Lars says it sometimes.”

“To you?” Anders clarified.

“Yeah, to me. He doesn’t speak Swedish to anyone else. Well, maybe he curses when he’s really angry, but he says there’s not much point in yelling at people in Swedish because he wants the person he’s pissed off at to know what he’s saying.” Ryan swallowed. “What’s it mean?”

The hesitation was enough that he’d figured it out, so he was completely unsurprised when Anders begrudgingly admitted, “It means, I love you.”

Hearing it made him revisit all the times Lars had said it. During sex was easy to dismiss, something said in the heat of the moment, but he’d said it other times, too. While kissing Ryan’s hand as he said goodbye. While falling asleep on the couch because they were too tired to finish the movie or move to the bed. While laughing giddily at one of Ryan’s stupid jokes.

“Oh,” Ryan had said as his world shifted slightly. When the pieces fell back into place, he didn’t think things were all that different. Lars had said it first, sure, but he’d said it in a way he knew Ryan wouldn’t understand. Knowing he felt that way helped settle Ryan’s anxiety about where they were headed, but things weren’t balanced yet. He knew how Lars felt, after all, but Lars had never heard it back.

“Did I get him in trouble?” Anders had asked and unconsciously touched his nose. It was still a little red, bent in a way it hadn’t been before. He’d been allowed to wear a bubble on his helmet up until the end of Round One, and no doubt he’d missed the protection once they started playing the Crabs.

“No,” Ryan had assured him. “I just gotta pay him back.”

That had been as far as his plan had gotten until the handshake line. He’d been practicing saying it, using online tutorials to help his pronunciation because he was too embarrassed to ask Anders, but hadn’t picked a time. He’d assumed he’d know when the moment was right, then like an idiot had blurted it out after beating the Crabs. Nothing said romantic like “we just eliminated you from the playoffs,” right?

As he reached into the cooler for another beer, Anders appeared at his side and took it. “How about I drive you home?” he didn’t so much as offer but ordered. Ryan’s head was too foggy to stop Anders from gently guiding him out the door.

There was a moment of panic when they started driving and Ryan realized where Anders was heading.

“Not my apartment,” he said quickly, then realized awkwardly he’d told Lars he’d meet him…at Anders’s house. “He doesn’t have a key,” he said and hoped the lame excuse might help Anders overlook Ryan inviting himself over.

Anders arched an eyebrow. “This is weird,” he said. “He’s never brought someone home, and I don’t think I ever expected it to be another player.”

“Not a teammate, I’ll bet.”

He nodded. “But it wouldn’t be Lars if he weren’t surprising me and causing trouble all at once.”

“Probably not,” Ryan agreed, and then enjoyed the warmth brought on by he’s never brought someone home.

* * *

Lars’s rental car was in the driveway and Anders parked beside it, giving Ryan a meaningful look before he cut the engine.

“He’ll be in the guest house if he’s expecting you. You know the way?”

Ryan thought back to the party a month ago and sitting on Lars’s bed, missing him and wanting so badly to go back to the way things had been.

“Yeah,” he said.

The stone walkway leading to the guest house was lit with solar lights. The door was ajar but Ryan knocked anyway. There was no answer, so he let himself in and followed the dim glow to Lars’s bedroom. This time he didn’t knock, just slowly pushed the door open.

Lars was in a loose Crabs tee and boxers, hands tucked behind his head. He’d already shaved off his beard, which was doubly disappointing: it’d looked good on him, and it was a sad reminder that Lars’s season was over. He had his ankles crossed, drawing attention to his crew socks. Headphones and long golden hair bracketed his face, and he looked younger than Ryan could remember him. It was just like Geneva, honestly, except for the slight pinch between his eyebrows. His eyes were closed and one foot tapped along with some unknown beat.

He was absolutely adorable, and he was Ryan’s.

Still half-drunk, he didn’t take the adult approach of warning Lars of his presence. Instead he jumped onto the bed next to him, earning an indignant squawk as Lars tried to keep his phone from going flying while keeping himself from rolling off the bed.

“Wha—!?” He cut himself off when he noticed Ryan, then it was a mad scramble to get off his headphones. “You’re here,” was his only warning before Ryan’s lips were stolen in a heated kiss.

“I’ve been here before,” Ryan teased breathlessly.

“Yes, I got your note. Very rude of you to be in my bed without me.” They shared another long, deep kiss before Lars pulled away. “You taste like beer,” he accused. “Are you drunk?”

Ryan wanted to feign indignance, but he giggled and gave himself away. “A little,” he admitted. “There were beers in the locker room.”

Lars’s hand cupped Ryan’s cheek. He trailed a thumb through the beard and said, “I’m really proud of you. Congratulations.”

Heat rose in his cheeks. “I didn’t do much. They would’ve won without me⁠—”

Lars interrupted him with a kiss, then said, “You’re not allowed to say stuff like that. You helped. A lot. You should’ve heard the whining in our locker room. Everyone saw you were on fire.”

“Yeah?” Ryan didn’t usually like praise because he didn’t really trust it. Evidence always seemed to indicate otherwise. No long term contract. Years of struggling to stay on the third line. Reduced minutes. He fought for all of it, and all the assurances of “good shift” and “nice play” hadn’t meant much. But he liked praise from Lars because he knew Lars believed it. He’d believed it so much, he’d fought for Ryan with the coaches and media. It made it a little easier to accept it elsewhere, too. He had done pretty well in this series. The stats showed it. “I played alright, I guess.”

“You were fantastic,” Lars said with such genuine admiration Ryan thought he might actually die. What had he ever done to deserve Lars Nilsson looking at him like that?

“I love you,” he said without thinking. “I’m so in love with you.”

And he leaned over to kiss Lars again and was startled when Lars pulled back and kept a hand on Ryan’s chest.

“What?” Then embarrassment started to seep into the moment. Oh, God, had he misread⁠—?

“I love you, too,” Lars said, and Ryan’s nerves settled immediately. “And I would love to fuck your brains out, but we should…” He sighed and looked regretful. “...talk about that?”

Oh, right.

“Probably,” Ryan said. His heart thudded so loudly in his chest he wasn’t sure how Lars couldn’t hear it. “Are we…dating?” And then he braced for the answer.

“I think so,” Lars offered, though he didn’t seem any more confident than Ryan did. “We are in love, and I don’t think we want to sleep with anyone else…”

He paused and it took Ryan too long to realize Lars was waiting for a response.

“No!” His hands clenched in Lars’s shirt and pulled him close. He was still buzzed enough that he didn’t feel ashamed when he whined, “I only want you,” then pressed this body closer so Lars could feel his erection.

Dazed for a moment, Lars seemed to decide between being responsible and finding out just how much Ryan wanted him. “Okay, good. Are we…are you my…boyfriend?”

His dick jerked between them. “Yes, please.”

That prompted Lars to surge forward and kiss him, rolling on top of Ryan so that his own dick pressed insistently against Ryan’s thigh.

“So mean of you to say that in the handshake line,” Lars growled between kisses and pulling their shirts off. “Make me want to fuck you right there on the ice, and you disappear to party without me.”

“You’ve been saying it for weeks!” Ryan said. Then, briefly, coherent thought fizzled out as Lars started to suck a bruise on his neck. “Not fair,” he said eventually, and it was a struggle to find each word. “Saying it when I couldn’t understand you.”

Lars’s hand worked under the waistband of Ryan’s pants. “Think you’ll be able to forgive me?”

“I’m sure we could work something out.”

* * *

Ryan woke up decidedly more sober than when he’d passed out. He was alone in Lars’s bed with a glass of water and an aspirin there to greet him.

The guest house had a small kitchenette tucked in one corner of the living area, and he found Lars there, naked as he poured himself a large glass of strawberry lemonade while a pot of coffee brewed.

“I feel overdressed,” Ryan said. He’d put on the first thing he could find—a blindingly yellow Tre Kronor shirt and a pair of sweatpants that were both too long and too tight—and regretted the effort.

Lars gave him an appreciative once over. “It is a shame to cover up such a hot body, but I do like seeing you in my clothes.” And then he made a face, as though realizing where they were. “I don’t really have any food. I usually eat at the house…” He trailed off and shifted awkwardly on his feet.

“We didn’t really figure anything out last night, did we?” Ryan asked. What was the protocol on eating breakfast with his boyfriend’s family when one of them was your teammate and none of them officially knew the two of them were dating? God, they must have known he’d spent the night. How weird would it be if Lars’s fuck buddy showed up for family breakfast before they cleared up that they were in fact dating?

“Not as much as we should have, no.” Lars grabbed a cup of coffee and they headed back to the bedroom. This was a conversation that required clothes and a bathroom break before they started.

“So, we’re dating,” Lars said, now dressed in joggers that were the perfect length and not at all loose. Still no shirt, though, and the dark blond hairs curling along his chest were an unfair distraction. He waited for Ryan’s nod. “How does that work, exactly? We won’t play for the same team for at least a couple years. We might never play together again.”

“Long distance?” Ryan offered. “I mean…it’s about the only option, isn’t it?”

They both agreed that wasn’t ideal but acceptable. They’d been more or less doing it for months now and had managed it despite not realizing they were dating. It should be easier now that they understood what they were doing.

“Is it a secret?” Lars asked quietly as he stared at his empty lemonade glass. “I know I’m out, but it can be a secret. I don’t mind. If I had kept my mouth shut against the Prowlers, that’s what I would’ve wanted.”

Ryan considered. He wanted the refs and Jake and everyone to lay off him about Lars. They looked at him so suspiciously, and he hated it. But he also didn’t think it was any of their business. Neither he nor Lars had ever really dated before this: having the whole world as an audience seemed awful. Especially since he’d seen the way social media had made Lars’s name a trending topic because of a private part of himself he’d accidentally made public. Lars clearly wasn’t thrilled, but his stardom within the league had already gotten him plenty of attention over the years. While the current discourse around him was new, the fact that everyone was talking about him wasn’t.

Ryan, though, hadn’t really ever gotten used to having the attention—rare as it was—cast his way. If it came out that he and Lars were together…part of him wondered if he’d ever be asked anything ever again that wasn’t at least a little about Lars.

“I don’t have a contract for next year,” he said slowly.

Lars’s face hardened. “I understand.”

“But just because I don’t want everyone knowing…it doesn’t mean it has to be a complete secret. We could tell your family. I think Anders and your mormor already know, so Amanda probably does, too. And Tanner keeps asking. There are definitely people who we could tell.”

He liked the idea of bringing Lars home for Thanksgiving on the ranch, or staying here for a week over the summer.

“You’d be okay with that?” Lars asked, his relief adorable. “I would like it,” he admitted.

“Me too.” Ryan swallowed. He really should stop while they were ahead, while they had a plan that they both agreed on, but he was tired of dreading anything when it came to Lars. “Would you want more…?”

Lars shrugged. “Some day. It’d be nice not to have to worry about hugging you in public. Or how it'll look if I’m at your playoff games when I should be golfing or whatever. I just…” He took a long, shaky breath in. “I haven’t finished dealing with the world knowing I’m gay yet, and I should handle that properly. And obviously if it hurts your chances of getting a good contract next year, I don’t want to do that to your career.”

“Ugh, that makes it sound like I care more about hockey than you.” Did he? He actually wasn’t sure. If the choices were to give up hockey and give up Lars, he honestly didn’t know what he’d do other than be completely miserable with either decision.

“I wouldn’t ask you to give up hockey,” Lars said with a wave of his hand, as though he could hear Ryan’s spiraling thoughts and wanted to make it clear it was a non-issue. “I wouldn’t even be out if I could keep my big mouth shut. It wouldn’t be fair to expect you to do anything I didn’t want to do myself. Whenever you get a new team for next year⁠—”

“If I get a team,” he mumbled.

Lars glared at him, and it wasn’t unlike when he was about to charge someone on the ice. “You’ll get a team. You put up great numbers this year. It was bullshit that the Crabs traded you, but after this postseason, other teams will see that you’re worth way more than they’ve been paying you.”

Ryan crossed his arms over his chest. He really wanted to argue, but he didn’t. There’d be no convincing Lars…and admittedly, over the past few months, Lars had done a good job of convincing Ryan that he was a worthwhile player. So instead he focused on the real issue at hand.

“I…want to be able to tell some people, at some point…” He said it slowly as he thought through exactly what he wanted, what was reasonable. “I’d like to tell everyone, honestly, but I’m not ready for that kind of attention.”

Lars nodded, his expression saying, Yeah, the attention fucking sucks. “We can tell people we trust to keep it quiet,” he agreed. “Mormor, Amanda, the children.” Belatedly, he added, “Anders.”

“My parents, my sisters, Tanner,” Ryan listed off, then frowned. “Honestly, that’s about it.”

“You would tell your parents about me?” Lars looked pleased at the prospect. “No one’s ever brought me home.”

“They’ll love you,” Ryan promised. “Except for my brothers-in-law who might hate you because of how many times you helped kick the Mustangs out of the playoffs.”

Lars raised his eyebrows. “Well, they probably shouldn’t have expected the Mustangs to make it out of the first round.”

“Oh yeah, they’ll hate you for sure.” Although Lars laughed along with Ryan, he looked nervous. “I’m kidding,” Ryan promised. “They’ll give you shit for it, but I have brought like…zero romantic partners home in my whole adult life. They’ll be thrilled, and since they think I’m either super-picky or super-career-driven, they’ll be too shocked to do much more than smile and try to feed you way too many potatoes.”

“Potatoes?”

He gave a half-shrug. “It’s the midwest. Everything’s meat and potatoes. We grow some on the ranch.”

“You hate potatoes.”

“Yep, I do. Probably because I ate them every day until I was old enough to get my coach to tell my parents it wasn’t the best nutritionally for my workout goals. And if you think you like potatoes, give it a week at the Russell household and I promise you’ll change your mind.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever gotten tired of food,” Lars said slowly, as if he were going through a mental checklist of food items, “but I suppose we’ll find out.”

Ryan ignored that he’d basically invited Lars to the ranch for a week and Lars had accepted. That was a post-playoffs issue. He still had to figure out breakfast.

“So…am I coming into the main house with you today?” Then to show he wasn’t trying to pressure Lars, he added in a rush, “It’s okay if you wanna, like, talk to them first. I don’t mind.”

“You expect me to kick you out without breakfast?” Lars sounded actually offended. “You’ll come inside and see everyone. I guarantee they’re staring out the windows trying to see when we’ll appear.”

Ryan’s gaze flicked to the main house. It was impossible to see anything from this distance, but he imagined the Nilssons crowded around the kitchen and wondering who would spy Lars and Ryan first.

“They’ll be pretty excited,” Lars continued. “If you don’t want to do it today⁠—”

“I want to,” Ryan said before he could consider if that was actually true. It didn’t take much consideration to realize it was. “Though half of that is because I’m starving.”

“Mormor will have a Swedish breakfast laid out. Lots of muesli and yogurt and fruit, you’ll love it. If she knew you were here, she might’ve even made eggs with caviar.”

When they entered the kitchen, the adults were nonchalantly pretending to read their phones; Astrid and Anton were grinning widely and not trying to hide it.

“Good morning, Ryan,” Anton said sweetly.

“Mornin’,” Ryan said with an awkward wave. He was well aware that he was standing half-behind Lars, trying to hide, as if he weren’t an equally large human.

The rest of the family sat there, waiting for someone to address the elephant in the room. Ryan didn’t much like being the elephant, and it felt like he’d swallowed his tongue because he couldn’t bring himself to say anything else.

Lars, practically skipping as he pulled Ryan further into the kitchen, was beaming from ear to ear. “Morrn.” He slung an arm around Ryan’s shoulder. “You all know Ryan, my boyfriend. I hope you don’t mind if he joins us for breakfast?” He said it so casually, like this was an everyday occurrence for all parties.

While Lars sat down and piled bread, cheese, and cold cuts onto his plate, Ryan tried to subtly gauge everyone’s reaction. The kids looked the most excited, with a glint in their eyes he recognized from his nieces and nephews: any minute now they would start badgering them with questions.

Amanda and Anders both looked a little shell-shocked, though they must’ve had their suspicions about them. Why else would Amanda have texted him about Lars? Why would Anders be so open about his brother? He suspected it was Lars’s easy admittance that they were dating that threw them off.

Mormor’s eyes glinted as though she were holding back unshed tears. She reached over to pat Lars on the cheek. “My Lasse, so grown up.” Then her attention turned to Ryan, and offered the warmest smile he’d ever seen. “Welcome to the family, Lillen.”

Interview with Lars Nilsson

Abigail Cunningham, The Baltimore Sun

LARS NILSSON HAS AN impressive resume. Not only is he a two-time Stanley Cup Champion, but he’s a gold medal winner for Team Sweden in both the World Junior Championship and IIHF Championship. Since entering the league, he’s won the Rocket Richard Trophy, the Conn Smythe, the Art Ross, and the Calder. A new and surprising addition to the list: he’s one of three openly gay players in the NHL.

I’m sure many fans remember the last matchup between the Baltimore Blue Crabs and the Portland Prowlers, when Nilsson very loudly and publicly addressed some of his reasons for leaving the Prowlers and his frustration with his treatment since doing so. He’s not spoken about that memorable outburst with the media since then, but this week I got a chance to sit down with him and discuss his eventful playoff run, as well as how he sees his role in the league changing.

Abigail Cunningham: Thanks for speaking with me today.

Lars Nilsson: Of course. Thanks for giving me an opportunity to address some of the questions and intrigue about me this season.

AC: That’s certainly a way to put it! Let’s start with some easier questions. How do you feel about the Crabs’ playoff run?

LN: It’s…bittersweet. We were very happy as a team to make the playoffs and get a chance to show what we can do. We did that against Florida in Round One. We competed, we won, and it’s a message to the league that the Crabs are contenders.

AC: And then Round Two happened.

LN: Yes. Obviously not the outcome we wanted. I know we should look at the successes and not where we fell short, but it always hurts to get kicked out. No one goes into the playoffs thinking, “It’ll be fine to lose.” You get there, you trust the guys that are there with you, and you hope you can do it.

AC: How was it having to play against your brother? Fans know you two have a rather tumultuous relationship on the ice.

LN: We have had a difficult relationship, my brother and I. I won’t speak for him, but I know for me it’s because of our parents dying when we were young and the big age gap between us. Our fighting on the ice is mostly my fault, though I’m sure Anders will agree he has his own frustrations with me that have nothing to do with hockey. Hockey is where we can settle it, and this season I let it get out of hand.

AC: There were surprisingly few hits between you and your brother during the playoffs. Lots of hits overall in the series, and a lot of them were from Anders, but you didn’t seem to go after him as much as you have in the past. Any particular reason?

LN: We’ve cleared the air a little. But again, I’m too rough in the regular season against Anders. I know people think the playoffs should be more intense, and to them that means more physical. I’m not afraid to be physical, but I needed to be more focused. Wasting time in the penalty box because I’m annoyed at my brother isn’t focused.

AC: I hope he didn’t rub it in too much that they won.

LN: Anders is quieter than me. He didn’t have to say much for me to understand that he was gloating.

AC: If you had won the series?

LN: I think I would’ve hired one of those airplanes that pulls a sign across the sky, saying something like “Lars is better than Anders!” You know, something low-key.

AC: How do you think the future of the Blue Crabs is looking? One playoff appearance after six years has gotten a lot of fans excited. Are you going to be able to build off that momentum next year?

LN: We’ll try. It’s definitely moving in the right direction, and I know there are a lot of younger players on the AHL team who show a lot of promise and will be making their way into the lineup. Now that we’ve set the precedent that we can make it and that we can be competitive, I expect we’ll continue to do that.

AC: That’s great to hear! I know as a Crabs fan I was ecstatic to see you guys clinch that Wildcard spot, and not just because I’m one of the lucky ones who gets to cover it. Baltimore has been hurting for teams to see the postseason lately. How did it feel clinching out that series versus the Pythons at home?

LN: It was amazing. The crowd was so loud and there were a lot of rubber crabs on the ice. You can tell the city has great fans who are hoping to support an equally great team. We’ll do our best to live up to that.

AC: So there’s no easy way to broach this subject, but of course I want to ask you about the Prowlers.

LN: What would you like to know?

AC: The Prowlers seemed to be gunning for you when the team traveled to Portland, and that seemed to carry over into the game in March. Why was that?

LN: My former teammates, they were upset with the way I left. It was very abrupt, my departure. No warning. And it was upsetting to me, so I didn’t do a good job of explaining things or saying goodbye. From their perspective, I was one of their better players and asked to be traded clear across the country for no reason.

AC: But there obviously was a reason. When you were mic’d up, you seemed to imply that your sexuality had something to do with the trade.

LN: It had everything to do with it. I got them two Stanley Cups. I represented them at the All Star Games. I led the league in goals or points, got all these trophies. I sold seats in that arena and jerseys. Yes, I had a great team to help do these things, but I put in a lot of work. I’m a good player. Sorry, that sounds like I’m bragging, but I am good. Everyone knows I’m good. And as soon as they find out I’m gay, they decide that’s more important.

AC: Was the choice to leave yours?

LN: Yes and no. I never wanted to leave Portland. That was never my plan. But Mackey, the GM, he told me that I could either go or things would be “very uncomfortable” for me. I’ve seen what that means for players they don’t like. Not just at the Prowlers, but other places. And it’s not always about sexuality, they get it in their heads they don’t like someone, they take their minutes, they put them on bad lines, they make it impossible for them to be successful. I don’t want to be on a team that doesn’t support me, and I can’t be on a team where they know I’m gay and think that has anything to do with hockey. So I agreed to leave. Sign away my no-trade clause and trust my agent to find me a good spot. And he did.

AC: Since your incident with Zigmund went viral, there have been a lot of eyes on the Prowlers. Portland as a city hasn’t been happy and the fans have demanded Mackey’s resignation. The owners are investigating allegations of discrimination and have promised to take action. How do you feel about that?

LN: It’s not my business. I don’t like him, and maybe I’m glad the fans appreciate me or want their team to represent their values or whatever it is, but that’s their mess. I’m happy where I am in Baltimore, and I know the organization supports me.

AC: You’ve mentioned that it was Portland’s General Manager Mackey that asked you to leave. Is this type of discrimination prevalent in the organization as a whole?

LN: Honestly, I don’t know. I had always kept it to myself to avoid having to find out. My coach knew and told Mackey, and it was Mackey’s decision to force me out. I don’t know how it is with other teams.

AC: How have your former teammates responded? Have any reached out?

LN: Some have, yes. They didn’t know the details. Obviously Mackey wouldn’t want to broadcast that, and as I said, I didn’t tell them why I’d left. I wasn’t happy with how they treated me after I moved, but I think we understand each other now. My teammates weren’t the reason I wasn’t out, though.

AC: Why weren’t you out, if you don’t mind my asking?

LN: It never seemed relevant. People don’t ask the other players if they’re straight and how being straight has affected their playing, and it’s unfair that they think those are reasonable things to ask me. Except it did affect me because I had to hide it. It didn’t make me a worse player or anything, but it meant I could never really be myself. It’s hard to always have to hold a piece of yourself back when you’re on a team. You spend most of your day with each other for months and months on end, and it can be tiring to have to police yourself ‘just in case.’ I keep more to myself when I go out with the guys, don’t flirt so openly, don’t bring dates to the hotel.

AC: But you said a moment ago that your teammates weren’t the reason you weren’t open about your sexuality.

LN: It’s rare to find someone who is openly and actively bigoted. For most teammates I’ve had in the NHL, I’ve rarely gotten the impression they were bad guys. But it doesn’t take much. One person said something to Mackey, and I’m off the team.

AC: You were very quiet with the media after the incident. Why was that?

LN: I didn’t plan to out myself on national television. It was a momentary lapse, and I wasn’t ready to deal with it publicly. We were trying to make the playoffs, then we were in the playoffs. I wanted to focus on hockey. That’s my job, right? You get one chance every year to win the Stanley Cup, and I didn’t want any distractions. I’m very thankful to the Baltimore Crabs as an organization for supporting me in my decision to play hockey first and deal with my big stupid mouth second.

AC: Would you mind addressing why you’ve chosen to talk about it with me now?

LN: I see other players who are gay get treated badly. Not just in the NHL, but the other leagues, too. It was hard for me to have to change teams, but I know my notoriety in the league protected me. The Prowlers couldn’t sweep me under the rug, so I was able to find a way out and luckily landed with a team who doesn’t care about a person’s sexuality.

But then I think, that doesn’t help those other players in similar situations. The ones who feel they can’t or shouldn’t be open, because they don’t have that protection. So maybe I should talk about it because they can’t. Maybe I should help push the league to be better than they currently are, so that those players can choose to be openly gay or bi or pan, if they want to be, without fear that they’ll never get to play professional hockey again.

It’s not fair, and I need to start saying it loudly for those who can’t say it at all.

AC: Thank you so much for your time today, Lars, and for your honesty.

LN: Thank you for listening.

AC: Can I ask one last question before I let you go?

LN: Should I be scared? You ask a lot of good questions.

AC: You’re officially on summer break…any big plans?

LN: I will be in Ohio with my family for the next few weeks, then I’ll be in Baltimore to help with a local youth program. And of course I’ll doing off-season training. I eat too many sweets, I can’t take the whole summer off. No golfing, though. I’m terrible at it.

AC: Thank you again. Enjoy your summer!

Epilogue

Lars

Lars normally didn’t stay in Ohio until both he and Anders were out of the playoffs. He didn’t want anything to do with the Otters’ playoff runs, and he didn’t want his foul mood to dampen anyone’s spirits. Well, he wouldn’t mind if it got on Anders’s nerves, but he didn’t want to upset the rest of the family.

This year was different, obviously.

Ohio seemed to be gathering all the people he cared about most, which was disappointing, given how boring the state was otherwise. He promised Ryan he would stay in Cincinnati until the Otters’ season ended. It was hardly a chore: when the Otters were at home, Lars stayed at Ryan’s apartment. Discreetly, of course. He was able to attend games with Amanda, Mormor, and the kids without anyone being suspicious. The few times he was on the jumbotron, he even made a show of booing his brother. The crowd hated that. Or rather, they loved it, since they seemed to enjoy him making an ass of himself.

When the Otters traveled—first to Boston for the Conference Finals, and then to Albuquerque for the Finals—Lars stayed at Anders’s guest house. He really liked this whole dating thing; whether in person or via video chat, he saw Ryan every day. He got to alternate between teasing Ryan for his poorly-stocked pantry and complimenting him on how fantastic he’d looked in his pre-game suits. They’d also gotten very adept at sexting.

It was admittedly weird, sitting in the living room with Mormor to his right and Amanda to his left, Astrid and Anton hopping around from bean bag to recliner to ottoman. They’d never all rooted for the same team before. Hell, he’d never done this whole “watching the playoffs and not playing in them” thing before, and he found he respected Amanda’s struggles a lot more. Yes, he was still jealous that they’d stolen Mormor away, but he couldn’t deny this was a better place for her. She wasn’t lonely, and neither was Amanda.

It came down to Game Seven, because of fucking course it did. It might make for better TV, but Lars wished the Otters had stomped the stupid Turkeys in four or five games. He’d never been so nervous watching a game he wasn’t playing in.

“Sucks, huh?” Amanda nudged his elbow and offered him some popcorn. They were in the suite reserved for players’ families. All the wives, girlfriends, and partners were very polite to him, but he could sense they didn’t quite know what to do with him.

Lars took a big handful of popcorn and shoved it in his mouth, only belatedly realizing she’d asked him a question. “Wha?”

“You’re as bad as the kids, I swear,” she scolded. “I meant it must suck. A big game like this, you’re usually playing in it. Must feel kinda helpless, sitting all the way up here with us.”

He grumbled incoherently until he finished his mouthful of popcorn. “Yes, it’s the worst. I could win them this game no problem!”

“Doesn’t hurt that you’re well-rested and didn’t have to fly in from New Mexico a few days ago.”

“Details.”

As unexpected as it had been for the Turkeys to even make it into the playoffs, their run had been fantastic. It aggravated Lars that the current round was still going, but he admired the effort the Turkeys had shown. But unlike the Otters, who hadn’t seen a Game Seven before tonight, the Turkeys had needed all seven games each round to get here. One of those went to double overtime. They’d made an impressive push against the Otters—their goalie was on fire—but it seemed they were running on fumes. Lars wouldn’t say it was an easy win for the Otters, but they took an early lead and were able to hold it through two periods, adding another couple goals in the third when the Turkeys started playing desperate.

Lars was on the edge of his seat most of the game. Once the one-minute mark hit, a strange sense of calm went through him. They’d done it. The Otters had won.

It was like an out-of-body experience to go onto the ice with the other family members. He’d experienced this decades ago when his father won, and he’d never gotten over how overwhelming the whole thing was. The confetti, the cameras, the cheers—it was a spectacle worthy of any king’s court.

Anders had won the Conn Smythe for playoff MVP, and after Lars had a very underwhelming photoshoot with his brother where he scowled and put up bunny ears when Anders wasn’t looking, the attention briefly moved on to the other players having their turn with the Cup.

“You should’ve been here the first time I won,” Anders said in Swedish. He was wearing one of those ugly STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS hats they gave everyone. Anton and Astrid had started flinging theirs back and forth like boomerangs; Lars had thrown his to the fans. “I always hated that you weren’t there.”

Lars had only been twelve, moody and angry; he’d declined his brother’s invitation to come watch the playoffs, citing their grandparents as an excuse. He sort of regretted it now, but it was probably for the best; he’d have made a fool of himself.

“Now you’ve won twice,” Lars said. “I’ll have to do better so I can get a third and a fourth. Need to make sure they know which Nilsson brother is better.”

“The Crabs can’t get to the Cup without going through Ohio,” Anders said smugly.

“Good. I don’t want you getting knocked out in the first round and complaining when we win that it wasn’t legit if we didn’t face you.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “You’re an awful brother.”

“Besides, it’ll be easier next year when you don’t have Ryan.”

“Won’t we?” Anders said vaguely before pushing Lars away. “Go find your boyfriend. He won too, you know.”

Oh, he knew.

He was so fucking proud of how Ryan had played, and so fucking happy for him. Eight years in the league and he hadn’t gotten this chance, and now he was a Stanley Cup Champion.

Lars had to weave through the crowd to get to where Ryan was talking with some teammates. The second he saw Lars, he skated away from the crowd and rushed toward him.

“You did it—!” Lars was cut off by Ryan nearly knocking him off his feet. The hug made him yelp and flail as he tried to keep his balance (stupid shoes, why would anyone ever go on the ice without skates?), so he had no time to brace himself for what happened next. One moment, he was desperately holding on to Ryan for dear life, the next he was being swept up in a kiss. Then he was desperately holding on to Ryan for completely different reasons.

“I can’t believe I got to lift the Stanley Cup.” Ryan was breathless with excitement. Or from the kiss. Or both.

“You deserved it,” Lars said. He’d regained his footing but couldn’t quite let go of Ryan. Not that Ryan was letting go of him. “Just in case you didn’t notice,” he said, “you kissed me on national television.”

Ryan frowned, blinked, then took a look around them. As if it weren’t really fucking obvious they were in the middle of an ice rink with tens of thousands of people staring at them and an endless cascade of camera flashes.

“Hmm. Guess I did.” He turned back to Lars. “That a problem?”

He was dating a Stanley Cup Champion. Everyone knew he was dating a Stanley Cup Champion. He’d be hard-pressed to think of any problems. He might never have any problems ever again.

This time it was Lars who leaned in and kissed Ryan. Short and chaste, on the lips and then on the cheek. “Not a problem at all.”

Twitter: #RJRussel/LarsNilsson

lnilsson14: Weird - looks like #RJRussell and #LarsNilsson are trending. Why? I didn’t win the Cup…

OhioOttersOfficial: RE-SIGNED! @ryanrusselljunior has signed a three-year contract extension with the Otters - welcome to the Otter Romp 🦦

ryanrusselljunior: Three things I never thought I’d do in my career…

✔️ Win the Stanley Cup

✔️ Sign a long-term deal with a no-trade clause

✔️ Be able to share my Cup day with my family and my boyfriend

Best summer of my life!

AbigailBmoreSun: Although I’ve never been one to report on other NHL teams, I might have to start making an exception - many Otters fan blogs have been reporting on Lars Nilsson sightings at the Otters practice rink over the summer as he participates in optional training with RJ Russell and Anders Nilsson. Might we expect to see these Otters players in Baltimore over the coming weeks as well?

amandanilsson: So excited! For the first time ever, the whole family is flying to Sweden this summer ❤️ The kids can’t wait to spend their day with the Stanley Cup where Pappa @andersnilsson7 and Farbror @lnilsson14 grew up 😊

ryanrusselljunior: @amandanilsson can I come???

andersnilsson7: @ryanrusselljunior You are required to come. I cannot handle a thirteen hour plane ride with your boyfriend without you there to entertain him.

lnilsson14: @andersnilsson7 and how exactly will he be entertaining me…?

andersnilsson7: I changed my mind. @ryannrusselljunior you are still invited, but your boyfriend has to stay at home.

Swedish Glossary

älskling: darling

barn: children

där är ni ju: there you are

det var en olycka: it was an accident

du är bortskämd: you’re spoiled

du är så sexig: you’re very sexy

du smakar gott: you taste good

en tekning: a face-off

fan också: damn it

farbror: father’s brother, uncle

filmjölk: sour milk

hejdå: goodbye

heliga fan: holy shit

jag älskar dig: I love you

jag är förälskad i dig: I have a crush on you

jag är kär i dig: I’m falling in love with you

jag är ledsen: I’m sorry

jag kommer: I’m coming

jag saknade dig: I missed you

jag tror att jag är kär i dig: I think I’m in love with you

jäklar: dammit

jävla skit: God dammit 

käraste: dearest, sweetheart

kroppkakor: potato dumplings

Lasse: nickname for “Lars”

lillen: little one, a term of endearment for a male child (“lillan” is the female equivalent)

lycka till: good luck

macka: sandwich; a good pass

mål: goal

morfar: mother’s father, grandpa

mormor: mother’s mother, grandma

morrn: good morning

jubelidiot: jerk, imbecile, complete idiot

skål: cheers

sluta bete dig som ett barn: stop behaving like a child

sluta bete dig som ett fitta: stop acting like a cunt

sötnos: sweetheart

storebror: big brother

Sveriges stolthet: the Pride of Sweden

tja, det sög: well, that sucked

Acknowledgments

Books are a labor of love, and they can’t be done alone. Thanks to my family for their support and listening to me babble about hockey.

Emily for being a great cheerleader and sounding board for ideas. E C for beta-reading and always being there as a soundboard for my dumb ideas. Mel Grant for beta-reading and helping with line edits. Rebecka Andersson for helping me sort out the Swedish and being super patient about my mixing up ä and å.

The Pittsburgh South Writers Group for being such a positive, supportive group of local writers. Duck Prints Press for being a great online community of authors coming together to share ideas and support each other.

About A.L. Heard

Ashley, pen name A. L. Heard and fandom name jhoom, is a Pittsburgh-area writer. Her first novel, Hockey Bois, was published in 2021 and she’s published several short stories through the indie press Duck Prints Press, where she also contributes as an editor. In between writing projects, she’s a teacher, hockey-player, and hockey mom, and spends her weekends visiting local breweries.

Social Media:

Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/ashheardwrites.bsky.social

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/asheardwrites

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20974405.A_L_Heard

Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/jhoom

Twitter (X): https://x.com/jhoomwrites

Other Titles by A.L. Heard

Hockey Bois: A Beer League Romance

The Lady or the Duke? A Victorian Era Decide Your Fate Story

Various short stories published through Duck Prints Press, LLC

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