Page 13

“No, you’re not. I’m not fifteen. Thank God, or this really would be inappropriate.

” He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant because way to make things even more awkward, then met Cross’s gaze.

“I’m a grown man with a full-time job. Maybe I haven’t fucked as many people as you have—” For some reason, that made Cross look away and flush.

Maybe he’d had a man-whore phase. “—but I’m not even close to a virgin.

As you know. You’re not my coach and you’re not my captain.

If you’re not into me you can say so. I don’t need to be let down gently with this ‘it’s unprofessional’ bullshit. ”

“Sorry. I…” Cross made no effort to get up. “I am into you, in a way.”

In a way. Well, fuck, that hit Rusty under the ribs. Don’t get enthusiastic or anything.

Cross continued, “That doesn’t change the fact that you’re nineteen and I’m thirty. You’re just starting out and I’m… this.” He waved at the indoor rink and the mansion above it.

“You don’t want people to think you’re slumming it with some broke kid from the ECHL?” Rusty knew he wasn’t in Cross’s league, physically, professionally, monetarily. Fuck if he needed his nose rubbed in it.

“No!” It was Cross’s turn to squeeze his eyes shut. “I didn’t mean anything bad by that. You’re a great guy. Injury gods willing, you’re going to be raking in millions yourself someday soon.”

So what’s the problem? Because Rusty could recognize a stop sign when it was shoved in his face.

His eyes burned and his throat felt tight, but he managed a steady voice.

“You know what? Doesn’t matter why you’re saying no.

I took a shot. You shut it down. I’m good with the friendzone.

Now, can we try that backhand pass again? ”

Cross tilted his head. “Really?”

“Yeah.” It was his own fault if he’d hoped, just for a moment, that he’d found something really good for himself.

He wasn’t ridiculous enough to stomp off in a huff, or cry, or whatever, when a top NHL defenseman was still willing to teach him.

“I appreciate the help.” He pulled off one glove and held his hand down to Cross. His fingers didn’t shake at all.

Cross hesitated, then closed his strong hand over Rusty’s and accepted the boost to his feet. He scooped up his gloves and stick, not looking at Rusty, but after a shake of his head, he said, “Right. Okay. Let’s run that same play again.”

Rusty’s first couple of passes were sloppy, but he found his rhythm eventually.

Cross was patient and didn’t make fun of his mistakes.

They connected on enough backhands for Cross to say Rusty had the idea, then switched to figuring out which direction an oncoming puck carrier was going to break.

Cross was tricky, using eyes and body language to fake Rusty out.

Rusty was glad the lack of guards and pads kept their body contact to a minimum.

Despite skating on such a small surface, they worked up a sweat, with the lack of ice and chill. Rusty’s sweatshirt clung to his back by the time Cross said, “Water break?”

“Sounds good.”

Turned out there was a minibar in the next room— because of course there was. Cross fetched them cold bottles of water. Rusty pressed his to his forehead. It gave him a good reason not to watch Cross chugging down water, head back, throat rippling— fuck. Not looking.

He popped the cap and took a long drink.

“Maybe we should call it quits,” Cross suggested. “We covered the two things I had on the top of your list. Next time you come, I’ll turn down the thermostat the night before. Two of us generate a lot more heat than one.”

Rusty wasn’t going to touch the possible jokes with a ten-foot pole. He felt a little better at the sound of “next time.” I didn’t fuck us up completely. “Sure. Let me get my skates and I can head out.”

“Do you have to?” Cross turned to him, frowning. “We were going to order pizza.”

“I’m sure you have other people you can hang out with.”

“Well, yeah, but… Seems silly for you to drive a four-hour round trip to spend less than two hours here. You might as well stick around and have something to eat?”

Rusty hesitated. After that mess of a kiss, he didn’t really want to sit beside Cross on his comfortable couch and eat pizza. What were the odds he’d manage to not say the wrong thing or move the wrong way? He needed time to kill his inconvenient attraction properly dead.

But Cross looked upset, and it was now rush-hour, which meant a two-hour drive home would become four. Rusty could stay a couple more hours and still arrive at about the same time. “Okay, sure, I guess. I could fuck up a pizza right now.”

Cross’s expression brightened. “I’ll order two. What toppings do you want?”

This time, when they unlaced their skates on the little bench, their arms didn’t touch.

Rusty sat at the very edge of the seat to make sure of that.

But they argued about pineapple and olives, and the tension Rusty’d worried about didn’t take hold.

Cross pretended to dump him off the bench to get at a soft brush for cleaning their blades.

Rusty beat him in a race up the stairs. And when Cross suggested they play video games while waiting for the food to arrive, Rusty was able to relax enough to have fun.

They put on a movie when the pizzas showed up and sat side by side to eat, watching spaceships explode. Cross didn’t offer Rusty a beer, but then, he was drinking water himself, so Rusty decided not to take that wrong.

The movie was decent and they kept watching when the food was gone.

The plot could’ve been written on the back of a postage stamp, but the special effects were impressive.

Rusty also appreciated that the hero got his shirt ripped several times.

As the main characters crouched behind a wrecked fighter, dust swirling around them and lasers flashing over their heads, Rusty nudged Cross.

“How much you want to bet his shirt gets snagged on something and shredded. Again.”

“Not taking that bet,” Cross said. “They’re trying to get their money’s worth out of his pecs and abs, since they won’t out of his acting.”

“Ouch. He’s still better than she is. When that android was attacking, she looked like she was constipated.”

“The android has a better emotional range than either of them.”

Rusty grinned. “Maybe the android can get the girl in the end, and the hero can go off and do a sit-up competition with the alien warlord.”

“Sadly, I have a feeling they’re too conventional for that.” Cross leaned forward, peering at the screen. “Wait, is that the missing robot? Mechanicals save the day— fuck!” He barked a laugh as the robot vanished in a cloud of smoke, then dropped back against the couch. “Bye, little robot.”

Rusty noticed that Cross’s shoulder had landed against his.

The distance he’d carefully maintained had been eradicated.

Cross didn’t seem aware as he shook his head over the climactic battle, muttering about the aliens having taken shooting lessons from Imperial stormtroopers.

His shoulder and hip stayed warm against Rusty’s, a light scent of male sweat shared between them.

Friends. We’re friends. Rusty didn’t have many friends.

He wouldn’t turn that down. Seven months with the Gryphons and he still didn’t have a teammate he could call up and say, “Hey, wanna hang out?” Bellser was a good guy, but married and trying to raise a kid on his and his wife’s earnings.

He didn’t have a second to spare when the team was home.

Having someone like Cross around to say, “Hey, want to come over for pizza and a movie?” Rusty would drive a lot more than two hours for that, even without the coaching.

He pulled his attention off Cross’s profile in his peripheral vision and focused on the CGI aliens and robots getting blown up by explosions onscreen.