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“I’m fine.” He forced his attention back on the screen, scrambling for something smart to say.

“There, you see how Kenny cut down the angle for the forward coming in with the puck? He drove the play to the boards, tied the guy up, and that let Vicki poke the puck free. That’s how you use your size to advantage if you’re positioned right. ”

“Saw that,” Rusty agreed.

The period wound down with the Rafters leading, one-zip. When they’d filed off the ice, Rusty took the remote from the arm of Cross’s chair and muted the commentators. “Are you okay? You’re sweating.”

Cross rubbed his damp forehead with his arm, and even that motion tweaked his ankle. He mostly muffled the gasp of pain. “I’m fine.”

“I call bullshit. You look like a ghost, and you’re all tensed up. Can I call someone?”

“I have Percocet,” Cross admitted. “I was holding off.”

“Why?”

“You haven’t seen how many guys get hooked—”

“Y’know, we got the addiction lecture, second day of training camp. One of the things they said was that taking a decent med for short term pain isn’t going to addict you.”

“It’s been a week since my injury.”

“Pretty sure when it comes to broken bones and ripped ligaments, that’s still short term.”

Cross would’ve argued but he’d almost missed Scotty scoring a goal with how up in his head he was. “Okay, I guess.”

“Where are they?”

“Bedside table. Water bottle too.”

Rusty brought over the vial and the water.

Cross made sure it was the right thing, then swallowed one down. “I hate taking meds. They make me fuzzy.” He knew he was pouting like a child but couldn’t make himself stop. “And you’re here, but I’ll get sleepy and then you’ll be in Kansas.”

Rusty sat and gazed earnestly into Cross’s eyes. “I don’t have to go.”

Then don’t. Cross wanted to tell Rusty to stay, that he could live in the Portland house, have the meal plan deliveries for free, practice all he wanted on the basement fake ice.

And drive three hours each way to keep you company?

How selfish are you, LaCroix? Rusty wasn’t a guy who thrived on solitude and that house had been lonely enough for Cross, who’d once thought he did.

His brain stuttered at that realization, then he pushed it aside.

Scott would be back at the ranch soon. Will and Casey and Rusty’s best friend Kris were there, plus other people Rusty knew, friends from school maybe.

His family might suck, but in Kansas, Rusty had a support system.

Cross would make sure Scotty was up for skating with the kid at that dinky rink in Masons Crossing.

Maybe Cross could chip in for a skills coach to do a visit, tell Scotty to claim it was for his own benefit.

Either way, it would be selfish to keep Rusty hanging around.

“No, you should go. It’s the right thing.

” Cross looked away, but not before he saw Rusty’s blue eyes go blank and distant.

“I’m stuck here for a month, maybe six weeks, till I can put some weight on my left leg.

I could go home with nursing help, but this is easier.

I’m going to be useless. You might as well be in Kansas. ”

“I’m not with you because you’re useful.”

“You’re not with me at all.” Rusty’s indrawn breath showed those words had landed wrong.

Maybe the med was hitting fast or maybe it was just the pain, but Cross’s brain felt full of cotton wool.

“I mean here, in rehab.” He fumbled for Rusty’s hand, trying to make the point.

“I meant… I’m not sure what I meant. Life kinda sucks right now. ”

Rusty squeezed his fingers, then leaned in for a fast kiss. “And not the good kind of sucking, with the meds and all, am I right?”

“No. Yes.” Cross blinked. He still wasn’t sure about the good kind of sucking.

He’d been given a few blow jobs by Willow, with a little pharmaceutical help, and sometimes he’d come, eventually, but they were kind of messy and not great, and sometimes no matter the stimulation, it wasn’t enough.

Wrong person. It’ll be different with Rusty, once I’m back on my feet.

He liked this part, though, sitting side by side, touching each other. Liked having Rusty close. Drugs and pain or no, he cupped the back of Rusty’s neck and pulled him into another kiss.

When they were done, Rusty unmuted the commentary and they spent ten minutes contradicting the sportscaster who was dissing the Vancouver goalie for the Rafters’ goal.

“Edzie’s just that good,” Cross told the talking head on the screen. “Admit it.”

The second period began, and Cross felt the Percocet taking hold. The ankle hot pokers blunted to toothpicks. He couldn’t feel his pulse throbbing anymore. On the downside, three restless nights were catching up on him and his eyelids kept drooping.

If this was his last time to have Rusty around— for however long— he should be taking advantage of it. Should be talking, kissing, doing something other than leaning sideways against Rusty’s shoulder, the wheelchair arm digging into his ribs, and mumbling about three-on-two.

Rusty brushed what felt like a kiss on Cross’s hair. “You’re fading on me.”

“Sleeping like crap. I keep dreaming stuff.”

“I’m sorry. Should I ring for someone to get you into bed?”

“No way.” He raised his head, blinking hard. “Gonna watch the game with you.”

“Sure.” Rusty maneuvered his chair up tight at Cross’s side and slung an arm across the back of the wheelchair. “I’m in awe of your pearls of wisdom.”

“Punk kid.”

They watched in silence for a while. Cross felt himself slumping again. He tucked his head in against Rusty’s neck.

Rusty murmured, “Should I stick around for another day? I could find a cheap motel, come visit again in the morning.”

“You’re going home,” Cross mumbled, reminding himself as well as Rusty. “There’s people waiting for you there. You should go.”

After a pause, Rusty said, “All right.”

The Rafters gave up a bad goal. Cross tried to explain what the defense had screwed up but his tongue felt thick in his mouth and he fell silent. At some point, he thought he heard Rusty talking, but he couldn’t wake up enough to understand.

A hand on his arm roused him, and he looked up to ask Rusty what the score was. But the chair next to him was empty and the hand belonged to an aide. Cross licked his lips and tried to get his thoughts in order. How did I not notice him leave? He didn’t say goodbye.

The aide said, “Here, Mr. LaCroix, let’s get you to the bathroom and bed, all right?”

Cross stared around the room as if Rusty might suddenly appear out of thin air. On the TV screen, the post-game host was interviewing a sweaty Nate Goldstien. Goldy must’ve either scored or screwed up. Cross didn’t really care which at the moment.

Rusty was gone. There was nothing he could do.

He couldn’t run after him and dip him into a kiss— although why his ridiculous brain even came up with that image he could not imagine.

He couldn’t even shuffle or crutch after him with two useless legs.

He might as well go to bed here at nine p.m. like some senior citizen.

He let the aide wheel him to the accessible bathroom to prepare for the night, then she called for the lift assist and they heaved him into bed, a pathetic lump of bunged up hockey player.

The aide asked if he wanted the TV left on and he said no, so she turned off the show and brought the remote to its holder on the bedside stand.

Cross spotted his phone blinking with a message and grabbed it. He waved the aides off, waiting till the door closed behind them before looking at the screen.

Rusty. ~You were sleeping so sound I didn’t want to wake you. I’m going to get a couple of hours on the road before I stop for the night. Keep in touch. I hope your leg is better tomorrow.

That was something. Rusty hadn’t just vanished without a goodbye. But the more Cross reread those words, the emptier he felt inside. There was nothing there one hockey buddy couldn’t say to another. Scott could’ve written those same words to him, or Kenny.

Back after Cross first woke from surgery, the doctor had shown him X-rays of all the new hardware in both legs.

The left should be fine, though he might need that IM nail out at some point down the road.

But the doc had hmmmed at his ankle and said, “We’ll have to see how it heals,” and “Come back in three weeks and we’ll get some fresh images. ”

“We’ll see,” was never good coming from a doctor.

Cross had asked, “When do you think I’ll be able to start back on the ice?” The flicker of the doc’s eyes and reply of, “Let’s see how the healing goes first,” had sent a chill down Cross’s spine, and in every minute since, unless he was deeply distracted, he could feel that cold slither of dread.

Every player knew they were one step away from a career-ending injury at any time.

You had to pretend that’d never happen to get on the ice at all.

Cross would be damned if this was that kind of hit, though.

His head was fine, his back was fine. He knew how to work his ass off in rehab, had done it before, it would be fine, everything would be fine.

Maybe life would actually be easier when Rusty, with his worries and his kindness and sharp eyes, was two thousand miles away.

He texted back eventually, ~Drive safe. Words as boring and friend-zone as what Rusty had sent. Then he set the phone on its charger and turned out his light. Strong meds or not, sleep came slowly, and his dreams were full of nameless monsters in the dark.