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He’d gone home after practice and puttered, made food, tidied, waiting for his phone to chime. And around noon, after eating a good carb-laden meal that sat heavy in his stomach, he’d climbed into his truck and headed for the freeway.

A tough-looking dude sat in a chair outside Cross’s room. He stood as Rusty approached. “This is a private area.”

“This is a freaking hospital,” Rusty said, because sometimes his mouth ran too fast and he resented someone just taking over public spaces. But he added, “I’m here to see Cross. LaCroix.”

“Your name?”

“Rusty Dolan. I’m a friend.”

“ID?” The guard held out his hand.

Rusty fumbled out his driver’s license, reminding the snippy part of his brain that even if Cross was just some random NHL dude who didn’t have a gazillion extra bucks, they’d still be screening access to his room.

The last thing a team wanted was the press finding out details about a player’s injuries or paps getting pictures.

The guard looked at the ID, checked Rusty over, and handed it back. “Okay, go on in.”

He hadn’t paid attention to Cross’s room the night before, but as the door swung back shut behind him, he noted that it was big, held just one bed, and that a surprising amount of the extra space was taken up by hockey players.

Before he could back off, Scott looked over at him. “Hey, Rusty, good to see you, dude. How’s life?”

“Um, okay?”

“We’re here to cheer Cross up. The more the merrier.”

Rusty wasn’t sure about that. Cross lay propped half-upright in his bed, but his face looked pale and his eyelids drooped. Five teammates was probably too much merry, even before Rusty showed up.

“Hey,” Axel said. “Did you bring chocolates? Because Cross has more stuffed animals than any man needs, and he’d share candy with us, right, Cross?”

“Not sharing anything with you barbarians,” Cross retorted. “Hey, Rusty.”

“I didn’t bring anything.” Rusty held up his empty hands. Maybe he should’ve.

“Not like I need it.” Cross made a sloppy gesture around the room, which, yeah, looked like the display area of a hospital flower shop, given the number of plants, balloons, stuffed critters, and fruit baskets that littered the windowsills and tables.

Rusty looked closer at a big toy in the corner. “Is that a Mitch the Moose in… splints?” The four-foot version of the Rafters’ inexplicable mascot— a cross between a cartoon Bullwinkle and a lumberjack— had both its hind legs wrapped in something bulky and white.

“Cool, right?” Zykov laughed. “Inspire Cross to get better fast.”

“Or make him sick to his stomach,” Rusty said before remembering he was talking to an actual NHL player, even one he’d met before. “I just mean, that one has a weird grin.”

“So it does,” Scott agreed. “Looks like it got into the whiskey last night.”

Cross blinked slowly. Rusty figured he was on some good drugs. The covers on the lower part of his bed were raised on some kind of frame as if to keep the weight off his legs. “Where’s Marie?” He was surprised she wasn’t shooing this hockey afterparty out the door.

“She went home. Stayed last night, and she was jet-lagged,” Cross said, rubbing his face.

“You look like shit.” Rusty wanted to smack his mouth a moment later. Way to make a guy feel better.

But Cross laughed hoarsely. Goldie leaned past Scott to look at Cross.

“The kid’s right. And we’ve got another game tonight.

We should get out of here and let you rest.” He stepped over to Cross’s bedside and held out a fist for a bump.

“Gonna miss you out there tonight. We’ll win it for you, though. ”

Cross mock-glared as he completed the bump. “Don’t act like I’m dying or something.”

“Nah. This is a one-time thing. For that spectacular dive.”

“Fuck you.”

Goldie chuckled and headed for the door.

Zykov, Axel and Koskinen followed suit, with a fist bump and a few words before filing out. Scott paused to say, “You let us know what we can do, right, Cross? Anything. Don’t be a stranger. I’ll drop by tomorrow before we have to get on the plane.” He eyed Rusty. “Are you off tonight?”

“Nah. Game’s not till seven, though.”

Scott’s gaze sharpened, but he just said, “Okay. Good luck, then.”

“You guys too.”

The room felt a lot bigger with the Rafters players gone. Rusty hovered by the door. “You do look beat. Do you want me to leave?”

“No way. Grab a chair and sit.” Cross waved in the direction of a fairly comfy-looking armchair. “I’m going to lower this bed a bit, though.”

“Sore?” Rusty dragged the chair to where Cross could easily see him.

Cross chuckled. “You could say that.” He pressed a button and eased himself down to a low recline. “I’m surprised you’re here. Game and all.”

Well, if you answered my texts I might not be. Although who was he kidding? He’d no doubt have come anyway. “Let me know if you want some water or whatever.” He glanced around the room. “Nursing’s not my strong point.”

“Good thing you’re a hockey player, then.” Cross shifted around in the bed like he was trying to get comfortable. “Hey, any idea what you’re doing this summer?”

Rusty, who’d been trying to figure out how to ask about Cross’s injury without sounding nosy, took the hint.

“Not sure. I have to be out of the apartment by May, so I need to make up my mind. Scott and his guys invited me back to the ranch for the summer. Housing, three squares, and a bit of money on top. That’s probably the best deal I’ll get. ”

“And Scott around to practice with, at least part of the summer. You don’t want that?”

“He’s not as good a coach as you are,” Rusty said, instead of “I don’t want to spend four months two thousand miles from you.”

“I’m not going to be worth shit for a long time.” Cross glared off into space.

“Uh, what did the doctors say?” Okay, maybe I didn’t take the hint. “No, wait, you don’t have to tell me anything. Sorry, never mind.”

“It’s okay.” Cross tipped his chin up, staring at the ceiling. “My left leg’s a simple fracture and soft tissue bruising. I’ll need surgery, but it should heal.”

“Well, that’s good news, right?”

“But then there’s my right ankle. I guess when Vicki and the D-man landed on me, they twisted my right foot sideways.

Tore some ligaments, broke three small bones, and cracked the end of my tibia.

I’m going to get surgery on that tomorrow, but…

” Cross took a rough breath. “Anyhow, my summer’s not looking as fun as yours.

A couple of months of healing, at least, then a long rehab. ”

“Dude.” Rusty wanted to touch Cross, hug him or put a hand on his shoulder or something, but he didn’t want to hurt him worse. “That really sucks.”

Cross pressed his lips together and nodded. “I had thought, maybe you’d stick around after the season, and we could work together, get you leveled up. Not gonna happen this summer.”

“Well, you could still sit on the side of the rink and critique, right?” Rusty tried to pitch his voice similar to Cross’s. “Come on, Rusty, you’re not dictating with your stick. You need to change that angle.”

“I don’t sound like that.”

“Sometimes you do.” He forced a smile. “I like it.”

“I’m going to be shitty company for a long time.”

Rusty tried to leer, aiming a look around Cross’s groin. “I don’t mostly like you for your personality.”

That at least got a chuckle. “Right. I’m a sex object for sure right now, kid.”

Hot anger flashed through Rusty. “I’m not a kid.”

“Sorry. I know.”

“Do you?” He stood up and stepped to Cross’s bedside. Before he could overthink it, he set a hand under Cross’s chin, bent, and kissed him. Cross’s lips were dry, his mouth stale. Rusty made the kiss solid, but didn’t linger. “Do you really?”

When he straightened, Cross ran a hand across his lips. “We should probably talk.”

“Probably, but not now.” Rusty could hear that brush-off coming a mile away and he was going to dodge it as hard as he could. “Not while you’re in pain and on heavy drugs and your whole summer got rearranged in the span of thirty seconds.”

“I guess.”

“I know.” He ran his hand down Cross’s cheek, feeling the roughness of stubble coming in. “You think I’m young but remember, I know all about having your life rearranged in one crashing minute.”

Cross caught his fingers. “I’m sorry that happened to you. Mike and your parents—”

“Yeah, well, me too,” Rusty interrupted. “But it means I know how fucked up I was at first. I figure you are too. So no making big decisions yet, right?”

“I suppose.”

Rusty squeezed Cross’s hand. “Right. One day at a time.” He remembered how he’d felt, standing in front of his parents after they’d reassured him that he could be not-gay if he only tried.

Remembered that moment when he told his mother he’d been gay long before his brother Mike even knew what his balls were for.

The moment when he moved from their misled-but-loved son to someone so evil, so alien, he couldn’t even be allowed to say goodbye to his younger brothers.

He’d driven to Scott’s ranch on autopilot, and there’d been a moment when he almost drove on past. Almost kept going down the road until his gas or his money ran out, and he trashed his future in that dark, blind pit. “I almost made some really fucked up choices at first.”

“I have a lot of resources you didn’t,” Cross murmured.

“Uh huh, but will you use them? Or will you tell me and Marie you’re fine and to fuck off, you don’t need us?”

Cross’s lips twisted, and Rusty bent for another kiss before either of them said something they couldn’t come back from.

“I’m sorry. Sometimes I think you’re too independent for your own good, but I didn’t come up here to give you a hard time.

I came to see if I could do anything, even if it’s just take your mind off shit for a while.

You want to, I don’t know, watch some game tape, or tell me about when you were a green rookie and all the mistakes you made? ”

Cross pulled his fingers from Rusty’s grip. “So I have to do all the talking in this scenario?”