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The Eugene Gryphons goaltender Lindstrom whacked at Rusty’s shins with his big stick as Rusty skated past in practice Friday morning. “You were supposed to be on top of the winger, kid. Not gazing at the rafters like you can’t wait to go off and get laid.”

I wasn’t! Rusty knew better than to say anything. Lindy wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t any kind of friend. Besides, Rusty had screwed up the man-on-man defense in front of the net. “Sorry, dude.”

Coach barked from over by the bench, “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Dolan. Get your head in the game and your ass in gear.”

“Yes, sir.” Rusty circled behind the net and lined up for the faceoff, working on deep even breaths, feeling the shake of exhaustion starting in his legs.

They were scrimmaging first line against second after a long, hard practice.

Even though Rusty was super proud of being on the second defense pair in his first ECHL season, that didn’t keep him from feeling like the opposing forwards could skate him into the ice.

They’re so fucking fast. High school hockey to the pros, even at this level, was a giant leap.

Only a summer’s practice spent futilely defending against Scott Edison, hotshot goal-scorer of the NHL, gave Rusty any hope of keeping up with these guys. Seven months working with the team by now, and he was still scrambling. But what did Cross always say? Make it happen?

By the time they’d finished the scrimmage and worked half an hour on the penalty kill, which he was also honored to be on, fuck , he was ready to fall over.

Five months into the regular season, and he was skinnier than he wanted to be, and not gaining stamina in exchange. At least not that he could tell.

Still, Coach Nery, Frasier’s assistant, gave him a nod and “Good effort at the end there, Dolan.”

He’d take that for a win.

Less of a win was the familiar dance he did around showering.

Their captain, Petrov, had welcomed him to the team on day one, same as the rest of the rookies, but his tone and expression had showed he wasn’t a fan, and his indifference about what happened to Rusty since then proved it.

Six months had calmed down the worst homophobes.

Rusty could now shower with the rest without worrying his gaze might accidentally wander in someone’s direction.

But the hazing and pranks that’d stopped months back for the other rookies hadn’t ended for Rusty, and Petrov just let things happen.

Scott had reassured him at the start that the Gryphons’ room had a decent reputation, not as nasty or as cutthroat as some. Either Scott’s info was outdated or those other teams must be awful, but he hadn’t said a word to anyone. He wasn’t a crybaby.

He stripped by his locker. Eyes forward, he headed to the showers and grabbed the empty last stall.

After two incidents with the arena’s house soap and shampoo, he’d started bringing his own.

Blue streaks down his chest that took days to fade, or smelling like garlic, made a man wise.

The warm water felt amazing on his skin, the water pressure a miracle in this older venue.

He showered a long time, soaping up twice, trying to be subtle about washing his balls and ass.

Not that Cross would likely care how clean he was, as long as the rancid hockey funk was gone. But still, he wanted to look his best for his hero.

He’d never admit it, but Cross was everything Rusty wanted to be.

Not just rich, although it turned out his family owned a private plane, but hockey-smart and life-smart, good looking and cool and friendly with everyone.

Plus a player so talented that his smaller size didn’t keep him from laying the biggest forwards out flat with his speed and leverage and timing.

A Norris best-defenseman trophy winner, and an All-Star three years in a row.

And cool. Cross had apparently been super cool under pressure, driving that fucking SUV when he and Scott and Casey and Dale were hijacked last summer.

Fury rose up in Rusty at the memory of all that happened, bitter acid scalding his throat as hot as the shower on his back.

The man who’d tried to use Scott as a hostage with a gun to his head, had tried to force Cross to help him escape justice?

That was Coach Dawson, Rusty’s high school hockey coach.

The guy who taught him saucer passes and gap control.

Someone Rusty, Dale, and all their teammates had trusted on the ice and in the locker room, and in the end, a man making his money off drugs in the school.

A man who’d turned a blind eye to murder that ripped Rusty’s family apart.

A motherfucking, kid-killing bastard that Rusty would have given his keys to, would’ve obeyed, would’ve helped , until the mask was pulled away.

Rusty gritted his teeth against a rough breath. Thank God Casey had stopped Dawson. Had then tracked down and busted Dawson’s accomplice, Mike’s true killer, and brought them both to justice.

Mike.

Tears stung Rusty’s eyes and he turned his face into the spray of the shower.

Little brother. Last summer had been a clusterfuck, a fragmentation grenade going off inside Rusty’s life.

When it was over, his parents had disowned him, his coach was a drug dealer, his high school teammate Dale was traumatized by that violent car ride, and his brother Mike was dead at sixteen.

Rusty scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to push the memories aside. The locker room was a bad place to get emotional. Cross. Think about Cross.

In the aftermath, Cross had been a steady presence for them all.

Dale said when he’d thought they were going to die, Cross’s calm voice and steady gaze had helped him keep his head.

And then when Scott, Will, and Casey immediately took off after the killer, Dale said Cross had been at his side through the medical check and the police station and all the crap that followed.

Cross had come back and stayed in Kansas for weeks afterward, too, playing hockey with Scott and Rusty and Dale and the other team guys, encouraging them, reminding them the world had good guys in it.

He’d paid for a therapist for Dale when his family’s insurance wouldn’t cover the cost. Cross had been like a rock for all of them.

Rusty had gone through some emotional shit, between losing his brother and getting kicked out by his family, and while he’d talked to a therapist, working with Cross on his defense skills had been the best thing for quieting down his ridiculous brain.

Scott, Will, and Casey had done their best for Rusty and his friends, and Scott’s willingness to train with him all summer was probably the reason Rusty had a spot on the Gryphons, but it was Cross who’d made him feel like he could make it.

And in the months since then, sporadic texts from Cross had been bright spots in his weeks of daily hockey grind. He heard from Scott off and on, and Will fairly regularly, but seeing Cross’s name pop up on his message list was…

Snap!

A painful line of fire bit across his ass. Rusty snorted water as he jumped and whirled around.

Morty stood back far enough from the shower to stay dry, swinging a thin piece of cord from one hand. He laughed at Rusty’s glare. “Falling asleep in the shower, Dodo? Wouldn’t want you to drown. You should thank me for waking you up.”

Rusty managed not to put a hand to the whip line across his butt.

He debated directing a stream of shower water onto Morty’s shoes.

The correct angle of his palm would do the job.

Even though it was the beginning of March, driving home with soaked sneakers would be uncomfortable.

But the petty-retaliations game had gotten so, so old.

Rusty assumed a bland expression. “Yeah, I’m exhausted.

Ready to go home.” He kept an eye on Morty’s hand with the cord, ready to dodge, because a lash across the dick would be a hell of a lot harder to ignore.

He saw Morty think about it, his hand moving in a bigger arc, but Bellser stood in the doorway toweling his hair and some of the others still hung around laughing and talking in the locker room. Whacking a guy’s ass was a “prank.” Whacking his junk was something else.

Morty snorted. “Your dick’s so small I can’t tell your front from your back.”

Your girlfriend know you check out the size of men’s dicks?

Comebacks were another temptation that Rusty tried to work out of his system.

If he let Morty think he’d gotten the last word, the dickhead would get tired of harassing him and walk away.

Talking back just set Rusty up for another round of bait-the-queer.

Deliberately, Rusty turned partially away from Morty, getting his hair under the spray for a good rinse. He half-closed his eyes, but watched the big defenseman sidelong from under lowered lashes.

Morty paced a couple of steps, then stuffed the cord in his pocket and headed out of the room.

Rusty shut off the shower and reached toward his towel. Probably lucky Morty didn’t toss it into the water. That had happened often enough, but luckily the arena didn’t skimp on them. There was always another dry one.

“Here.” Bellser grabbed the terrycloth off the wall hook and passed it over.

“Thanks.” Rusty began rubbing his hair. At least with Bellser, he didn’t have to worry the towel was boobytrapped. Because yeah, that’d happened too. Bellser was chill, though.

Right now, he looked uncomfortable. “Morty’s a dick.”

Rusty kept his voice low. “You might say that.”

“You know he’s jealous, right? He’s been bouncing between the ECHL and the AHL for six years, and every time he goes up for a game or two, he ends up right back down here. Drives him crazy. And then you came along, better than him already, took his spot on the second line.”