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Tyler’s face darkened and any hint of a smile vanished. “Hey, is that nice? That’s not nice. And I brought you a present and everything.” Something about his expression and voice made Rusty wonder if he was high.

“Jesus, would you just fucking fuck off already?”

Someone cleared their throat behind Rusty and he flinched, but when he turned it wasn’t a fan or worse, his coach. Cross raised an eyebrow at Tyler. “You again? Does Rusty need a restraining order?”

“We’re just having a conversation—” Tyler broke off as a couple of fans hurried over in Cross’s wake.

“Sorry, so sorry, Cross. Mr. LaCroix. If you could just sign this for our son. To Mitchell.” The woman thrust out a crumpled hockey jersey in Gryphon colors.

Cross took it, scrawled with his Sharpie, and handed it back. He fixed a glare on Tyler, then looked harried as more fans approached. “You’re done here. Rusty, get clear and text me.” Whirling, he strode off, trailing clumps of people who kept dogging him, getting them out of Rusty’s business.

Tyler stared in Cross’s wake. “That’s the guy? LaCroix, huh? Seems like he’s a big deal. I wonder just how rich he is. Might be willing to pay for his privacy.”

Rusty almost grabbed Tyler and punched him.

Sanity and a memory of the cameras kept him back at the last moment.

“You keep your dirty hands off Cross and stay away from me. As for how rich he is?” A moment with Google would answer that question for Tyler, so he said, “If you try to out him or threaten him, he’s rich enough to hire someone to bury you fifty feet deep and never be asked a single question. ”

“Hm.” Tyler didn’t look half as intimidated as Rusty had hoped. “I bet a thousand bucks a week would be pocket change for that guy, huh? We could split it. You and me, baby.”

Rusty had no words left. He swung up into his truck, started the engine, and tapped the horn. If Tyler was too stupid to move, he could have his foot run over.

The lingering crowd meant Rusty had to back up carefully, a foot at a time.

Tyler had stepped out of range, but Rusty didn’t like the way he was staring over at Cross’s shiny Highlander.

Fuck, fuck, fuck that douchebag. His ridiculous brain reminded him that fucking Tyler was how this whole mess had started.

Shit! What if he outs Cross? That’d be all my fault.

He should’ve stayed away, shouldn’t have called Cross for help, shouldn’t have pulled a guy as good as Cross into the orbit of a slimeball like Tyler. How do I fix this? Rusty prided himself on being a problem solver, but he didn’t know how to solve this one.

He left the arena parking lot, merged into traffic, then pulled into a gas station a few blocks down and got out his phone. There hadn’t been an “I’m coming to your game” message on it when he’d hit the locker room, but there were a couple now.

~Waiting for you outside.

~Too much of a crowd. Is there somewhere we can meet for coffee?

Rusty thought about that. There were some decent coffee houses around, including some that weren’t sports fan hangouts, but he wanted more than that.

He urgently needed to talk to Cross about Tyler, and about them, whatever “them” meant.

No way could he do that in public. ~You want to come to my place?

It’s not much but my landlady’s out of town.

Mrs. Murinko was visiting her grandkids and they’d be safe from prying eyes.

He had to wait a few minutes of second-guessing the invite, before Cross texted back, ~Sure. Address?

Rusty sent it, then pulled out immediately to make sure he got there first. He had no clue how he’d left the place, although his mom had ensured his dirty laundry never went on the floor. Dishes in the sink, on the other hand… He picked up his speed another notch.

He didn’t see the Highlander when he arrived, so hopefully he’d beaten Cross. But as he trotted down the steps alongside the house, the SUV pulled into the driveway behind his truck. With a sigh, Rusty waited for Cross to catch up. “Hey, you made it.”

“Yeah. I—” Cross paused beside Rusty’s pickup, staring into the bed. “Uh, there’s flowers in here. Are they yours?”

“Flowers?” Rusty bolted back up the stairs and grabbed the tailgate, staring in. Sure enough, the bed of the truck held a giant bouquet of flowers, mostly daisies, wrapped in white paper. He reached in and snagged the wrapper, lifting them out.

The paper had a red heart drawn in marker on the underside, with “MINE” written in capital letters inside the heart.

Rusty searched between the stems, then shook the bouquet upside down, releasing a small shower of petals onto the damp pavement but no card or note fell out.

Still, Tyler had said, “I brought you a present.” “Motherfucker.”

“Tyler?”

“Yeah, I’m sure of it.”

“What did he say to you before I arrived?”

“Called me his boyfriend. Acted like we were still dating. I bet he painted the truck, too. He said he ‘saw’ it. Just happened to be at the back of the parking lot on a game night, right?”

Cross stepped closer, glowering. “Did he make any threats?”

“No. He was being all pretend-lovey. Or… at least no threats to me.” Rusty’s throat tightened. “We should go in and talk. Down this way.” He stuffed the flowers in the trash can on their way around the house.

The sliding door let them into Rusty’s basement apartment. He took a quick look at his kitchen area but the worst seemed to be a couple of mugs on the counter. His bed wasn’t made but it was behind the divider so hopefully Cross wouldn’t notice. “Can I make you coffee or get a water or something?”

“Water would be good.” Cross gave him an appealingly crooked grin. “I spent a bunch of time yelling up in the stands.”

For a moment, Rusty was happy to have this be about hockey and pretend Tyler hadn’t happened. “Yelling for us or at us?”

Cross laughed. “A bit of both, honestly. You guys had a bunch of turnovers. You’re clearly the standout on defense, although Petrov and Nichols do okay.”

“Uh, thanks. They’re the first pair, so yeah, I’m not quite up there yet.”

“You could be. But they have a decent partnership going and I imagine your coach doesn’t want to split them up.” While Rusty let himself feel all gooey and warm inside at the praise, Cross turned in a circle. “Is this, like, a studio apartment?”

“I guess that’s what you’d call it. One big room and a bathroom. It works.” Rusty kicked off his shoes on the boot tray even though the concrete floor was cold through his socks.

Cross followed suit, glancing over at what passed for Rusty’s kitchen. “I suppose you’re super limited by the ECHL allowance.”

“Yeah, they cover a furnished room in an apartment. Otherwise, no one could afford to play for West Coast and big city teams.” Rusty eyed his living space.

“Most of the guys room together, but I was the new gay guy when I got here, and I wasn’t sure any of them would want to room with me.

Sharing an apartment is different from sharing a locker room, especially if one of us wanted to bring home a date. I was lucky to find this place.”

“Do you bring dates back here?”

Rusty figured that was really none of Cross’s business, but the answer was easy.

“Nope. Haven’t so far. I went to their place, mostly, or, you know, public.

My landlady’s elderly, the ceiling is thin, and I can get loud.

” And he didn’t want meaningless guys in his first real personal space, but that sounded uncool to admit.

Cross nodded a few times, his brows scrunched like that bothered him for some reason. “Sure. Makes sense.” He seemed to shake himself and changed the subject. “What was the deal with Tyler? Has he been hanging around you, contacting you?”

“Unless you count the truck, that’s the first time I’ve seen him since that night in the bar. Although he has been texting, changing numbers when I block him.”

“What does he want?”

“To get together, I guess. He said he forgave me for cheating with you. Tried to grab me. I told him to get lost, pointed out the cameras.” Rusty fixed his eyes on Cross. “Be honest. Did you pay for those?”

“Ah.” Cross looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sort of. Yeah. It’s a good thing to have, when there’s crowds mixing with players. Gives the arena a record of any kind of trouble.”

Rusty was torn between irritation and gratitude.

Pointing out that camera to Tyler had been enormously satisfying, but he didn’t want Cross’s money buying him out of his problems. Especially not in an underhanded way like that.

“Next time, ask me first. No, you know what? Let’s just not have a next time.

I’m not going to tell the arena to take down the cameras.

That would be fucking stupid. But I don’t need you solving my life for me with your money. ”

“You called me the first time.”

“Yeah, okay, I did. But for ideas, right? As a friend. Not some kind of sugar daddy savior!”

Their eyes met. Rusty was breathing fast and he saw Cross’s chest rise and fall.

Anger mixed with something very different, and Rusty stepped closer, into Cross’s personal space.

Cross’s lips parted and his eyes widened.

Rusty was in a reckless mood, so he reached out and laid a hand on Cross’s sweater over his heart. “Are we going to talk about this part?”

“What part?” The squeak at the end of that sentence betrayed Cross’s nerves.

Rusty liked thinking he wasn’t the only one off-balance. He lowered his hand but didn’t step back. “The part where I was fired up like an electric charge, knowing you were in the stands.”

“You played well—”

“The part where I really want to kiss you again. And maybe more.”

“Oh.” Cross licked his lips but didn’t lean closer. “Yeah, we should probably talk about that.”

Rusty waited but Cross didn’t seem to have anything to actually say, just shrugged, then looked down.