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Rusty sprinted back down the ice, chasing the opposing left winger on a breakaway toward the Gryphons’ net.

Not his fault, he’d been where he was supposed to be, but Wilkins had delivered the puck right onto the Mountaineers forward’s tape like he was gifting the dude with a pass. What the fuck, Wilkie?

Ericksby wasn’t as far out of the goal as he should’ve been to cut down the angle.

Too far behind the winger, Rusty lunged, shoving his stick forward, trying for some kind of poke check.

The winger hurdled his stick and flipped a wrist shot into the top corner over their backup goalie’s glove.

The goal horn melded with the clang of Rusty sliding shoulder-first into the goal post.

Double fuck. He got up, rotating his arm, and gave Ericksby’s pads a thump with his stick. “Our mistake, dude. Sorry.”

Ericksby nodded, tipped his mask back, and squirted water down his throat.

Rusty headed back to the bench.

Halfway through the second period, and they were already down four-one.

Coach would have steam coming out of his ears after that boneheaded play.

Sure enough, when he swung over the boards, they were all getting the heavy glower and angry pacing from Coach, although Coach Nery did say, “Good hustle, Dolan.” That helped some.

Suddenly, as they lined up for the faceoff in their end, the arena began chanting something. It took a moment for Rusty to recognize, “Cross! Cross! Cross!”

What the hell?

Bellser pointed up at the scoreboard video screen. “Looks like we have famous company tonight.”

Sure enough, the screen showed Cross sitting in the stands somewhere ten rows up, a Seattle Mariners ballcap over his dark hair.

When he realized he’d been spotted, Cross half-rose, waved, and then pointed down at the ice.

The crowd chanted a few more times, then settled for the ref to drop the puck.

What’s he doing here?

Not that Cross couldn’t come to any game he wanted to.

The Rafters had a night off and the Tacoma Tornados were on a road trip, so if Cross wanted to indulge his hockey obsession with live action, this was the place to be.

It didn’t mean anything that he hadn’t told Rusty he was coming.

Maybe it was spur of the moment. Maybe he’d texted and Rusty had already been suiting up.

He’d probably find a text on his phone after the game.

He always wanted to win, but knowing Cross was in the stands made him dig a little deeper. Sneaking a backhand pass between two defensemen and square onto Bellser’s tape was a moment of pride, even if Bellser didn’t get it past the Mountaineers’ goalie. Rusty wondered if Cross had noticed.

Probably. The guy seemed to notice every detail happening on the ice. Watching game tape with him was like a masterclass.

The Mountaineers scored again with two minutes left in the period.

At least Rusty wasn’t on the ice for that goal, but they went into the locker room down five-one with twenty minutes left to play.

Rusty sucked down his electrolytes and listened to the chatter around him.

Players chirped each other about shots a drunk man should’ve sunk and blind passes that missed by a mile.

No one talked to Rusty, one way or the other. He was used to that.

Coach Frasier came in before the third period and gave them a lecture about controlling the puck in their own end and not needlessly screening their own fucking goalie.

He called out Morty for his sloppy passing and Rusty grimaced.

Mortenson was always fun to play with when he’d been ripped a new one.

They’d be lucky if the bastard didn’t take a bad penalty when the team needed it least.

Rusty wondered if Coach would pull Ericksby and put Lindy in net for the third period, but their first-string goalie needed the rest and frankly, most of those goals were on the defensemen, not Rickie.

Coach finished up with, “We have one of the best defensemen in the league up there in the stands. Show him you have some idea how to protect our own net.”

As inspiring speeches went, that left something to be desired.

But Rusty really wanted to come through for Cross anyhow.

Sadly, the rest of the game was the same shitshow as the first two periods.

Bubs did put one in the opposing net at the four-minute mark, but then Morty checked a Mountaineer behind the play and got called for boarding.

Only a minor, but their opponents capitalized and made it six-two.

That took any steam out of the Gryphons, and they were lucky to get out of the game only four goals down.

Ericksby practically stood on his head keeping shots out of their net in the last ten minutes.

The fact he was named the third star of the game after letting in six said a hell of a lot about the Gryphons’ defense. None of it good.

Rusty hustled to the locker room and into the showers.

He wondered if Cross would stick around till he came out.

Okay, also wondered if Cross had maybe come down specifically to see him.

If maybe another kiss wasn’t impossible.

His stupid dick got optimistic and he had to turn the water cool, until he was shivering and his dick got the message.

Cross wanted to be friends. No benefits. Rusty would get that through his own thick skull eventually.

When he was back in his clothes, he headed for the parking lot.

“You’re in a hurry. Got a hot date?” Wilkie called after him.

Rusty grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Morty sneered. “Ew. No. We have no interest in where you’re getting your f—”

Coach Nery’s throat clearing headed off the obvious slur, but it soured Rusty’s mood. He slammed his way out of the door and stomped to the players’ exit.

KigoElectric Arena didn’t have barriers between the players and the fans.

There was usually a crowd waiting in the parking area after a win, but not so much after a loss.

So Rusty was surprised to step out of the exit into a throng of fans.

Until he realized that they weren’t looking at the door waiting for the Gryphons.

The guy standing off in the center of the crowd was Cross, chatting with fans and signing autographs.

Because of course he was. Cross wasn’t just any old NHLer, but perhaps the most popular player on the Rafters. Probably a bunch of these folks would feel it was worth the crappy loss they’d endured to have a moment one on one with Cross.

You’re just jealous, a voice in Rusty’s head told him.

He bared his teeth at the thought and took his grumpy ass off toward his truck.

He wasn’t going to wade through that crowd like he was something special to Cross.

Especially with all the cell phones out taking pictures.

Cross knew what Rusty’s truck looked like.

He could come find him when he was done being the local hero.

As he skirted the crowd, Rusty had to dodge around people.

A couple turned and actually asked for his autograph, which was a little balm on his soul after that game.

He signed a hat and a team picture, shook a few hands before some of his better-known teammates coming out pulled attention away.

He was distracted enough that he was putting his skates into his truck before he spotted Tyler, standing by the rear wheel.

Rusty slammed the door on his fucking thousand-dollar skates— although at least now the team paid for his equipment— and turned to face Tyler. “What do you want?”

“Aw, come on baby. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Fuck off.”

“After I spent all this time waiting for you?” Tyler smiled. “Come on, I know you don’t mean that. Did you miss me on your road trip?”

Rusty clenched his teeth against the impulse to shove Tyler into a puddle. No doubt there were cameras and ears turned his way. The last thing he needed was to get booted from the league for abusing a fan. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Tyler said, “I just want to talk. Hey, you got a new truck. That’s cool.”

“It’s the same fucking truck, with a fifty-dollar coat of spray paint.” He stuck a finger into one of the holes in the fender and wiggled it.

A shifty look twisted Tyler’s smile. “Aww. Did something happen to your paint?”

Rusty sucked air through his teeth. “I was in a mood for black.”

“I think I saw it. It was pink, right?”

“Are you pretending you didn’t do it?”

“Me? I’m not some ’phobe. I would never.”

Rusty was pretty convinced that was a lie.

Tyler added, “You should have told me so I could protect you, you know? As your boyfriend, it’s my job to make sure nothing happens to you or your stuff.”

“You’re not my boyfriend. We broke up. I’m with someone else.”

“You got a little emotional and stepped away for a moment. I’m not holding that against you.

” Tyler pressed his hand over where a normal human would have a heart.

“I forgive you. Now that short, ugly muscle-dude is out of the picture, we can forget all about him. Want to go for a drink? I know a place.”

“No! No drink. No anything. Go away!”

Tyler stepped closer and closed his fingers on Rusty’s arm. “You know you don’t mean that. We’re so good together.”

Rusty shook him off. “Don’t touch me. Look over there.” Rusty pointed dramatically toward the nearest camera and was pleased when Tyler turned that way, then scowled. “Yeah, you’re on camera. Keep your hands to yourself or…or I can charge you with assault.”

“For touching your arm? When you’re so much bigger than me? Oh, baby, they’d laugh you out of court.” But Tyler backed up and turned his head away from the surveillance, which showed he knew he was crossing a line.

“Stay away from me. Find someone else who likes to be manhandled and made to feel like shit.”