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Even more grateful on his own behalf, of course. He was a tiny side note to the whole mess, and if the stupid Eugene tabloid hadn’t decided to run with “Local hockey player in gay sex and murder scandal” before his first Gryphons game, he might’ve slid under the radar completely.

As it was, four wins in the next five road games after the opener and a solid plus-minus, and his queerness had faded to a minor irritation for fans, something the bigots only hauled out whenever he had a bad game.

Rusty tapped a different link and found himself in a story about Cross’s sponsorship by an athleticwear company.

Which led to some thirst-trap pics of Cross modeling said athleticwear.

Fuck, dude is ripped. Rusty wondered when that photo shoot was during the season.

Early, most likely, from the powerful curves of biceps and triceps and the thick, flat planes of Cross’s pecs.

By playoff time, even Cross probably leaned down to stringier muscles and hollow stomach.

The photos hid the little recession of Cross’s dark hair at each temple that Rusty knew was there.

It made him feel… something, to know a secret about Cross that the public couldn’t see.

The photographer had gone for intense expressions, a stare, a scowl, brows lowered over dark gray eyes that Rusty had seen laughing and bright as they raced each other for the puck.

That glare was hot, though. No denying it.

Probably a lot of women and gay men had breathed a little faster, saved the photos, wishing Cross would turn that dark gaze on them.

Rusty wasn’t going to be one of those fools.

He flipped over to a site praising Cross’s ability to rush the puck on a breakaway, and to find a hole through traffic in front of the net.

Cross had more goals than most defensemen in the league and was a menace on the powerplay.

Rusty was six inches taller and not as quick, but he wanted to be an offensive defenseman too.

Studying game tape of Cross was a legitimately useful way to spend his time.

The alarm he’d set to end his nap recalled him from a site about…

best goal cellys. He’d wandered that way somehow.

Oh, yeah, from Cross celebrating a goal in the playoffs five years back.

Fucking internet sucked a guy into the worst black holes.

Not that there was anything wrong with grinning over a Jaromir Jagr salute, but Rusty would have to score more often for cellys to be useful watching.

He pushed down the comforter and swung out of bed. Cooking and eating would burn another half hour in the unending afternoon.

Ten-to-nine found him outside the bar he’d picked, wearing his best jeans, his boots, a navy henley, and the battered leather jacket Scott had given him. Scott said it was his lucky jacket when he was starting out. Rusty hadn’t asked what kind of lucky, but any version would help tonight.

He sucked in a slow breath, then pushed open the door.

He’d been in the place before. One of the guys he’d hooked up with had picked it as quiet, dark, and not sports-centric.

They’d had a beer— well, pop for Rusty— before heading back to the guy’s place for an educational session of sixty-nining.

Educational in the sense that Rusty discovered he couldn’t focus on someone else while a guy was expertly sucking his brains out his dick.

He’d made up for it after, though. Dude had been hot as hell.

I am not thinking about blow jobs while meeting Cross.

He swept his gaze around the bar. The low lighting made it hard to make people out, but he didn’t spot anyone who looked like Cross.

Should I get a table? Sit at the bar? Will he recognize me?

Which was stupid, because they’d shared a locker room a dozen times that summer.

Cross knew what Rusty looked like. And I sure as hell know what he looks like, with those arms and abs…

A tap on his shoulder made him jump and whirl around.

Cross stood behind him, hands raised. “Sorry, you didn’t seem to hear me.”

“I zoned out.” About your abs. Which I’m never going to admit. “Sorry.”

“No problem. Want to get a table? When’s the douchebag supposed to get here?”

“I told him nine-thirty. Tyler’s hard to predict, though. Might come early to catch me out, might come late to make me wait.”

Cross wrinkled his nose. “Hate people who play games.” He pointed. “Over there? Put your back to the room, and my profile.” He glanced at the TV toward the back which was playing some music video. “At least it’s not a sports bar.”

“I’m not stupid.” Rusty flinched. “I mean—”

Cross grinned. “No, you’re not. Come on.” He led the way to a table near the back and nudged a chair Rusty’s way. “I’m gonna get a beer. You got a fake?”

“Yeah. But I don’t drink much.” He had at private parties Tyler brought him to, but he wasn’t going to risk his spot on the team with illegal drinking in public, even if a bunch of his teammates did.

“I’ll get you a Pepsi.” Cross had turned for the bar before Rusty realized Cross still remembered his favorite pop from last summer. That was nice, a bit less lonely. No one on the Gryphons knew even that much about him, except maybe his road roomie.

Cross returned and set a glass in front of Rusty before pulling out his own chair, sitting, and sipping the foam off his beer. “Too much head. Must be an inexperienced bartender.” He set the mug down. “How do you want to play this?”

“I don’t know.” Rusty hated the whole thing. “Can I just leave town?” He ran a hand over his face.

“Must be tempting. Hard to play hockey without a team, though.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, tell me about Tyler first. How did you meet? What’s he like? Can I beat him up?”

Rusty had to chuckle, in a strangled way.

“I’m sure you can .” Cross didn’t do a lot of fighting on the ice, but from the videos Rusty had watched, when he did drop gloves he often won.

“We met at a party the first time. I’m not sure who picked who up, it was kinda mutual.

We went to his place and…” He glanced around.

No one was paying them any attention, but he lowered his voice.

“We, you know.” He made a jerk-off motion with his hand.

“Quick and easy. But he asked if I wanted to stay for a second round so I did.”

“And you started dating?”

“He said—” Rusty cut off because he wasn’t going to repeat the bullshit praise that had him following Tyler around like a puppy.

“He pretended he liked me. So yeah, we went out a few times. Places like this, nothing too public, a bunch of parties with his friends.” They were mostly older and Rusty had felt like a real grown-up being included.

More fool him. “Went back to his, afterward. The sex was hot.” He felt his face flush, saying that to Cross, and hoped the lighting was low enough to hide it.

“But you wanted to call it quits?”

“Yeah. He was, you know, not kind to people, liked to make fun of the barista or the overweight guy next to us. All his jokes were kind of mean. Not to me, directly, but I wanted to pretend I wasn’t with him when he pulled that shit.

He was bossy too, started telling me what we were going to do instead of asking.

And the sex wasn’t that good.” Rusty managed to say it easier that time.

Maybe practice helped. “But when I said I was done, no hard feelings, he laughed. He said we were made for each other and I was too young to know when I had it good. He kept calling, telling me to come over, talking sex stuff, even when I kept hanging up. And then, you know, he came by the arena.”

“Bastard.” Cross took a long swallow of beer. “So what’s he like, besides being a total loser?”

Rusty winced, because he had dated the guy for two months, although half that time, the team had been out of town.

“Blond hair, perfectly groomed scruff, cheekbones like a model, really hot. He’s taller than you, a lot slimmer but he does work out, a bit older.

” I’ve got a thing for older guys. Not silver foxes, not like Mike did.

A momentary ache tightened his throat. Guys in their thirties who know what they’re doing.

Another thing he was not going to tell Cross.

“He works as a salesman in an appliance store, drives a big SUV, loves movies, sci fi and thrillers and horror.”

Rusty liked the sci fi and thrillers too, probably another reason he’d stuck with Tyler that long. “The only sport he ever watched was football. He asked if I’d make forty million a year in the NHL, like some quarterback.”

“Ha.” They exchanged looks that acknowledged that top hockey players made a fifth as much as the top football players, while playing eighty-two games instead of eighteen.

Not that there was anything wrong with earning even one million dollars, especially from Rusty’s ECHL five-hundred-bucks-a-week point of view.

“When we were first going out, he used to expect me to pay for things, till I showed him my paycheck.” Tyler had huffed, then said Rusty could pay him back when he got rich.

Cross straightened, staring toward the door. “Blond and hot with a permanent sneer just walked in the bar. That him?”

Rusty looked over his shoulder, then stood and waved. “Yeah, that’s Tyler.”

“I’ll follow your lead, kid.”

Start by not calling me kid? But there was no time to say that, as Tyler stalked their way.