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Rusty pulled over to the curb a block away from Cross’s place and leaned his forearms on the steering wheel. He was not going to get weird about spending time with Cross. For all he knew, the invite was casual and there’d be a bunch of the guys there.

Cross took that mentor shit seriously. The fact that Rusty treasured his words more personally than Cross probably meant them was his own problem.

The fact that Rusty had spent more and more time scanning the internet for interviews with Cross, sweaty after a game, jersey stripped off to show his snug-fitting undergarment, didn’t mean Cross had any interest in him like that.

It was pathetic, really, the way Rusty sometimes scrolled back up through a chat, rereading and wondering if he saw more than just casual friendship on Cross’s end.

Sometimes he would swear Cross was flirting.

Then some other comment would make him doubt.

He’d almost sent a copy to Kris for her opinion, but she knew Cross and that felt like outing him.

If it was flirting. Which it probably wasn’t.

Rusty had a crush. He’d own that. Didn’t mean he was going to act on it. He knew Cross was way out of his league to begin with, and he’d get through the afternoon with his dignity intact. He squared his shoulders and put the truck in gear.

The gate across the driveway to Cross’s mansion— because that’s what it was— stood closed.

He had a moment of doubt, wondering if he’d gotten the day wrong or the time, but before he could panic or text Cross, the right side swung open.

He spotted a camera on the post as he drove through and wondered if Cross had been waiting for him to show up.

Or was there some kind of gatekeeping service? AI truck recognition?

Rusty had no real grip on how wealthy Cross was, or how he lived.

He kind of didn’t want to know. Top NHLers made millions, like, three to ten a year, which was more money than Rusty’s dad had made in his life.

Rusty could hope to do the same one day, even if that boggled his mind.

If Cross had more than that, Rusty didn’t want to think about it.

He parked close to the front door, took the steps in one bound, and hesitated. Doorbell? Knock? He settled for a rap of his knuckles on the door.

Cross opened immediately, smiling at him. “You’re here. Hey, did you bring your skates, gloves, stick? I forgot to tell you.”

“Yeah, you said stick handling, so I did. In the truck. Bring the skates too?” He wondered how that would work.

“Yes. Go grab them and come on in.”

Rusty dug his skates and gloves out of his bag, chose a stick, and carried them into the mansion. Cross closed the door and rearmed an alarm system behind them. “This way.” He led Rusty to the kitchen and down a flight of stairs to the basement.

Rusty blinked at the whiteness of a big sheet of plastic stretching maybe thirty by forty feet across the basement floor.

The scrapes and swirls on the surface created very familiar patterns.

“Artificial ice? Wow.” He’d heard you could get panels that mimicked a skating rink, good enough to practice on.

He’d never seen it. “The closest I’ve come to a rink in the basement was when my dad used to flood the—” Memories caught up with him, closing his throat.

Every winter for years, when a cold snap was predicted, Dad had turned a hose on the hollow behind the barn, giving them a skating rink for fun and hockey practice.

Bumpy ice, prone to melting on warmer days, but a gift.

Probably wouldn’t do that for the younger boys now.

Wouldn’t want them to grow up like Rusty…

He didn’t think he’d made a sound, but Cross put a warm, comforting hand on his back. “Check this out. No snow, no wind, and flat as hell. A bit sticky, though. Fifteen percent more friction resistance. You’ll get used to it fast.”

Casually lowering his hand, Cross went to a bench by the wall, lifted the top to get out a pair of skates and socks, sat on the seat, and began putting them on.

“The plastic won’t damage the blades?” Rusty assumed not, but he didn’t have extra skates and the team might not cover equipment he messed up away from the arena.

“No, you’re good. Doesn’t hurt to sharpen them afterward, get the little shavings off them, but it won’t damage anything.” Cross patted the other end of the bench. “Lace up.”

Rusty set his stick at the edge of the “ice” surface and sat.

The bench was narrow. Cross’s arm brushed his as they laced their skates.

Rusty automatically shifted over to the edge of the seat, then realized, I don’t have to.

Cross didn’t care about Rusty in his space, didn’t hesitate in the practiced motions of his fingers.

Rusty was so used to avoiding any contact with his teammates that this simple moment felt like freedom.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second before finishing off his laces.

The practice ice was small, maybe an eighth of a real rink, but enough to get several good strokes down the long sides.

Cross had been right about the grippiness.

Rusty’s skates didn’t glide quite right.

But after a few minutes, the motions began to feel more natural.

Cross was watching, skating backward ahead of him, doing lazy crossovers around the corners.

“It’s not the same, but it’s really cool. And not cold.” Rusty grinned. “Now what?”

“Grab your stick, and I’ll get some pucks. We’re going to start with a rush— well, a very short rush— down the ice, with you on your backhand, and pass to me. Let me see in person what you’re doing. But take the puck down the ice yourself a couple of times first. Get a feel.”

They both pushed off from one end of the surface.

The ice length was enough for six or seven full strides before they had to stop or turn, and Rusty grinned at Cross after the first rush.

The puck didn’t glide quite the same either, but well enough to stickhandle, and despite Cross’s speed, Rusty didn’t get smoked. At least, not over that short distance.

“Right.” Cross stopped at the end after three rushes and gestured. “Swap sides and try that pass.”

They made a couple of runs before Cross said, “Okay. That’s what I was seeing on video. You have your blade at too shallow an angle. You’re not cupping over the puck enough, and that’s making the pass harder to control.” He tossed his gloves aside and moved up behind Rusty. “Here, let me show you.”

Rusty held his breath as Cross’s compact body plastered against his back. Cross reached around to adjust Rusty’s grip on the stick with each hand, guiding him to nudge at the puck. “Like this. Lower this hand a couple inches and roll the blade a little more.”

There’s nothing sexual about this. He doesn’t mean anything by it. Rusty’s dick wasn’t listening to his brain. He should’ve worn a cup. Should’ve worn looser sweatpants. Cross’s breath feathered across Rusty’s neck and his hip bumped Rusty’s ass. Fuck.

He tried to pay attention and do as he was told.

Cross stepped away. Thank God. “Let’s try that again.”

They ran through the passing play a few more times, and Cross said, “Try going all the way down, we’ll swap sides around the end for speed, and pass to me on the way back.”

That maneuver gave them a faster pattern but Rusty screwed up the pass the first time. Cross had to kick it to his stick with a skate. “Sorry.” Rusty plowed to a stop. “Again?”

“Yep.”

The second time, the pass looked good to him, but Cross stopped and beckoned. “Close but not quite.” He dropped his stick and gloves. “Come here. Let me show you better.”

Please not. But Rusty had no reason to refuse so he skated over and assumed the position in front of Cross. Hip against my ass, thigh to thigh, hands on my arms. Fuck. He imagined what he’d like to have Cross do in this position. Is he hard too? Rusty couldn’t tell.

But in the middle of a sentence Cross stopped talking and froze. Rusty looked back over his shoulder. Cross met his eyes, pupils dilated, and then he licked his lips. His gaze dropped to Rusty’s mouth and back up. Cross’s lips were right there, level with Rusty’s as they bent in their stance.

Don’t do it! You’re going to fuck everything up. Think! Rusty’s body went on a thinking-strike, though, as he turned, leaned forward, and found Cross’s mouth with his own.

Rusty hadn’t kissed a lot of guys— his hookups hadn’t usually included much kissing, and Tyler hadn’t liked it— but he thought Cross was into what they were doing.

Cross tilted his head so they fit together better and threaded his hand into Rusty’s hair, holding him in place.

Cross’s lips parted and their tongues met, hot and eager.

Then Cross jolted, let go of him, and made a sudden backward movement that landed him on his ass on the fake ice, staring up at Rusty.

They both said, “Sorry!” at the same time.

Rusty narrowed his eyes. “What’re you sorry for? I kissed you, and you’re the one with bruises from hitting the floor.”

“That’s okay. Not your fault. I forgot I was on skates.”

“You are into men, right?” Rusty felt a sudden panic. “I didn’t, like, come on to a straight guy?”

“I’m not straight. I kissed you back. I probably invited it. That’s very unprofessional of me.”

“What profession are we talking about here?” Rusty crossed his arms, trying to suppress his embarrassment, his gloves bulky and in the way. All of him felt too big and in the way.

“I’m your mentor. I’m twice your age—”