Page 37

The Rafters controlled the faceoff, kept the puck in the Edmonton zone.

Cross wanted to be in there so bad it hurt.

He held his breath, his chest aching. Do it, guys!

Bozeman took a shot that the Edmonton goalie barely got a glove on but he controlled the rebound, dropped it to his own defenseman, who passed it to their center, who shot it down the ice.

Everyone watched as the puck skipped, slid, passed over the blue line and down into the open net.

Five to two. With less than three minutes left.

Cross squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not that two goals in three minutes had been plausible to begin with, but three would be beyond a miracle.

The crowd in Edmonton was celebrating already, the players loose and laughing.

Coach put Pushkin back in the net, a silent acceptance that the game was done.

Scott managed a blistering slapshot right on target but the goalie got his blocker in front of it and Edmonton picked up the rebound.

The clock ticked down the last seconds. Then the horn sounded ending the game and the Rafters’ playoff hopes.

Edmonton spilled out of the bench, shouting and hugging, thumping each other’s backs to the screams and cheers of the home crowd.

At the other end of the ice, the Rafters gathered around Pushkin, delivering stick taps to his pads and hugs, shoulder bumps, acknowledging the huge effort that’d given them any chance at all.

They’d dropped helmets and gloves, and the camera picked up face after face, sweaty, strained, the expressions of men who’d given their all and come up short but not humbled.

Cross would’ve given every dollar he had to be there on the ice with them.

His eyes stung and his throat tightened.

He clenched his teeth against a sob. Dammit. Sorry, guys.

“Shit,” Rusty said. “That sucked. I mean, no one even thought you guys would make the second round—”

“Stop.” Eventually, Cross would be ready to hear that rationalization. In a week, or a month, he’d be proud of what they’d accomplished as a new expansion team, to get that far. But not tonight.

“Sorry. I wish I was with you. If I had, like, a private jet, or maybe a transporter, I’d be out there to give you a hug.”

Cross’s eyes welled up because he could use a hug right now. On the ice, the guys were moving through the handshake line. Scott had his elbow pressed tight against his ribs. That last slapshot must’ve hurt.

He turned off the sound, waited till his team had left the ice, then killed the video. The silence in his room highlighted the echoes inside his skull— plays, calls, misses, that last horn. Fuck.

Shifting position sent a stab of pain through his ankle, and he pressed his lips together.

That might’ve been my last chance at a Stanley Cup, ever.

He’d been fighting that thought with everything he had, but he couldn’t control it now.

His ankle was still totally shit, still wait-and-see.

If I can’t get back on the ice, I’ll never hoist a Cup.

He shouldn’t complain. He’d made the playoffs seven times in ten years, counting this one, made the finals once although they lost… His breath hitched.

“What can I do?” Rusty asked.

“Nothing. There is nothing to do. We lost ! You get that?”

“Sorry.” The small tone of Rusty’s voice pulled Cross up short.

“No, I didn’t mean to yell.” Cross punched the pillows behind him and stretched out more, lifting the phone off its cradle to bring it closer. “I wish you were here.”

“Me, too. Hey, we could fool around. Video sexting? I know sex can’t change anything about tonight, but it might make you feel better for a few minutes.”

“It doesn’t, though,” Cross blurted out.

“What?”

Cross rubbed his face, but if he was going to show Rusty all his warts tonight, maybe that one should come out too. “Sex doesn’t make me feel better.”

Rusty opened his mouth as if to speak, then tried again. “You might have to explain that.”

“I’m weird, I guess. I know a lot of guys talk about how orgasms are stress relief, whatever, but for me, they’re not. Most of the time they’re more stress.”

“Like, with strangers?”

“With anyone. Like, Willow, um.”

“Your ex-girlfriend?” Rusty prompted.

“Yeah. I loved her, but sex was never really right. Sometimes she offered a fast blow job when time was short, trying to please me. But I didn’t want that.

It didn’t work.” Maybe Cross was spilling secrets, but he wanted Rusty to understand him.

“I didn’t like getting off if she didn’t.

I… shit.” Putting himself in words was hard.

“I figured out a while back that I’m demisexual.

I’m not interested in sex unless I know the other person really well and care about them a lot.

And I’d much rather see them get off than do it myself.

I need my partner to come first.” Or solo. That’s fine too.

“Okaaay.” Rusty nodded. “I’ve seen the word demisexual but I need to pay more attention. I’m fine with coming first, though. Honestly, not a problem.” He gave a small grin. “In fact, the opposite because I have kind of a hair trigger around you. You do like me enough for this demi thing, right?”

“Yes, absolutely.” He could be honest there. “You already turn me on as much as Willow ever did, maybe more.”

“You liked kissing. I thought.”

“You’re a great kisser.” He laughed as Rusty buffed his nails on his shirt and blew on them. “Yeah, showoff. But it’s true.”

“And you like to be touched? Hugs, whatever? More than that?”

Cross felt a little lurch inside, but could say, “Yes, for sure. Away from, um, intimate places, anyhow. Foot rubs, oh my god yes. Massages for sure. I once thought about hiring a private masseur to follow me around the country and rub my back every day.” Because you were touch-starved after years of only getting hugged by Marie every six months.

It was stupid to want desperately to be touched, and yet dodge the hands of guys he tried dating as they dove for his dick.

At least with Rusty, he could honestly say, “I think about your hands.”

Rusty held up one big paw. “All yours, once we’re less than two thousand miles apart. Maybe you’re more like most women. Kris once told me guys have sex to feel good when they don’t, and women have sex to celebrate when they do.”

“Something like that.”

“Was that sexist, to say that?” Rusty frowned.

“Honestly, ask Kris.” Cross wanted the attention off himself. “Hey, if you’re the kind of guy who has sex to feel better, want me to watch while you jerk off again? Like last time?”

“Not if you won’t enjoy it.”

“Who says I won’t enjoy it? I like bossing you around and I really like seeing you all hot and bothered.” The idea he could make Rusty happy right now was a lifeline. “Hell, yes.”

“Really?” Rusty’s expression brightened. “You want to do that? Tell me what to do?” He picked up his phone. “Let’s take this to my bedroom, though. Someone might come in.”

“Sure. Show me your room.” Cross was glad of anything to keep his mind off hockey right now. “Did you hang up posters of half-naked guys?”

“How old do you think I am?” Rusty’s feet thudded on the stairs as Cross got a jerky view.

“Fourteen?” He moved through a doorway and a thump heralded a door closing.

“So, this is my room.” He provided a spinning panorama, then set the phone on something and stepped back.

“Much like the one you stayed in when you were here so maybe we can skip the tour and get to the sex?”

“Sure. Take that sweater off.” Rusty was wearing a Rafters jersey and Cross wasn’t sad to see him whip it off and toss it out of the frame. We lost. Shit. He shoved the thought aside.

I get to make Rusty feel better. That was heady power in an interesting way, much better than… other stuff. “Undo your jeans. Just the button.”

As he followed orders, Cross noted Rusty was still catching up with the weight he’d lost in the last month of the season.

His wide chest and long arms were filling out and looking more mature, but his stomach was hollow and Cross could still see the shadowed lines of his lower ribs.

Cross suppressed the urge to tell him to take better care of himself.

He has time to eat and rebuild now. A faint dusting of blond hair did nothing to hide tight pink nipples and thickened to a denser trail from Rusty’s belly button down to that open button.

Already his dick tented the denim below.

Rusty stuck his thumbs in his gaping waistband and grinned. That look eased some of the pain in Cross’s chest. I made him smile.

“Now the zipper. In fact, take them off.”

Rusty complied. Cross liked that it was an ungainly process, making Rusty swear as he tugged downward. “These didn’t used to be so tight.”

“Hockey thighs. I like them tight.” Cross added, “Lose the socks too.”

Rusty flung clothes left and right, then straightened, wearing only his straining boxer-briefs, and spread his hands wide. “So this is me.”

“Hey, you. Gonna give me a show?”

“Would you like that?” A hint of uncertainty crossed Rusty’s face.

“I would,” Cross assured him. “How do you touch yourself when you’re alone? Show me.”

“Like, when I’m just trying to get off quick, or when I go slow?”

Cross had never jerked off slowly. Masturbation was simply a means to a bit of relief. He wondered what Rusty thought about when he did. “Go slow. Tell me what you’re picturing, what you’re doing. How do you start?”

“I, um, sometimes touch my, uh, chest.” Rusty rubbed his palms over his pecs, using his thumbs to pinch his nipples. “I’m sensitive there. Did you decide if you are?”

“Not really.” Cross hadn’t felt the urge to try it out. “Rub your dick.”

“Through my shorts?” Rusty palmed himself and grunted. “It won’t take much when you let me.”

“Let you what? No, keep rubbing.”