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Cross sighed. “I need to be doing something. I have tape coming out of my ears, and there’s only so much arm work I can do.”

“I’m loving the arm work,” Rusty murmured, rubbing one of Cross’s increasingly powerful biceps. “And I don’t see any ear tape.” He dared a quick bend and nip at Cross’s earlobe, to make him yelp and laugh.

They didn’t touch, of course, once they left the locker room and moved through the rest of the community center. Still, Rusty liked having Cross crutching along at his side. He slowed down, strolling casually, imagining a future when Cross was ready to be a couple out in the open.

In the main lobby, they passed a red-headed woman with a camera crew who glanced their way, then strode over waving to her assistants.

“Roger LaCroix! Of the Portland Rafters, for those who don’t recognize the man without his uniform.

I’m Louise Anderson, LVRQ Portland. I didn’t know you were affiliated with the Forsythe Community Center. ”

Cross turned a calm smile on her, no doubt used to cameras stuck in his face. “Not officially. I was visiting the hockey camp they’re running for local youth. I was very impressed with the program.”

“Are you interested in youth hockey?”

“As a past participant, I can’t overstate the importance of youth programs of all kinds. Not just the intense junior levels that prepare professional players, but all of the local and rec and school programs that teach kids the joy of the sport.”

“That’s very eloquent.”

“Hockey was my—” Perhaps only Rusty noticed the slight hitch in Cross’s delivery before he went on, “—favorite moment of every day, growing up. I wish every kid could have that experience.”

“Why can’t they?”

“It’s not cheap. I was lucky. I had parents who could easily afford the gear and the fees and the ice time.

Many kids aren’t so lucky and they turn to cheaper sports.

Not to knock those, but there’s no adrenaline rush like hockey.

” Cross grinned, that same heartfelt grin Rusty had noticed in a post-game interview on TV years before he ever met Cross, and had carried inside him a long time as an impossible dream.

The reporter couldn’t help grinning back. Then she glanced at Rusty. “Are you a player too? I don’t recognize you, I’m sorry.”

Rusty would’ve demurred with, “Nothing special.”

But before he could get the words out, Cross said, “Rusty Dolan of the Eugene Gryphons. Give him a couple of years and you’ll be hurrying across the lobby to interview him too.”

“Wow, that’s an endorsement.” She asked Rusty, “Are you and LaCroix friends?”

“Yeah. I’m coaching at the hockey camp here, and he came to give me a hard time and teach the kids stuff I was missing.”

“You weren’t missing stuff,” Cross said, somewhat undoing the breezy feel Rusty was going for. “You were doing fine. I had other insights, is all.”

“And shared them. Loudly.” Rusty elbowed him very gently, not forgetting the crutches. We’re all just good bros here.

Cross blinked, staring at him, then turned a fake smirk back on the reporter. “Like I said, those kids deserve the best coaching available.”

“I’m sure you made their day. And what about the Rafters? Am I allowed to ask how your recovery’s going? Will you be back on the team by the time September comes?”

“I’m going to refer you to the team’s official statements on that,” Cross said. “I have the very best medical team in the nation and I’ve made a lot of progress.”

“How did you feel when Ahlquist and Vicksburg fell on you?”

Rusty shifted his weight. He screamed. How do you think he felt? Even now, remembering that sound made him queasy.

Cross said, “Painful. And pissed off. I was pretty sure I was about to miss the whole postseason. But it wasn’t anyone’s fault, definitely not theirs. Flying pucks and bad falls are part of hockey. If playing the game was safe as cotton wool, it wouldn’t be the sport I love.”

“And even with that injury, you encourage young teens to play?”

“Of course. Life isn’t safe. Getting hurt doing something you love is far better than never getting to do it at all.” He looked off across the lobby.

“You do expect to make a full recovery and return to playing?” Apparently Rusty hadn’t been the only one to catch a hint of wistfulness in Cross’s last sentence.

“Yes, of course.” Cross met her eyes and left no room for follow-up.

“And do you plan to be back here at the Forsythe Center to see these teens play again?”

“No doubt, although I’m not spreading word in advance.

” Cross nodded at where several people had gathered around them with stuff in their hands, clearly waiting for autographs.

“When I visit, it’ll be about encouraging young players and not a public event.

And now.” He let a crutch dangle off his arm as he dug in a pocket for a Sharpie. “I have some people waiting for me.”

“Thanks for your time,” the reporter said, taking the hint. She collected her cameraman and strode away across the lobby toward a tall man in a suit.

The spectators closed in. Cross signed everything handed to him for the next ten minutes. Rusty mostly hung about, but some of the people asked for his signature too, especially after Cross told the first woman who did so, “Hang onto that. It’s going to be valuable someday.”

The man in the suit approached them when the crowd had thinned out. “Mr. LaCroix. Thanks for agreeing to the interview. We’re trying to drum up public support for the center with a news feature, and every bit helps.”

Rusty would’ve pointed out that Cross hadn’t exactly been asked, but Cross shook hands, murmured a platitude, then told the remaining people, “I need to get going. I hope to see some of you at a game in the future.”

Reluctantly the crowd parted to let him through. Rusty played bodyguard, making sure Cross wasn’t jostled, till they were out the doors and crossing the lot. “You think you can get up in my truck?” he asked, realizing this might not’ve been the greatest idea.

Or maybe it was, when Cross said, “You’re going to have to boost me.”

“I can do that.” Getting to put his hands under Cross’s still-rounded hockey butt was not a hardship.

Once in the truck, as they pulled out of the lot, Cross mused, “That was weird.”

“What was?” Rusty turned right, merging into rush hour traffic.

“For a minute, when the reporter asked who you were, I almost said, ‘My boyfriend.’ Before I thought about it.”

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Oh, yes you would. Could you imagine the circus that would’ve caused, coming out standing there in a community center lobby?”

Don’t tell me what I think. Rusty swallowed down his resentment. “Well, whenever, if you feel it’s right, go for it.” Before Cross could go on with that topic, he asked, “What were you about to say, when you were talking about being a kid? Hockey was your… what?”

“My only refuge. Which is true, but feels unfair to my parents. Plus, it opens the question of refuge from what. Not something I want to get into with a random reporter either.”

Do you still feel that way? Is it making this time off the ice harder? Rusty set his hand on Cross’s thigh.

After a quiet minute, Cross added, “I’m an adult now. Shouldn’t need that escape, but I guess till recently, that was still true.”

“Until recently?”

They pulled up at a stoplight and Cross gave him that grin he’d craved for so long, meant just for him. “Because of you. I still love hockey and I miss it, but it helps having you around, when I need a safe place to be.”

The light turned green, so Rusty couldn’t lean over and kiss his man, but he pulled into the slightly faster lane and cursed the time it’d take to get home.