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“What are you grinning at?” Axel leaned out of his plush airplane seat to peer at Cross’s phone.

“Just a meme.” Which was true enough, since Rusty had sent him a video of two fighting defensemen trying to pull each other’s jerseys off, set to stripper music.

“You’re smiling at your phone a lot. Got a girl finally?”

“Yeah. It’s your mother.”

“Sure, be a secretive bastard.” Axel thumped Cross’s chest with his elbow but quit trying to read his screen, so Cross would take the bruise.

Cross shrugged. “My algorithm’s on point today.” If that algorithm happened to be Rusty’s, well, Axel didn’t need to know that. He turned his shoulders so Axel couldn’t see the phone.

In the last couple of weeks, Cross had spent more and more time chatting with Rusty.

At first, it was all coaching. He’d watch the Gryphons’ game on his streaming service, focusing on the shifts where Rusty was on the ice, and then send him some tips.

Also some pats on the back, since it was pretty clear Coach Frasier behind the bench wasn’t the type to over-encourage his young players.

Rusty deserved to know he was talented, better than the scores and stats showed. Cross wanted to make him feel good.

Then Rusty had sent, ~Sick goal!!! With a link to a video of Cross’s wraparound game-winner against Quebec.

Cross had sent back a clip of a ridiculous goal Scott made after getting his own rebound not just twice but three times.

That had turned into an exchange of hockey clips and funny TikToks.

As the days went by, they’d moved out of hockey to Star Wars and Dune, parkour and bad music videos, stupid pet tricks and cool street art.

Until now, Cross found himself waiting impatiently for the buzz in his pocket, and spending time searching out anything that might make Rusty laugh.

Connecting with Rusty made him realize that even with his teammates around him, he’d been lonely for years.

He had friends, but he’d never been anyone’s first choice to spend time with.

He and Rusty wouldn’t go farther than friends, obviously.

Right now, Rusty wasn’t getting along with his teammates, but someone that smart and determined and fun to talk to would find his niche eventually.

Cross would become the guy who mentored him, back when.

But until then, Cross would let himself feel that unfamiliar warmth when his messages lit up with Rusty’s name.

He’d enjoy having a friend who made him feel smart and funny back, like there was more to him than just hockey.

A new text arrived. ~I almost punched out Reno’s captain last night for messing with our goalie but I got him to punch me instead and then chase me. Earned him a two minute unsportsmanlike and five minute fighting. We scored twice.

~That’s my agent provocateur. Good job.

~Learning to keep my temper is one thing ignoring the bullshit taught me.

~Valuable lesson. Although Cross wished Rusty wasn’t learning it by ignoring whispers of “cocksucker” and “bet you got on your knees for the ref” along the boards.

Not that Rusty had snitched, but Cross knew the shit Scott dealt with, and was pretty sure Rusty heard the same.

God, sometimes Cross wished he could drop down a couple of leagues, just for a week.

He might not be enforcer-sized, but he would make a few of those ECHL punks regret their life choices.

Cross had to give Rusty credit though. He’d seen him on video working for the puck in the corners with an opponent clearly running off at the mouth, and Rusty more often than not would ignore the chirping, come out with the puck, and leave the asshole in the dust. ~Playing smart.

~Hey did you hear? Dale got into all the colleges he applied to. He texted me. I feel bad because we haven’t been in touch. My fault.

~He texted me too. Cross was beyond glad that Dale seemed to be getting his focus back and looking forward to college.

He wondered if the young goalie who’d shared that terrifying ride at gunpoint had been more successful than him at banishing the nightmares.

Ridiculous that dreams still shook him, since the things he dreamed about were disasters that never happened, not the ones that did.

Like the night Rusty stayed over. Cross had woken from a dream where a man with a gun lurked behind the door to Rusty’s room, someone who wanted Rusty dead, and he’d had to get up in the end and make sure all was well.

Then he’d been caught listening for Rusty’s breathing through the door, hoping he’d move or snore.

Outing yourself as a weirdo. But seeing Rusty alive and well had let him go back to sleep. Eventually.

Rusty went on, ~I kind of ghosted Dale last fall.

Cross focused back on his phone. ~Not your fault.

~Yeah it is. He was best friends with Mike, and I didn’t want to hear from him.

~You needed distance. You were coping with a lot.

~I guess.

Cross scrambled for something to take Rusty’s mind off his lost brother. ~I’ll be home tomorrow no practice. You’re in Eugene, right?

~Yeah. Morning practice. No game.

~There’s something I’ve wanted to show you about your grip on your backhand passing. You want to come up after practice? We could order pizza. He immediately worried if that was too much. Young guy, Saturday afternoon— Rusty probably had better things to do, like getting laid.

But the answer pinged back right away. ~Sounds great. I could use the help.

~You’re doing good. Just a few tips.

~Fucked up in Salt Lake City.

~Your D-partner didn’t back you up the way he should.

Cross was not a fan of the Gryphons’ Bryce Wilkins.

He was lazy and sloppy, especially when passing under pressure, and he didn’t follow through on his checking.

Let guys muscle him off the puck and left Rusty hanging.

Cross blamed Wilkins for Rusty’s mediocre plus-minus.

Rusty was way better than his numbers looked.

~And Wilkie’s ugly when he snores. A photo came through of Wilkins in a bus seat, head tipped back, mouth wide open, a little drool on his chin. ~I should’ve drawn a dick on his face, tip aimed just right…

Cross chuckled, warmth suffusing him. He loved that Rusty didn’t shy away from being himself, despite everything.

Axel reached over Cross’s shoulder and snatched the phone out of his hand. “That was not a meme laugh. That was a girlfriend is funny laugh. Lemme see.”

Scott lunged out of his seat behind them and grabbed the phone from Axel. “There is a thing called privacy. Don’t be a dick.” He held the phone back to Cross.

“Not from your teammates,” Axel whined. “Cross never tells us anything.”

“No one in their right mind tells you anything,” Scott retorted. As soon as Cross had his phone, Scott grabbed Axel in a headlock. They wrestled, tripping into the aisle and half-falling into Zykov’s lap.

“Do not squish your goaltender.” Zykov shoved Axel upright.

From the front of the plane, Coach Gustafsson called back, “You break a player roughhousing on the plane, and I’ll bench you for a week.”

“Who, coach?” Axel asked, breaking free.

“You, probably.”

Axel laughed. Scott shoved him farther down the aisle and took Axel’s seat next to Cross. “Sorry. He was raised by wolves.”

“Vicious Swedish wolves,” Axel said cheerfully, dropping into the seat Scott had vacated. “Fast and agile, make great hockey players.”

“Terrible at stick handling,” Zykov chimed in. “Clumsy front paws.”

“I should’ve landed on you harder,” Axel chirped. “Big fat Russian wolf.”

Cross listened to his teammates bickering, a smile hovering on his face.

Although he stowed his phone in his pocket.

Not that he was worried. His friends would be okay if they found out he was chatting with Rusty.

Well, of course they would, because it was a mentorship situation, no reason for them to imagine anything else.

Half that thread was hockey tips. Well, maybe a quarter now, but lots of it, a good reason to keep touching base with Rusty after all he’d been through.

Touching base, and maybe adding the occasional helping hand in secret.

Quasi-secret. Rusty had noticed the new security cameras at the Gryphons’ arena the day after Cross arranged and paid for the installation.

The whole point was deterrence, so the cameras were visible and marked with “This area under video surveillance” signage.

The next time Cross texted him, Rusty had said back, ~Suddenly there’s much better security at our arena. Crazy coincidence?

Cross had replied, ~Maybe they’re worried about liability.

~Uh huh. But Rusty hadn’t pushed back any further, which made Cross sure he’d done the right thing. If Rusty wasn’t getting on his case about spending the money, it was because the cameras made him feel safer and he didn’t want to lose them.

Cross wanted Rusty to feel safe, to be safe.

Three days ago, after a nightmare where it was Rusty rather than Scott in the back seat of that SUV and Tyler holding the gun, he’d briefly considered hiring the kid a bodyguard.

Luckily, morning sunshine and a couple of hours of sleep banished that ridiculous idea.

Cross refused to have that level of security for himself.

He wouldn’t burden Rusty with it, and Rusty would never accept it. Pink spray paint wasn’t bullets.

He’s a big boy. He’s fine. Even though Rusty was now heading back to his home arena and Tyler’s hometown.

“Are you okay?” Scott murmured. “You’re thinking about something hard.”

Cross wasn’t about to admit all the places his brain had gone, but Scott was Rusty’s other mentor. He could say, “Just thinking about Rusty being back in Eugene on a homestand for the next seven games.” They hadn’t told Scott about Tyler, but the paint episode had been public. “Arena parking lot.”

Scott screwed up his nose. “Hopefully the pink paint was a one-off. A pity there were no cameras.”

“There are now.”

Scott’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s proactive of them. I didn’t think the Gryphons management were those kind of allies.”

“Helps to have it done for free.”

“Ah.” After a minute of silence, Scott said, “Does Rusty talk to you about how he’s doing, flying the rainbow on the ice? I get little nothing-texts. Now in my case, I have all of you backing me up, and Will and Casey to talk to when shit gets real. Kenny punched out that mouthy defenseman in LA.”

“Before I could.” Cross had been willing, but not sorry to let his much larger D-partner deliver one for the team.

“Right. But I don’t get the feeling Rusty has that kind of backing from his teammates. Maybe he has other friends he can talk to, like Kris or his high school buddies, but I worry he’s trying to do it all alone.”

“He’s said a few things to me.” Cross hesitated, then added, “I’m going to have him come up tomorrow afternoon for some pizza and stick-handling coaching. I figure I’ll ask casually how he’s doing.”

“You’re a good man, Crossie.” Scott thumped Cross’s knee.

Not really. “You could come hang out too.” That was what a good man, a good mentor, should say. Cross realized that he didn’t want to share Rusty’s afternoon with Scott, so he pushed himself further. “And Axel or whomever.”

“Nah. I’m going to spend tomorrow sleeping and FaceTiming with my guys. I don’t need a teenager around for that.”

Cross winced at the reminder. Yeah, Rusty was a teenager. Nineteen, with a grown man’s job and problems, and clearly no virgin, but still. “Okay.”

“Tell him he can call me, though. Text, PM. Like, if he just wants to bitch about what some douchenozzle said to him along the boards, whatever. I can tell him he’s not the only one.

And half the time, it’s shit I heard before I came out.

Maybe they know it’s personal now, but that bullshit’s not new. ”

“I’ll tell him.”

“What were you laughing at before?”

“He sent me a pic of his D-partner asleep on the team bus. Dude was asking for a Sharpie facial.”

Scott snorted. “God, I do not miss those buses. I wasn’t in the ECHL, but even in the AHL. Twelve-hour rides. Plus, they always smelled of sweaty men, and not in a good way.”

Cross glanced around the Rafters’ private plane, complete with seats that gave Scott’s six-foot-three frame legroom, and had shoulder space for someone like Kenny. Not nearly as lush as his family’s jet, of course, but a long way from public transport. “We’re living the life.”

“If you don’t count the bruises.” Scott shifted in his seat. Cross remembered he’d taken a hard hit along the boards in the third period. “Although even those are better on a two-hour flight than a twelve-hour bus ride.”

Cross’s phone vibrated again in his pocket.

He suppressed the reflex to pull it out.

Rusty could wait. They were just shooting the breeze and Scott was Cross’s actual teammate.

“Tell me about the ranch,” he asked Scott.

“How’s Kris doing?” While he and Scott were mentoring Rusty, Will had taken on an eighteen-year-old girl with a love of horses.

“How’s Nita and all the horses? And your men? Anything new?”

He forced himself to pay attention to Scott’s answers.

After all, he did care about Casey and Will and Kris and the rest, after spending half of his summer getting to know them.

If his phone vibrated a couple more times, well, there was no reason for him to put idle chat with Rusty ahead of team bonding with Scott.