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Roger “Cross” LaCroix woke gasping for air, the sound of a gunshot echoing in his head.

He felt the flash of red, hot blood across his face.

A scream he’d never uttered strangled his voice.

Only after two more harsh breaths did he register the jaunty tune in the background as his ringtone, and the peace and quiet of his dark bedroom.

“Shit.” He ran a hand down his face. The nightmares were less frequent these days, but when they happened, they still shook him.

Only as the last tinny notes began fading did he also recognize the specific tune.

He grabbed his phone, answering with a rough swipe a moment before it went to voicemail.

“Rusty? What’s wrong?” He’d had the young hockey player’s number in his phone since last summer, and they’d texted off and on, but a voice call in the middle of the night meant something was up.

“Fuck.” Rusty’s voice sounded hoarse. “I’m sorry, Cross. It’s fucking late as hell, isn’t it? And you’re out east. I’ll just hang up now.”

“Stop!” He didn’t mean to be harsh and was relieved when Rusty grunted but didn’t disappear. “You called me for a reason. Besides, I was dreaming something I didn’t mind waking up from. What’s up?”

“It’s stupid. I mean, I was stupid.” Rusty sighed audibly.

Cross pushed himself higher on his pillows and switched on the bedside light. No blood on me. Talking to someone was a relief, in that moment when the echoes of his dream lurked in the shadows. “You’re eighteen. You’re allowed to be stupid sometimes.”

“Nineteen.”

“What, you had a birthday and didn’t tell me?” The joke fell flat. They weren’t that kind of friends. “Never mind. Lay it on me.”

“Lay it on you? How old are you? No one says that.”

“Get to the point, kid.”

“Right.” Rusty’s pause was long enough that Cross was about to prompt him again when he added, “I’ve been… dating. A bit. Trying to.”

“Good for you.” Dating as an out, gay hockey player, even in the ECHL minor league, took some guts.

“Well, mostly just fucking around.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” Thinking of Rusty with a bunch of guys, learning about sex, made Cross feel unsettled, so he pushed the image away. “Probably easier in Eugene than in Kansas, huh?”

“Yeah, except there’s this guy.” Another pause. “He turned out to be kind of an asshole.”

“Did he hurt you?” Rusty might be tall, fit, and a hockey defenseman, but sex made everyone vulnerable. A flash of anger flared in Cross’s chest at the thought of someone taking advantage of the kid.

“No, nothing like that. But he…” Rusty clammed up again.

Cross glanced at the time on his phone. Almost three A.M. because he was in…

he blanked for a second at the end of this long-assed road trip.

Minneapolis, that’s where. Which meant only one A.M. out in Oregon where Rusty’s team was based, but still.

“Spit it out, kid. I’m not getting any younger.

” Thirty sometimes felt like fifty after a bunch of physical games.

“Okay, at first he was cool. We hung out for like two months. He’s really hot and he’s older than me, and I was super flattered he liked me.”

Rusty was really hot too, objectively speaking.

Blond hair and clear blue eyes, six-foot-several-inches of fit, athletic hockey player.

Maybe a little baby fat still softened his high cheekbones, maybe his hockey ass and thighs were a work in progress, but Rusty had no reason to feel attention was flattery. “Lots of people like you. And now?”

“Now he’s, well…” Rusty said in a rush, “I broke up with him weeks ago and he won’t go away and he keeps calling me.

Today, he showed up at the arena after practice and told the security guy he was my boyfriend, and when they wouldn’t let him in, he hung out by my truck till I came out.

I told him we were done and we argued. So I blocked his number, and now he just called me from a different one. ”

“What did he say? Is he making threats?”

“No. I think he was drunk. He was, like, being nice, saying how he can’t wait till our next date and how I’m real good in bed and good at hockey and he’s looking forward to being the partner of an NHL star one day.

And when I told him to get lost, he just laughed and said I didn’t mean it, he’d see me soon. ”

“Well, at least he has faith in your talent.”

“It’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not.” Cross rubbed his eyes and tried to get his brain usefully back online. At least the old nightmare had faded to nothing. “I guess you have to keep saying no.”

“Except Coach Frazier saw us arguing in the parking lot and him trying to kiss me and all. He told me to keep my lifestyle out of the public eye. The team took enough of a chance with me being gay and out. If they think I violated the morals clause, I’ll be gone. Coach Frazier isn’t my biggest fan.”

“Getting kissed in a parking lot is not a morals violation.” Or there’d be no active players. “What’s this persistent douchebag’s name?”

“Tyler. Wellington.”

Leave it to me. I’ll take care of Tyler.

Except he was pretty sure Rusty didn’t want him to swoop in with his father’s high-priced lawyers to do their shark act on Tyler-the-douche, no matter how tempting slamming down a restraining order sounded.

Rusty was prickly about things that smelled of privilege, like lawyers.

Maybe Cross could help some other way, and save that for the back burner.

“Listen, we’ll be home in Portland tomorrow.

We have two evenings with no games. Why don’t I come down your way?

You can introduce me as your jealous new boyfriend and we can both tell him to get lost.”

A moment later, shock at his own words hit him. You’re not out as bi. What the hell are you thinking? But he couldn’t take it back when Rusty said hopefully, “You’d do that? For me?”

“Sure.” It didn’t have to mean anything. A straight friend might pretend in this situation, right?

Rusty sighed. “That’s a lot to ask. We’re a fucking two-hour drive from Portland. And two back. More if the 5 is clogged. Might be six hours on the road.”

“Like I never did twelve-hour bus trips with my AHL team? I think I can manage.”

“I should be able to handle this. Maybe I can just tell him I have a new boyfriend…”

“Not to blow my own horn, but it’s going to be a lot more convincing if I meet him face to face.

It doesn’t sound like he’s listening to you.

” Cross wasn’t close to Rusty’s height. In fact, he was one of the shortest defensemen in the NHL.

But he made up for it with lots of muscle and speed and an attitude he’d have no problem channeling onto Tyler.

Rusty sighed, sounding exhausted. “It’d be really cool to see you, but―”

“But nothing. I’ll be there.” He looked at his phone and tried to figure out time zones. “Maybe not tomorrow night.” A decent sleep might be important, for him to not wrap a hockey stick around the guy’s neck. “Friday? Can you set something up for, say, nine P.M.?”

“I guess.”

“Tell me when and where. It’ll be my pleasure.”

“Except― what if he threatens to out you? You’re not even gay, but he’ll think you are.”

I’m closer to gay than you realize. But this wasn’t about Cross’s sexuality, and Rusty was right.

He wasn’t ready to be any kind of out poster-child.

Not even high-priced lawyers could put Pandora back in that box, although they could make Tyler sorry he’d ever been born.

“With zero evidence it’s just one more rumor.

Pick someplace with really crappy lighting. ”

“You can’t beat him up in an alley.”

“Don’t tempt me. Something slightly classier than an alley. Does he know much about hockey?”

“Not really. He works as a salesman in an appliance store and loves movies. He thought I must be rich, as a pro in the ECHL.”

They both laughed. Cross said, “I’ll dress down, it’ll be okay.”

“I guess. Thank you. I still can’t believe you’re going to do this.”

“Believe it. What’s our motto?” He’d spent some time that summer practicing with Rusty, some other high school players, and his NHL teammate Scott Edison, at the small local rink near Edison’s ranch. He’d tried to help Rusty any way he could. Including sharing a raft of inspiring platitudes.

“If you want it, make it happen,” Rusty quoted obediently.

“Damned straight. We want him disappeared back into the hole he crawled out of, so we’re gonna make it happen.”

“Thanks, Cross. I think I’m going to quit seeing guys for a while. Hooking up’s not great, dating was supposed to be better, and look how that turned out. I’m obviously not smart enough to quit picking losers. Gonna go back to me and my left hand.”

“It’s not about you being smart.” Although Rusty’s small-town innocence maybe hadn’t helped.

“Or about being gay. Bozie, our winger, was hit up with a fake paternity suit his first year, with a puck bunny looking for a piece of the prize and hoping to be paid to go away. In fact, I think he fell for his wife because she blew him off, like, a dozen times, insulted his looks, and couldn’t care less how much money he made.

He was like, ‘Yeah, that one, she’s perfect. ’”

Rusty chuckled, though it sounded halfhearted. “At least I don’t have to worry about paternity suits.”

“Tyler’s not likely to claim to be pregnant?”

“Ha. No.”

“Good-looking guys sometimes don’t believe they have to take no for an answer.” Cross had known a teammate or two who thought looks and money were a license to be a jerk. “I’ll help you convince him.”

“I shouldn’t need help. I’m a grown man.”

“Everyone needs help sometimes.”

“I guess. Okay. And Cross? I’m glad you’re coming down, and not just because of the asshole.”

“It’s good to be wanted,” he said lightly.

The warmth in Rusty’s tone made Cross wonder if the kid was lonely.

Adjusting to a new team was always hard, and it was Rusty’s first time away from Kansas.

And likely, being the only out gay player on his team wasn’t easy, especially with a coach who called it his lifestyle . “See you Friday.”

“G’night. Sorry about waking you up.”

“Get some sleep,” he told Rusty. But after they hung up, he lay awake staring at the ceiling.

At least this time, he wasn’t dealing with the kind of nerve-stretched, muscle-twitching awake he usually had after one of his nightmares. Talking to Rusty had been good, dragging reality back into Cross’s head.

In reality, no one had died in that SUV last summer.

The gun in the bad guy’s hand had been pressed to Scott Edison’s head but he’d never pulled the trigger.

Scott’s sheriff boyfriend Casey had taken the hijacking bastard down, their other boyfriend Will had helped.

Scott was fine. Cross and the teen behind him in the car hadn’t even had a scratch on them, let alone a spray of Scotty’s blood and brain matter and― Ugh.

He forced his mind away from that well-worn groove of what-ifs that always played out in his dreams.

Think about Rusty. They’d met in the midst of Scott’s disasters last summer, in the wake of murder and kidnapping— Stop. Think Rusty.

Cross had gone back and spent a few weeks hanging out with Scotty and the guys at the ranch, although he hadn’t told them he was trying to exorcise his demons.

Seeing Scott alive and well every morning had taken the nightmares down a big notch.

As a side bonus, he’d gotten to spend more time with Dale and Rusty, the two young players caught up in the mayhem.

Working with Rusty—passing on some of his defense skills as they tried to corral Scott on a bumpy local rink— had been the most fun he’d had in years. Just playing for the joy of it.

So, now he and Rusty were friends, the same way he was friends with the rookies on teams he’d played for. Or maybe not quite the same.

Not sure why I felt that little rush when I realized it was Rusty calling me tonight.

For a moment, he let himself wonder if there could be something more than friendship to that flush of pleasure.

Rusty was hot— Cross’s type, if you were talking about men.

Cross liked athletes, liked tall guys with muscles.

He even liked blue eyes and silky, straight blond hair like Rusty’s.

The times he’d tried to go out and fuck around with men when he was younger, those were the guys he’d gotten on his knees for.

Those were also the guys he’d told not to bother to reciprocate. The ones he’d barely managed to get half-hard for, even with a dick in his mouth, hiding his lack of response with a hand down his own pants. Faking it, hoping the next guy might be different.

Maybe Rusty’s different. I know him. I like him.

Cross tried to imagine Rusty naked and straining, dick hard and ready… He pictured kissing Rusty. Guiding him toward the bed… His cock barely twitched. Apparently no, whatever I felt wasn’t because he’s hot or I want him.

Rusty Dolan was a friend, and Cross’s dick was clearly inclined to keep him that way.

He’d long ago decided he was demisexual— he’d become interested in sex when he had a deep romantic connection with someone— so he hadn’t lost hope, but sex and romance were turning out to be a slow road.

Someday, he’d find the person to make him all hot and bothered.

It was probably just as well that miracle man wasn’t Rusty.

Cross had eleven years more wear and tear and a whole lot more privilege, which made him a bad match for a young guy like Rusty.

We could even end up on opposing NHL teams, a couple of years down the road.

Friends. Platonic. Cross knew how to be a friend, and any little twinge of disappointment could be buried down deep with the rest.