Page 35

Cross glared at the TV across his rehab bedroom.

The Rafters were in Edmonton for the second round of the Western Conference and in the hole three games to one with their backs against the wall, needing the win to stay alive.

And he was here in Seattle, completely unable to help.

Not that him travelling to watch would’ve been any use.

After a resounding game-three win where Scott had two goals and an assist, Cross had arrived at the arena for game four, wheelchair and all, to cheer them on.

The guys had given him fist bumps on their way out to warm up and he’d felt part of the team again in some small way.

And then they’d been taken down six to one, the last empty-net goal sliding home from the Edmonton blue line like insult to injury.

Whatever part of the team Cross had imagined he was, it wasn’t a good luck charm.

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t there tonight.

He clicked off the TV, then turned it back on and muted the sound.

He was going to watch, of course, but he didn’t need to hear the doom and gloom of “It’s tough to come back from a three to one deficit” from commentators.

Let alone, “The injury to LaCroix…” No, thank you.

He stretched out his legs on the bed. At least, the vicious pain of the first two weeks was muted these days, and he’d been off the strong meds for a while.

His phone chirped, a sound he hadn’t heard in a while. Video call.

He was tempted to let it go unanswered. The only people he wanted to talk to were taking the ice up in Canada right now. But in case it was Marie and important, he groped the phone off his bedside stand.

Rusty.

Cross fumbled the phone. They hadn’t really talked since Rusty headed to Kansas.

Cross had been trying to give Rusty some distance from the train wreck that was his life right now, just messaging.

And not too much of that, although over the last week he’d picked up a bit.

Rusty kept sending him pictures and comments from the ranch, and it felt like kicking the guy not to respond.

But they hadn’t done voice, and they hadn’t done video… He answered anyway. “Hey, Rusty, what’s up?”

Rusty on his little screen looked the same as ever.

A bit more tanned, his blond hair lighter and longer down into his eyes, but the same grin.

God, I’ve missed him. Cross wished he could reach through the screen and touch Rusty, brush that strand of hair out of his eyes, get a whiff of young healthy male in this sterile place.

I’d kill to hug him right now. Distance hurts.

Rusty said, “Hey, Cross, good to see your face. You watching the game?”

“Was planning to, yeah.”

“Okay, I thought we might watch it together. Well, side by side or whatever. No one here really cares or knows hockey.”

“What about Will and Casey?” Surely they were invested in Scott’s team.

“They went up to Edmonton to cheer Scott on, or I guess console him if need be. Lucky bastard. I wouldn’t mind being in the middle of that sandwich.”

“Isn’t Will, like, almost forty?”

“Doesn’t keep the guy from being smokin’ hot.” Rusty brushed his hair away from his eyes and grinned. “I like ’em older.”

“What about Ayden?” Cross was horrified to hear himself ask that.

He’d been very carefully not commenting about Ayden, even though the young man showed up in a bunch of Rusty’s pictures.

Ayden was stunning. Cross had watched a few episodes of Queer as Folk trying to figure out his sexuality, and Ayden was a redheaded version of Justin, all full lips, perfect cheekbones, and silky hair.

Ayden and Rusty together were like an ad for young gay maleness— the twink and the jock.

If they started making out, they could make a fortune off the porno.

And why wouldn’t they go for each other?

They were there working side by side all day, healthy and so young, while Cross watched the lines in his face get deeper with pain and frustration, and the muscles in his legs start to go stringy.

They were out riding and working, while he still couldn’t put either foot on the ground outside the parallel bars of the therapy room and sat around like a lump.

Why would Rusty even want to be around him?

But Rusty frowned. “Huh? Ayden has zero interest in hockey. Or did you mean does he like them older too? Because that’s not a question I’m likely to ask. Jesus, Cross.”

“No, I… That’s not what I meant.” He didn’t want to explain what he had meant. “Sure, we can watch the game.”

“It’s better when someone else is yelling at the refs too.

” The view on Cross’s screen tilted, then steadied, showing a more distant view of Rusty sitting on a couch Cross recognized as being in Scott’s living room.

Rusty raised a beer can at the phone. “Pregaming. I guess you can’t with your meds. ”

His tone was matter-of-fact which let Cross answer, “I’m off the hard stuff.

I could have a beer, but I figure I owe it to the team to watch this sober.

Is Sheriff Casey okay with you swiping their beer?

” Underage players drank often enough, but he didn’t want Rusty to get in trouble with someone he cared about.

“Casey’s not that by-the-book, as long as I keep it in the house.” Rusty grabbed a remote and clicked. TV commentary came on in the background and he muted it. “Okay, they’re gonna pull this off, right?”

“Of course we will,” Cross insisted, like he believed it.

He sure hoped morale on the team was better than his.

He’d posted in the team chat wishing everyone luck, and texted Scott and Kenny and a couple others personally, and he wanted to see a miracle.

But the fact he thought it would be a miracle was telling.

The wheels had come off the bus the last game, and that was hard to come back from, especially on the road. Especially down three to one.

He didn’t want to hold his phone for an hour, so he set it on his bedside table.

Rusty objected, “Hey, your wall may be a lovely shade of… what is that, like, dead-weed green? But I’d rather see your face.”

“Hold your horses, let me fix it.” He adjusted the charging stand. “And I think you mean sage green.”

“Isn’t sage a dead weed?”

Cross paused, startled. “Well, yeah, I guess.”

“See?”

He laughed, something he hadn’t expected to be doing right now, and leaned on his raised pillows, fixing the phone so the screen showed his face and shoulders, then switched back to Rusty.

“There. Much better.” Rusty toasted him with the beer. “Go, Rafters! Beat those fuckin’ overpolite Canadians.”

Cross chuckled. “Judging by the last game, overpolite is not Edmonton’s claim to fame.”

“Truth. Oh, here we go.” Rusty turned to his TV and clicked on the sound.

Cross waited a moment, eyeing his tiny screen, watching Rusty’s expression become animated as the Rafters skated out onto the spotlit ice for their introductions.

The light of the TV flickered across Rusty’s features and glinted off a bit more stubble than Cross was used to.

Rusty’s eyes shone as he watched the team getting their cheers and boos up there in Canada.

A sudden wish to be beside him on that Kansas couch swamped Cross, to have Rusty in his arms with his warmth and enthusiasm and vibrance. He sucked down some water from his straw-topped cup to hide his intake of breath.

“Scott was moving a bit stiff in warmups, you think?” Rusty asked.

Cross pulled his attention away from the phone to his own TV, unmuting it.

“I thought so end of last game. He took that hit along the boards from Nikitin. Has to be bruised at least.” Remembering his own six playoff runs for other teams, he noted, “By round two, everyone looks like they took a beating. I just hope it’s not ribs. ”

“Yeah, that’d suck.”

“I broke four, one time. Hurt almost as bad as the ankle.” He regretted the comment as Rusty threw him a concerned look.

It’s healing. I’m fine.

But Rusty just said, “Fuck Nikitin.”

Which let Cross come back with, “Not if you paid me.”

“Not your type?”

“He’s as close to an enforcer as they’ve got and violent goon is not an attractive personality trait.”

“Ha. So what is?”

You. Cross coughed. “Empathy.”

“Oh.” Rusty’s brow furrowed as if he wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment or a problem, but then the Edmonton players began taking the ice, and he turned away to boo them.

Cross had never cheered and booed players on TV, but with Rusty’s example, he let himself express a little anger at Nikitin as he hit the ice to hometown cheers. The teams lined up along the blue lines for the national anthems. Despite his distance, Cross found himself getting a bit choked up.

I wish I was there. Going had seemed ridiculous, despite the private plane he could’ve commanded.

Too much work, too much hassle, and for what?

He had nothing to offer. But looking at his teammates’ serious faces as the camera panned down the line, he wished with every fiber of his being that he was beside them, even if just at rinkside.

The game opened with a flurry of Edmonton shots, held out by some amazing saves from Pushkin.

His heroics seemed to spur the Rafters on, because they got a two-on-one rush that resulted in an echoing crossbar.

Rusty’s “Fuuuuck!” when the shot rebounded made Cross almost smile in agreement.

He felt more alive than he had in a month— great hockey with his heart pounding and Rusty shouting and cheering.