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Cross glared at the big TV on the wall of his rehab room eight days later.

On the screen, the announcer was talking about how “All-Star defenseman LaCroix” being out for the season would put a dent in the Rafters’ playoff hopes.

He tried to tune out the words the same way he was tuning out the persistent daggers of pain in his right ankle and the throbbing ache of his left shin.

Move on to the game, already, dude. The Rafters’ last regular season contest was coming up, and he couldn’t be there, and the disconnection from everything he loved was eating away at his gut.

If he’d still been in Portland, he might’ve gone to the arena, even with the wheelchair and the pain— which was worse because he was rationing his Percocet, aware of how easy it was to get hooked.

But Marie had convinced him, in his post-surgical meds-and-brain-fog, to agree to a rehab center outside Seattle.

Better facilities, great staff, and higher security, apparently.

A place where the rich and famous went when their problems were hip replacements and slipped discs instead of booze and pills. Three hours up the coast from Portland.

His brain added, “A five-hour drive for Rusty.” Not that Rusty would be making that trip.

The ECHL season had ended four days ago with the Gryphons out of the playoffs, losing an away game in Sacramento.

Cross hadn’t even watched the game live, what with the issues of moving to the rehab, setting up his computer access and grinding fatigue that knocked him out whenever the pain was under control.

He had recorded it and watched the loss later, and sent Rusty commiseration texts and a couple of suggestions next day. Rusty texted back briefly.

But season’s end meant Rusty had only seven days to move out of his league-funded room. He was busy packing and preparing for a drive to Kansas.

Cross didn’t let himself think about how he’d feel with Rusty two thousand miles away.

With two broken legs, Cross wasn’t going to be up for anything active for at least two months, probably a lot more.

Really, text and Face Time would be the same whether Rusty was two hours’ or three days’ drive off. It shouldn’t matter.

There was no reason he felt so hollow. Like his chest was empty inside.

Well, hockey. He’d miss the whole playoffs, however far the team could get.

He might trek down to a home game since they played in Portland games three and four.

He could afford cushy transport and he’d be better by then, even if the thought of moving more than he had to, of another jostling, jolting three-hour ride, made him break out in a sweat.

But it wouldn’t be the same, sitting in the press box watching.

Nothing was going to be the same.

I had it together finally, the life I always wanted. It’s not fair.

He rubbed at his eyes irritably with his wrists. Winners never cry. Cross knew how toxic that was, but still heard his grandfather’s loud, sharp voice in his head when things got tough.

A knock at the door pulled him out of his pity party. He ran a hand over his head, straightened up in his chair, cursing when that tweaked his elevated ankle, and called, “Come in.”

The door opened and Rusty stepped inside. “Hey, is this an okay time?”

God, yes. Cross was overwhelmed with how much he wanted a hug, but cleared his throat and said, “Of course. You’re always welcome. But what are you doing here?”

“Well, I’m on my way home—” Rusty flinched and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “Well, to Kansas. To the ranch for the summer. And since I was driving, I figured I’d come see you.”

“Seattle’s not between Eugene and Kansas.” Cross could hear the grump in his tone, couldn’t control it.

“Did you not want me to come?” Rusty looked uncertain.

He’s nineteen and he reached out when I didn’t. “No, of course I want you here. It’s just out of your way.”

“I’d drive farther than that to see you.”

“Thank you.” Cross swallowed anything else he might’ve said. “Come on in, shut the door and sit down. The game’s about to start.”

Rusty’s smile lit the small room. “Yeah? Cool.” After closing the door, he pulled the armchair out of the corner and up alongside Cross. He hesitated, then leaned slowly Cross’s way, lips parted but eyes asking permission.

Cross couldn’t disappoint that look. He murmured, “Hey, there,” and tilted across the gap.

Rusty took that as the invitation it was, cupped the back of Cross’s head in his long fingers and kissed him. Not a peck, but not the kind of heat they’d found together the last time, before this new reality.

The TV view shifted to the arena, warmups finishing, and the change in sounds broke them apart. Rusty looked like he wanted to say something, but came out with, “You buzzed your hair again. Looks good.”

“I had the stylist here do it. One less thing to take care of.”

“Ooh, in-house stylist.” Rusty folded his lanky frame into the chair. “Fancy place.”

“Yeah, well, Marie picked it. Security and all.” Which made him raise an eyebrow at Rusty. “How did you get in? No one called me.”

“I guess Marie had me on the family list.” Rusty managed a shadow of his mischievous grin. “Your sister loves me.”

So do I. Cross shoved that inappropriate thought down deep. It was just the meds, making him emotional. “Good thing. You do not want to be up against Marie if she doesn’t like you.”

“Tough big sister, huh?”

“Very. Which was lucky for me. She wanted to be part of the business, to follow in Dad’s footsteps, write code and help handle the money. That left me free not to have to.”

“Would your parents have made you give up hockey otherwise?”

“I don’t think so. But it helped.” He didn’t want to think about his parents right now either.

Mom had texted to make sure he was okay in the new place.

She’d find time to visit next week. Dad was overseas, but he touched base daily.

They were fine. “Dad and Marie were always close.” Sadly, Grandpère thought women should be seen and not heard, so Marie hadn’t been able to run interference there, although she’d offered hugs when he needed them.

The roar of the onscreen crowd as the first Rafters player skated onto the ice let him change the subject. “They called up Martin from the Tornados, lefty defense. I was hoping maybe they’d call you up to the Tornados in turn for their series. Make this bullshit worth something.”

“I don’t want to move up a league because you broke your legs.”

“You had nothing to do with my accident. Take advantage, especially since Tacoma’s in the playoffs.”

Rusty huffed a breath. “Well, I would but they called up Petrov. I guess they wanted someone with more experience, steady, you know? He’s the captain, he has a bunch of years in, I’m glad he’s getting this opportunity.”

Cross tilted his head. “Are you?”

Rusty grinned. “Not really. He kind of sucks. The room isn’t great with him wearing the C. But I did get moved up to first D-pair once he was gone, so there’s that.”

“I saw. Congrats.”

“And Morty stayed in the third D-pair. He was spitting.”

“You have ten times the skills Mortenson does.”

“He asked me whose dick I sucked to get the promotion.”

“Sorry.”

Rusty laughed. “Nah. Coach Nery was listening and ripped him to shreds. Very satisfying.”

“Will Morty take it out on you?”

“I doubt it will change anything.”

That non-answer told Cross pretty much all he needed to know about how things were going with Mortenson. “Fingers crossed you get invited to the Tornados development camp. I bet you’d get to stay in the AHL. Mortenson never will.”

“One more reason to work like hell this summer.” Rusty’s gaze was pulled to the screen. He leaned forward. “There’s Scott. Go, Rafters!”

“You could’ve stopped in Portland and gone to the game in person, you know,” Cross said, like picking at a scab. “Instead of driving all this way to watch on TV. Scott would’ve given you a ticket.”

“Nah, he has Will and Casey in town. He needs his tickets.”

“Oh. Good for him.” Scott spent time all season without the two men he loved, and Cross sometimes saw the toll that took, despite Scotty’s cheerful front.

He wondered if he should offer the private jet for Will and Casey to fly to Vancouver next for the first two playoff games.

But Scotty was a multi-millionaire now, with this year’s contract.

He could fly his own boyfriends wherever. “I’d have given you one of my seats.”

“This is better.” Rusty reached over and laid his hand over Cross’s. “Shush now. National anthem.”

Cross turned his palm up, not sure if they were supposed to hold hands. Do boyfriends watch TV holding hands? It was a hockey game, not a movie, and he was likely to gesture without thinking if Axel iced the fucking puck, so he gave Rusty’s fingers a squeeze, then withdrew.

They watched the game quietly for a while, groaning in echo when a shot hit the post, yelling at the ref for an obvious hooking that went uncalled.

Cross wasn’t sure what he felt about not being there with his team.

He wished he was on the ice, yeah, obviously.

Mostly he just wished his ankle didn’t feel like someone was shoving red hot pokers into it and he could be on the ice. It was distracting.

His attention wandered, part of him oscillating to the throb of the pulse in his leg, part of him aware of the scent of Rusty’s shampoo and the size of his big hands resting on his knees.

On screen, Scott scored a goal and Cross’s cheer was belated enough that Rusty gave him a concerned look.

“Are you up for this? If you need to rest, I won’t be mad. It’s a nothing game anyhow.”