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Rusty peered around the revealed bedroom.

The color scheme was blue and green with curtains that shaded from dark to light at the tops and a kind of swirl pattern on the walls.

The bed looked like a king size, covered in a wave-patterned comforter so smooth it might’ve just came out of the package.

“Big bed,” he said. Then in case that didn’t sound impressed enough, “This is awesome.”

“A teammate’s wife is a decorator. I figured if I had friends stay over, like after a party, they’d likely be hockey players and some of us are tall.”

“Do you throw a lot of parties?”

“Um, no.” Cross looked down and scuffed at the carpet with the toe of his shoe.

“Well…” Rusty didn’t like Cross looking uncomfortable again. He scrambled to change the subject. “I guess I’ll take that shower now.”

“I could throw your clothes in the washer,” Cross offered.

Rusty was going to refuse but the thighs of his jeans were white with sanding dust and he had sweated the pits of his shirt. He didn’t want to walk around Cross’s super clean house like that and he couldn’t exactly borrow from Cross. “If it’s not a lot of trouble.”

“I’m going to wash my own, anyhow. Put yours outside the bathroom door, and I’ll leave you a robe.”

Which was how Rusty found himself, twenty minutes later, back in his underwear— because he was not going to let Cross wash those— plus an amazingly soft robe and fuzzy socks, sitting on the couch next to Cross in the family room.

Cross had showered too, and wore fancy sweats with zero holes in them, his dark hair damp and smooshed up like he’d toweled dry and forgotten to comb it.

Rusty liked the look. Made him seem less put-together and perfect.

Cross asked, “Would you like to watch a movie? Or play a game?” He powered up the screen and a frozen image from some hockey game came on. Cross laughed. “Sorry, I’m all work and no play. I was reviewing tape. What do you want to see? I have a bunch of streaming options.”

Rusty took his courage in both hands and asked, “Could we actually watch some tape?”

“You want to? Why?”

“I like the way you tell me things.” Rusty wanted to be a team player but he had to say, “You explain the plays much clearer than Coach does.”

Cross frowned. “Isn’t Frasier an ex-NHL coach?”

“Yeah. I mean, he knows his stuff. Probably better than Coach Nilsson did. When Nilsson moved up to the AHL and Coach Frasier came out of retirement to replace him, we thought he’d be great.”

“But he wasn’t?”

Rusty shook his head. They’d sunk from third in their division with a shot at the playoffs to four points out of last place.

“I think he’s too good for us. He says something once and if we don’t get it, he throws up his hands and goes after the next guy.

Like you said, he coached in the NHL. Last summer, he worked at a top skills camp in Toronto.

He’s asking too much of a bunch of rookies and guys who maybe love the game but don’t have the skills. ”

“You’ve always picked things up quickly.”

“Because you take time to teach me, or even demo. Like, Coach will say, ‘Show me your crossblade formwiggle stance,’ and when I just stare at him, he huffs instead of explaining and walks away.”

“Formwiggle?” Cross hid his mouth behind his hand.

Rusty waved off his snicker. “You know. Something I’ve never heard of.

I want to learn, but Coach is so used to polishing top players who already know this shit, he gets frustrated with us.

Sometimes he’ll say something like, ‘Watch LaPlante in the second period of game three with the Rangers last Cup, and you’ll see what I mean.

’ If I can track down the game, sometimes I can figure it out… ” He let the words trail off.

“But you wish he’d be more hands-on.”

“Yeah. I do.” He felt disloyal, but hell, anything he could learn would help Coach win games. End justified the means, right? “So if you’re up for watching tape, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure. Absolutely.” Cross angled the remote and unfroze the game that was playing.

“We’re up against Quebec next road trip.

They have a couple of speedy young rookie forwards they brought up after injuries.

I haven’t played against these guys, so I want to watch them here against Chicago, whose style is similar to ours. ”

“Cool.”

“And keep your eye on Chicago number thirty-four, Lindstrom. Good two-way defenseman, scores a few goals but mostly gets a lot of assists. He’s about your size and he’s fast like you’re becoming. You can learn a lot from him.”

“Okay.”

“Hang on.” Cross scooted closer to Rusty as he changed the game playback to five minutes earlier, their shoulders only inches apart. “There’s something here off the face-off that I want you to see first.”

Rusty looked sideways, wondering if Cross realized how he’d closed the space between them.

Rusty could feel the heat of those thick hockey-player thighs next to his through the velour of his robe.

He could smell the light scent of herb and mint that echoed the expensive-looking shampoo in the guest bathroom, and with a subtle deeper breath, he imagined a hint of clean male skin underneath.

Cross’s jawline carried a haze of dark stubble, filling in as the day wore on.

The flicker of light from the screen caught flecks of amber in his storm-cloud gray eyes.

But Cross peered at the screen, seeming oblivious. “Here. Chicago wins the faceoff and Norsgaard passes to Lindstrom. See Quebec number sixteen? He’s in Lindstrom’s face, maybe chirping him. Now, watch the move Lindstrom makes to get around him…”

Rusty told his chubbing-up dick to behave and focused on hockey.

Around midnight, after three hours of some of the most useful coaching Rusty had received since Nilsson left, and after a break for food, Rusty’s clothes were clean and dry. He dressed and they headed back into the garage.

The old truck gleamed under the overhead lights. Cross went over and touched a spot near the rust above a wheel. “Feels dry. Shall we get the plastic off the windows? I’ll have more energy to pull the masking tape now than at four-thirty in the morning.”

“I can do it. You don’t have to get up.”

“Two hands are better than one. You can help me put away the fans too.”

“Sure. Absolutely.”

They worked in easy silence. Cross peered at the silver “Chevrolet” nameplate. “I did a crappy tape job here. It appears you now drive a ‘hevrol’ truck.”

“Fine with me.” Rusty picked at a little fleck of paint on the rim of a taillight. “Seriously, this looks great. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

Cross flashed him a quick smile. “Anytime. Although I hope it won’t happen again.”

“It could.” Rusty had been ignoring that fact all day, but it settled heavily in his stomach now. “I don’t know if the spray paint was Tyler or not. They could come back. I got no way to stop them.”

“Park up close to the arena,” Cross suggested. “Where people walk around all the time. We could buy you a little camera for the truck.”

“No way. You’ve spent enough on me already.”

Cross looked away, almost shifty, but nodded. “Okay.”

“And I will pay you for the paint. Just, it might have to wait till I get paid.”

“I’ll email you the receipt, once I do the math on what we actually used. We have some left over. We can hang onto it for touchups, you can pay me if we need it.”

Rusty didn’t want to be coddled, but even twenty bucks did matter these days.

“Thanks.” He pulled the last tape off the top of the grill and stepped back.

The truck sat there, not a trace of the pink that had rubbed him raw as he drove to practice and then two hours up the 5, imagining everyone staring at him.

“Fuck. It’s not that I think pink is unmanly or something.

It’s just how other people react.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a second.

Cross tossed a ball of wadded up tape toward the trash.

“Anyone who says, ‘Don’t listen to the bigots,’ has never had to work around them.

I was on a line with Brett Price a few years back.

The racist shit some of the other players said to him on the ice was rough.

We told him he should get secretly miked up one game and post the audio, but he didn’t.

He punched out one creep, but then a couple of the guy’s linies took it out on him the next time they met.

It’s easy to say, ‘Ignore it,’ when you’re not the one getting cross-checked in the kidneys. ”

Rusty braced against a whole-body shudder.

“Sorry!” Cross said quickly.

“I just want to play, you know? Not deal with this shit. I’m not scared.

” Well not about getting cross-checked or whatever, although injuries could be career-ending and then what would he have?

A broke farm boy with no family and only a high-school diploma?

“I just… hockey shouldn’t have to be like that, just because Price is Black or I like to suck dick. ”

“The world’s kind of fucked up,” Cross agreed.

Rusty figured all that money and his straight—or straight-passing— white skin kept Cross from really knowing down in his gut just how fucked, but he meant well. “Yeah.”

“Come on.” Cross headed for the door to the house. “Let’s get a few hours of sleep before we have to get you on the road.”

“You don’t have to get up early for me,” Rusty insisted. “I can show myself out.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll want to deal with the security system.”

As Rusty passed Cross, he tripped over the stupid lip of the doorsill and stumbled into him. Cross grabbed him, strong arms tight around Rusty as he made a fool of himself. But Cross just laughed. “Oops.”

For a moment, Rusty let himself sag into Cross’s hold.

He leaned against the solid body supporting him and absorbed the feel of Cross’s hair against his cheek.

God, this has been a day. This hug felt even better than when Scott did it.

Hell, even after his rare goals, most of his team tapped his helmet or thumped his back instead of a hug.

Hands off the gay guy. In this moment, Cross held Rusty like he’d never let him fall.

An instant later, Rusty remembered himself and leaned away, feeling his face heat.

But Cross gave him a squeeze before letting go, as if he could tell Rusty needed it. “Long day for you, kid. Let’s get to bed.”

Being called “kid” didn’t spoil the hug but it did change it. Rusty needed to remember these NHL guys were friendly, but they weren’t his friends, not really. Mentors, maybe. Big brotherly, which wasn’t the same as buddies. “Sure. Thanks.” He pulled free and hurried inside. “Good night.”

If— once under the covers in that big bed— he allowed himself a moment, despite the desperate need for sleep, to recall the width of Cross’s shoulders, the raised veins on his strong hands and forearms as he gestured, and the shape of his mouth as he licked sauce off his lips, that was between Rusty and a conveniently full box of tissues.

It wasn’t like he’d ever do anything about this growing awareness.

Might as well get it off his brain so he could sleep.

At some point in the night, he woke thinking he’d heard a cry. Not a scream, maybe a shout, someone angry or afraid. Cross? He lay awake in the dark, silent room for a while, straining to hear any sounds, words, footsteps. For long minutes nothing happened. Maybe he’d been dreaming.

As he was drifting back off, he became aware of soft footsteps approaching, then pausing by his door.

Burglar? Murderer? Not likely given Cross’s security system, but he rolled on one elbow and tensed for action.

Except there was no knock, no more steps, no turn of the handle.

Just someone standing there outside his closed room as a minute passed.

Well, there was one obvious answer. He called, “Cross?”

“Uh. Yeah?” There was a small click, then Cross opened the door a fraction and peered in.

He wore only sleep pants draped low on his hips, revealing cut abs and his wide, furry chest. His hair stood in a tousled mess and the dim backlight meant Rusty couldn’t see his face. “Crap. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Rusty cleared his throat. “Is it time to get up?” He was surprised his time sense was that off.

Cross said hoarsely, “No. A couple of hours yet. Sorry. So sorry. I was… I didn’t mean to be creepy or anything. I just needed to be sure you were… I hope you can sleep some more. Goodnight.” He ducked out, closing the door behind him, and Rusty heard him hurry away.

That was weird. Not in a threatening way. Something in Cross’s voice had made Rusty ache, like maybe the guy needed a hug himself. But Rusty had a long drive coming up, a tough practice to get to, and a freaking early start. He pushed the puzzle of Roger LaCroix out of his mind and closed his eyes.