Page 42

Cross shifted uneasily, staring out his side of the limo as they pulled up in front of the hotel.

He desperately wanted this to go well. Something had to turn out right after his scarily frustrating doctor’s appointment and the heartbreaking loss and his sleepless night, in this clusterfuck of the last twenty-four hours.

He’d picked the hotel online, sight unseen, and he could only hope it would please Rusty, not intimidate him.

Arthur powered down the privacy barrier. “We’re here, Mr. LaCroix. I’ll bring your chair around.”

“Thank you.” Cross nudged Rusty. “Go on, get out and I’ll meet you at the door.” He wasn’t very practiced at transferring from car to chair and didn’t need an audience.

Rusty scooped up his backpack and scrambled out the far door, but then trotted around the car to watch Arthur opening the chair, locking it, and pivoting the arm rest out of the way.

Cross focused on bracing his hands, lifting his ass, and moving over carefully.

Landing square on the seat was a relief, even though he had to sit there while Arthur knelt and put the footrests back down.

God, he hated having to be waited on, especially by a man a generation older than him.

He plastered on a smile and said, “Thank you.”

Rusty followed Arthur to the trunk and took Cross’s bags and crutches from him. “I got this, dude. Thanks.”

“It’s my job—” Arthur began.

“Take the rest of the evening off,” Cross told him. “Rusty and I will be good from here.”

Arthur gave him a sideways look, and Cross wondered how much bodyguarding Marie had asked him to do. But Arthur inclined his head and closed the trunk before heading back to the driver’s side.

Cross grabbed his pushrims and maneuvered neatly away from the car toward the hotel doors. After a month in the chair, this part, at least, he was good at. Rusty strode alongside.

A young bellhop met them at the entrance, reaching for the biggest bag in Rusty’s hands. “Welcome to the Imperial— Rusty?”

Rusty flushed. “Hey, Ben, didn’t know you worked here.”

“Since graduation, yeah. Um, I mean, welcome, sir. Can I take that bag for you?”

“Jeez, no, I can carry it.” Rusty shifted the bag to his other hand.

Cross dug in his pocket for one of the folded twenties he had ready and held it up. “Here. Ben, was it? We’re going to go check in. If you could find me a bottle of water and bring it over to the desk, I’d really appreciate it. Keep the change.”

“Oh.” Ben took the bill. “Sure, of course. Check-in desk is inside to your right.” He hurried in through the automatic doors.

“What the fuck?” Rusty muttered at Cross’s side while he wheeled toward the doors in Ben’s wake.

“He gets a tip for carrying bags, and his base salary’s probably crap. But it’s embarrassing to be tipped for nothing so he can get me a three-dollar water and keep the rest.”

Rusty missed a step, then caught up. “Should I have let him carry the bags? I know nothing about this shit.”

“No, you’re fine. I don’t need him coming up in the elevator with us.”

“Sure. Well, if he’s getting twenty-buck tips, he’s probably making more money than I do.”

“Give it a couple of years. NHL minimum is almost eight-hundred K.” Cross was pleased to see Rusty suppress a smile. Yeah, you’re headed for the big leagues and I’m going to keep reminding you of that.

They checked in, received room cards, turned down offers of assistance, and only waited for Ben to deliver the bottled water before heading to the elevator.

“There’s probably a camera in the elevator,” Cross noted. “Just FYI.”

“I’ll try to keep myself from pouncing ahead of schedule.”

Rusty surely meant that as a joke, but Cross had to fake his smile. We need to talk, for sure. “I appreciate your discretion, sir.”

“Fancy talk for a fancy hotel.” Rusty nudged Cross’s shoulder with his elbow, so Cross decided he’d gotten away with the diversion.

He talked Rusty through using his card to access their floor in the security elevator. Their eyes met in the mirrored wall as they rode up.

“This is a pricey place, isn’t it? I mean, even the elevator’s freaking silent,” Rusty said.

“I guess, yeah. I wanted secure access and a true disability-friendly room. There’s not a lot of that combo in this neck of the woods.”

“Oh.” That reminder did make Rusty look less tense. “Of course. How long are you still in the chair for? Didn’t you have a recheck appointment this morning? You got these.” He hefted the elbow crutches.

Yes. And I got on a plane five hours after that appointment.

“Two more weeks in the chair. The doc said the callus on my left leg bone isn’t solid enough yet to be my main support.

I get to hobble a few steps but that’s all.

” The disaster of his right ankle, with the doc humming and frowning with displeasure and booking him a CT on Monday wasn’t something Cross needed to mention in the damned elevator.

“Doesn’t sound like fun.”

“It is what it is.” Cross was determined to be good and follow orders. He’d seen more than one great player push too hard to come back too soon, and never reach their old potential with a nagging chronic injury. But yeah, not fun.

The elevator dinged discreetly and opened. Cross wheeled into the hallway and eyed the sign on the wall. “Head right.”

The suite, when they reached it, had a wide front room, with a couch and a loveseat far enough apart to allow a wheelchair to pass. The desk had space to pull a chair up to it, and the doorways to the bedroom and bathroom were wide.

Rusty hesitated a second in the entrance, then followed Cross inside and pushed the door shut.

Cross suggested, “Close the curtains? Although no one’s likely to see in up here.”

“Might as well.” Rusty tugged the curtains across, dimming the room. Late afternoon light seeped around the edges, but Cross hit one of the conveniently low switches to turn on a lamp.

Rusty hovered by the windows. “So.”

“We should eat.” Cross wanted to bridge the awkwardness. “Stick the bigger bags in the bedroom and let’s check out room service.”

“I could eat.” Rusty’s grin was a shadow of usual, but better than the serious face he’d worn since meeting his classmate.

Could’ve done without that little encounter rubbing in the money. At least Ben hadn’t seemed inclined to chat or ask questions. “And maybe watch a ball game? Are you a Mariners fan?”

“Fuck off. Royals all the way.”

“Aww. Poor baby.”

Rusty gave him the finger, then scooped up their bags and hustled them into the bedroom. He came out immediately. “One bed. Big, though. Are we going to…”

Cross held up a hand. “We’re going to eat, watch some other poor schmucks play through pulled muscles and bruises, and then we’ll figure it out. Okay?” He’d chosen one bed on purpose, but the couch also pulled out.

“Sure.”

He scanned the QR code by the TV and pulled up the menu. “So, Kansas means good steaks, right?”

“Just stay away from the surf part of surf ’n turf.” Rusty came and leaned over his shoulder, checking the options. “Ooh, twenty-ounce prime rib. I could eat that.”

“I’m going filet.” It was more expensive than the prime rib, which should help put Rusty at ease, and Cross hadn’t spent the day working cattle.

Once Cross had their order placed, he successfully transferred from the chair to the couch, pushed the chair aside, and patted the seat beside him. “Come on, sit down. Take a load off.” When Rusty hovered, he added, “Grab the remote and let’s find a ball game.”

They had a choice of Phillies-Jays, or Cleveland-Detroit, and decided to cheer the Jays over a team they both despised. The score was already two-nothing Jays, which seemed promising.

Rusty sat beside Cross, just far enough away that their thighs didn’t touch.

Cross would’ve liked an arm around his shoulders, but didn’t make a move.

Just having Rusty beside him, razzing the umpires and cheering the hits, lowered Cross’s stress levels.

They didn’t talk about anything more fraught than baseball, and that suited him fine.

When food came, Rusty got up to let the employee with the cart inside.

The guy set up places for them on the desk without comment.

Cross dug out another tip from his pocket and passed the bill over via Rusty, but when the door closed behind the server, he told Rusty, “Bring that stuff over here and we’ll eat in front of the TV. If we drip on the couch, I’ll buy it.”

“It’s good to have a sugar daddy.” Rusty grinned and settled Cross’s plate on his napkin-covered knees, then sat down and dug into his own.

Cross mulled that comment over in his mind for the good and bad as he ate a decent steak.

From the noises of pleasure Rusty was making, the prime rib was apparently to his liking.

Cross didn’t want to be a sugar daddy but at the same time, he loved paying for stuff that pleased Rusty.

And Rusty had said, “It’s good to have.” Was that a sarcastic joke, or willingness to accept a little spoiling? Am I overthinking this?

He’d ordered crème brulée for Rusty’s dessert, figuring the egg custard had some protein with the sugar.

Watching Rusty lick the creamy pudding off the spoon with his eyes drifting closed flooded warmth into Cross’s chest. Rusty made a soft sound of pleasure, then his eyes popped open and he flushed.

“It’s amazing. Didn’t you get yourself any? ”

“Nah.” Cross patted his stomach. “Getting soft. There’s only so many calories you can burn off with arm days.”

Rusty reached over and laid a hand on Cross’s T-shirt-clad abs. “Doesn’t feel soft to me.”

A jolt went through Cross and he stared down at those long fingers splayed across his midsection. After a breath, Rusty pulled his hand back, but not abruptly, and he went back to eating his dessert.