Page 36

Halfway through the period, the shots on goal were mounting.

Both teams made defensive mistakes and Cross ached to be there helping.

They need me. He pounded his fist on his thigh at a rookie screwup, the reverberation of pain up his leg seeming fitting punishment.

Then an Edmonton shot rebounded onto Scott’s stick, and he took off up the ice with Vicki a step behind.

They hit the blue line, Scott dropped a perfect pass for Vicki, and the experienced center flipped a wrister over the Edmonton goalie’s shoulder.

The red light flashed. Rusty’s scream was louder than the goal horn. “Yeah! Goal, you fuckers!”

On the ice, Scott and Vicki slammed into each other in a hug, before returning to the bench, collecting fist bumps along the way. Cross caught himself reaching out a hand, like he could be part of that. Come on, guys, come on.

Play resumed with Edmonton pulling out all the stops, and Pushkin shutting them down cold.

Rusty’s commentary was a mumble of swearwords, and Cross’s heart pounded, but Pushkin kept them in the game.

At a break in play, Rusty said, “You guys will owe Pushy like a gallon of the good vodka if you pull this off.”

“Two gallons,” Cross agreed. He glanced away from a commercial toward the little screen.

Rusty grinned back at him and raised his beer. “I might need another of these to survive the rest of the period.” He got up and disappeared out of view, then returned to drop onto the couch.

“How come none of the other ranch hands are watching with you? I know you said Ayden isn’t interested.

” Cross hid a tiny satisfaction at that.

Ayden might be right there and perfect to look at, but Rusty would never get serious about a guy who didn’t like hockey.

Right? “I’d think Kris and Nita, at least, would be cheering Scotty on. ”

“Um.” Rusty scrunched his nose. “They are, down at the local rink. They set up the big scoreboard to show the game and a lot of folks will be there. Beer sales will go to youth hockey. Plus, Scott’s pretty popular around here.”

“And you didn’t want to go along?”

“I wanted to watch with you.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Cross looked down the bed at his booted and propped-up legs that made him a charity case instead of being out there with his boys.

“Not as some kind of consolation thing for you, Jesus, Cross.” Rusty glared at him. “You know the team, you know the game, you’re not going to say some stupid thing I’ll want to bop you on the head for.”

“Would Kris?”

“Possibly. Sometimes to chirp me more than anything.”

“She seems a lot like Marie.”

“If you mean the annoying sister who won’t go away? Yeah, sometimes.” Rusty took a long pull of his beer. “Plus here I can have a brew or three. At the rink, I’m not legal.”

Because he’s nineteen. Cross managed to tease, “Ahah, the true reason comes to light at last.”

“You and beer, or no you and no beer. Wasn’t even close.”

Play resumed and on Cross’s phone, Rusty hunched forward, elbows on his knees, leaning into the plays. Cross watched him almost as much as the puck, until the fast plays on the ice sucked him back into the game.

The period ended with the Rafters up one-zero. Cross allowed himself a little hope. The guys were playing like maniacs out there. If the defense could tighten up and stop making Pushkin carry the load, they had a chance.

Rusty got up and dropped to the floor for pushups, mostly out of sight of the camera.

Cross envied him the ability to move , to work out a little of the tension physically.

Cross had small hand weights on one bedside table and he took them in both hands, focusing on a lot of reps, working biceps.

He’d spent the last 4 weeks putting hours into his upper body strength and core, since he was forbidden to work anything below his thighs.

His arms had never been more ripped, his stomach was flat and hard, but his calves had gone skinny, the muscle melting off faster than he’d expected.

He focused on his form and breathing, raising and lowering the weights, fast and smooth. Two hundred reps. Three hundred. He wished he could see Rusty rather than hear the grunts and breaths as he ground out his own reps.

When the second period opened, Rusty reappeared on the phone, his face flushed and strands of sun-bleached hair clinging to his forehead. Cross ached to reach across the miles and push those damp strands aside… He turned his attention to the game.

For seventeen minutes of the second, the Rafters hung onto their lead against an Edmonton team seemed to gain energy with every play.

Scrums around the puck in the corners got rougher.

Checks got harder. An Edmonton defenseman took Scott to the boards with a borderline-illegal check that knocked him off his feet.

As Scott struggled up and chased the puck, Cross could see he was leaning to his left, an elbow against his ribs.

“Fucking boarding!” Rusty shouted. “Come on , refs. Are you blind?”

No penalty was called and in the scramble in front of the Rafters’ net, an Edmonton shot went off someone’s foot and under Pushkin’s pad. The horn sounded.

“Shit.” Rusty threw himself back on the couch. “That should’ve been a penalty, not a fucking goal!”

“Playoff hockey. Refs don’t call anything that doesn’t have a neon sign.” Cross wasn’t as calm as he made himself sound. His pulse throbbed and his clenched muscles made his whole body ache. He blew out a breath. “It’s one-one. We can come back from that.”

“Right. Yeah.”

Play resumed and Cross could see the Rafters starting to falter. Most of the play was in their end, and Pushkin had to make another great save. Then with thirty seconds left, one of the rookies got called for hooking.

“Bullshit!” Rusty snapped. “I thought you said they didn’t call penalties.”

“Except sometimes they do.” That had been hooking, just as much as the hit on Scotty had been boarding. The Rafters needed a break and hadn’t gotten one. They survived the last thirty seconds, but the team straggling back to the locker room looked a lot more subdued than after the first period.

Rusty gulped his beer. “Fuck. Scotty looked like he was hurting after that hit that should’ve been boarding .”

Cross couldn’t argue with that. “They’ll have him icing his ribs, maybe give him something in the locker room.” This was the playoffs, the make-or-break game. A shot of Toradol, and out you went. If you weren’t half dead, you were expected to be on the ice.

Half dead or useless, like he was.

“Tell me about the ranch,” he requested. “What are you guys doing these days?”

He let Rusty’s words wash over him as the second intermission dragged on.

Rusty’s voice was comforting, soothing a little of the ragged hole in Cross’s chest. In the locker room, Pushkin would be drinking a protein shake of his own recipe and staring into space.

No one would break his focus. Scotty was probably with the trainers, taking whatever relief they could give him.

Kenny would be juggling beanbags, his favorite focus routine.

Cross could picture the room, the guys, every familiar face, hands, skates, the sweat, the frowns, the laughs a bit wilder than usual as they geared up for one last effort. No, not last. He wouldn’t think that word. One next effort. The game winner, to bring them back home for game six.

Rusty’s tone warned him to open the eyes he’d somehow closed. Both teams were filing onto the ice. Third period. “Do it, guys,” he murmured, “Come on, come on.”

They started the period a man down. Edmonton took control off the opening faceoff and they couldn’t clear it out of the zone. Fifteen seconds later, Pushkin misjudged a rebound and a player knocked the flying puck out of the air and into the net. Two-one.

“Shit,” Rusty growled.

“Yeah.”

“You guys can get one back.”

“Sure can.” Cross’s chest ached.

Play resumed at center ice, but even full strength, all the action ended up around the Rafters’ net, until Scott broke them free and flew down the ice.

“Go, Scotty! Come on!” Cross leaned forward, willing him strength.

Scott cut over the blue line and passed to Vicki. Vicki’s shot ticked the underside of the crossbar and dropped into the Edmonton net. The horn sounded.

“Score!” Rusty’s yell almost broke Cross’s phone speaker. But then he added, “Now what?”

Cross was watching too as the Rafters’ celebration paused on the ice. “Challenge.”

“For what? Vicksberg was nowhere near the goalie.”

On the screen, video began replaying the rush up the ice. Vickie’s skates at the blue line, Scott’s stick and the puck, skates ahead, puck six inches behind, skates, puck. Cross’s stomach dropped.

Sure enough, they cut to the head referee who announced, “Portland goal was challenged for offside. On review, the challenge was upheld. No goal.”

“Shit.” Rusty ran his hands over his head. “What the fuck?”

“I think Scotty’s skating a step slow with his ribs. Vicki didn’t compensate and went offside.”

“Well, fuck.”

Two minutes later, Edmonton scored at even strength, making the game three to one.

Not insurmountable, but the Rafters’ frustration was almost palpable.

They were rushing their passes, not finishing checks.

Even Pushkin, reeling under a flurry of scoring chances, left his net to go for a poke check and missed, leaving the goal wide open. Four to one.

Rusty grunted like he’d taken a shoulder to the chest, but said nothing. Cross clenched his fists till his nails bit into his palms.

The Rafters didn’t give up. With five minutes left, they pulled the goalie. Six on five, they battled around the Edmonton net. A shot hit the post, another squirted out from under the Edmonton netminder right to Goldie who flicked it top shelf. Goal!

Four, two.

Cross cheered, despite the ache in his chest that said too little, too late.

Rusty yelled, “Fuck yeah, Goldie. Come on! Two more.”