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“Let me get it out. I’m short of clean underwear. Fuck.” Rusty threw his head back, eyes half closed as he stroked himself. The head of his dick peeked above his waistband and he ran a thumb over it, then lowered his gaze to stare at Cross as he licked the slick off his finger.

Despite the distance, and the pain Cross felt inside and out, that sultry look and languid tongue spread a surprising warmth in Cross’s body. “Yeah, more like that. Take off your shorts, lick your hand, and go for it.”

“Fuck, yes.” Rusty scrambled to obey, giving Cross glimpses of his muscled thighs and rookie hockey ass as he dragged the underwear off. “Just jerk off?”

To hell with slow. “Hard and fast. Show me.”

Rusty groaned and took himself in hand, his long hard dick wrapped in strong fingers. “Okay, so, Like this. Ah. And I think of… Well, of you. Is that okay? I don’t have to say it.”

“Tell me.” Cross liked being the one on Rusty’s mind when he came. “What am I doing?”

“Sometimes just this.” Rusty grunted, pumping his cock. “You’re behind me and you wrap an arm around me and take hold and you jerk me, saying things in my ear, telling me not to come yet. Ugh.” A shudder went through him.

“Don’t come yet,” Cross repeated.

Rusty laughed breathlessly. “Yeah, like that.”

“What else?”

“Sometimes you suck me. If you want to. Have you ever?”

“Yeah, I have.” A few times, back when he’d realized he was bi and wanted to try men.

Since his own dick wasn’t immediately interested, sucking off the other guy was an easy way to test those waters and avoid questions.

He didn’t hate it, didn’t love it although there was some power and skill to making a man come.

Maybe he’d like doing it for Rusty more.

He thought he might. “So I’d have your dick in my mouth. Sucking you—”

“Fuuuuck!” Rusty came all over his hand, gasping and laughing. “Sorry, so fast. I told you making me come would be easy.” He let go of himself, looking down at his sticky fingers.

“I’m glad,” Cross said, realizing how true that was. In all the misery of this night, for a moment he’d made Rusty feel that good.

“I need to wash up.” Rusty’s smile faded. “I need to text Scotty and, like, maybe some of the others. What do I say?”

Nothing would really make a difference. The words weren’t the point. “What you said to me.”

“About getting that far?”

“No. You said, ‘That sucked.’”

“That’s not helpful.”

“You can’t help. All you can do is be there.”

“Oh.” Rusty tilted his head, standing there naked in a distant room. “Can I be there for you some more after I wash up?”

Cross wished his dick was interested, but not with everything tonight. “You probably have to get up early in the morning.”

“Not where I can’t stay up and hang out with you.”

“I’m probably going to sleep pretty quick,” Cross lied. Sleep would not be happening anytime soon. “Thanks, though. For calling me and watching the game with me. It would’ve been much harder to do that alone. And thanks for… this, letting me watch you.”

“I didn’t let, I pretty much begged you to. I hope that was okay.”

“I liked it.” Understatement. He wasn’t sure why bossing Rusty to orgasm felt so right, but it had. “You think you’ll sleep?”

“After coming like a rocket? Yeah, probably. I’d rather talk to you, though, if you’re staying up.”

“I did a bunch of physio. I’m pretty beat.” Another not-lie that hid the truth. “Call me tomorrow?” Then he added, “But not too early,” to not seem needy.

Rusty nodded. “Absolutely. And Cross?”

“Yeah?”

“That score sucked. But I’m still here.”

“Thanks.” He cut the call and lay there, the phone in his hand, counting numbers in his head to keep his mind a blank.

He couldn’t do that forever, though. He tried to picture Rusty, his face flushed, mouth open as he came.

Reminded himself of Rusty’s smile and the sound of his voice.

But Rusty was two thousand miles away, and so was Scott.

So was Kenny. And Vicki, Roadie, Axel, Jojo who was probably beating himself up for his mistakes, Pushkin who’d tried so damned hard, Feller and Snaps and Corkie, and Zykov who’d ridden the bench as second-string goalie the whole series, winning or losing on the efforts of his team and unable to help, like Cross but at close range.

He needed to text them all too. But he’d told the truth when he said there were no words. In the end, he went on the team group text and wrote, ~Wish I was there. Proud of you all. And then, on impulse, ~That sucked.

He texted his closest teammates similar stuff. Got no answers, but they’d be in the locker room not looking at their phones, changing out, sweaty and beat and hurting, coming to terms with the idea this was the end of their season.

Maybe the end of my career. Maybe the last time I can call them my teammates.

He put his phone on the charger, got himself into his wheelchair and into the bathroom, glad his left leg had healed enough for that minimum of independence. Then back to bed, lights out, the head end lowered for sleep.

Through the long hours of the night, he lay there, flexing his calves to trigger aches and pains that shot through him, blasting his thoughts to scattered fragments. Then returning, again and again, to the fact that the season was over.