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Rusty had no ambition to go into nursing.

He could handle blood and puke and shit, because you didn’t grow up on a farm and get to stay prissy about those things.

What he couldn’t handle would be grumpy-ass patients.

He was making an exception for Cross, but damn, it wasn’t easy. “Pork chops or hamburgers?”

“You don’t have to cook. I can order in.”

“Sure, you can spend a gazillion bucks and get a Michelin star team to come give you a ten-course tasting meal or whatever. Except I’m about to get dinner on the table, so which one?”

“Whichever you want.”

“Aargh.” Rusty tugged at his hair. “Look, pick a fucking main dish. Then get back to the living room and get your fucking foot up on the fucking couch. Above heart level.”

“I know what the doctor said.”

“But do you fucking do it? No, you’re here hovering in the kitchen letting your ankle swell up and fall off.”

“It’s not going to fall off.”

Rusty whirled away from the fridge and pointed at the living room. “Lie the fuck down !”

“This is my house and my food and my stove you’re about to use—”

“You know what? Order the fucking meal. See if I care. Or get one of those perfectly balanced precooked meals for one out of the freezer and microwave it. Whatever. I’m going for a run.

” He slammed out the side door, wondering if he would set off some kind of warning sensor.

Cross had walked him through the passive security features of the house when he moved in, and they weren’t kidding around.

Only surveillance, no machine gun nests or anything, but everything outside the house was scrutinized within an inch of its life and there were alarms of all kinds.

His old truck now occupied a stall in the big garage, so the driveway was deserted as he jogged toward the road.

The pedestrian gate took his code and let him out of privileged-land into…

more privileged-land. Big mansions, many with similar walls and fences and gates, lined the curving road.

Lush gardens with perfectly sculpted lawns fronted the houses.

At one place, he passed a crew of mostly Hispanic workers weeding and trimming.

He wondered if they picked up the fall leaves by hand, the way they were bagging dead blossoms. The lawn looked like Astroturf.

He sped up despite a long day at work. Not that supervising the kids was hard physical work. Mentally, sure. Physically, not so much. He’d skipped his usual exercise routine to start cooking and was Cross grateful? No, he was not.

Pounding the pavement was good. The steady slap of his sneakers and the rhythm of his breathing drowned out the thoughts in his head.

He’d figured things would go easy. He and Cross had been getting along great.

Rusty could feel useful, like he was offering something by moving in, not just taking free room and board.

But now he found himself nagging and Cross sniping, and he was ready to say fuck it and move back to Scott’s place.

Except that would mean Cross had to hire help, some kind of aide at least, while he was in elevate-ninety-percent-of-the-time mode.

And Rusty had figured out that Cross, despite being used to paying for services, hated having strangers in his private space.

As mad as Rusty was, the idea of sitting around Scott’s fancy apartment playing video games, while knowing Cross was tolerating a caregiver with gritted teeth, didn’t sound like a good time.

He’s scared. Probably angry at the universe. Rusty couldn’t imagine going from the top of the league to finished, just like that. Not that Cross admitted he was never going to play again, but they both knew that was mostly bravado.

He’s a rich man. He’ll be more than fine. Which was true. As opposed to if it happened to someone like Rusty the next time he played, and he ended up washed up at nineteen with only an old truck to his name.

He picked up his pace another notch.

But all the money in the world couldn’t give Cross back the NHL, the unmatched feeling of swooping behind the net and delivering a breakaway pass, the rush of heading up the ice three-on-two with teammates. That wasn’t an excuse for treating Rusty like crap. But maybe it was a reason.

If that’d been Rusty facing the end of his career, he’d have been punching the walls.

At least Amy Nelson had called yesterday.

Acting on a “tip”— no prizes for guessing from who— the Eugene cops had arrested Tyler for driving under the influence and found enough meth in his truck to charge him with intent to sell.

He was in jail, with bail high enough his broke ass wouldn’t be able to pay it.

Whether he copped a plea, or went to trial, he was neutralized.

That’d been more of a relief than Rusty had expected.

No more tensing himself up every time he left work.

No more scanning the media for Cross being outed.

But it hadn’t fixed the tension between him and Cross.

Rusty headed left into the dead-end circle with the house that looked like a barn and a castle had an alien baby, and when he came back to the main road, he turned for home.

For months, he’d wanted a chance to be with Cross on an even footing, and fuck if he was going to let them wreck it over stupid shit like making dinner.

By the time he jogged in at Cross’s driveway, his calves ached, but he felt better.

I need to get serious about taking my fitness to the next level.

Cross had a great in-home gym but Rusty had been squeamish about using it without him.

No more. He was going to work the hell out and who cared if the equipment was so pristine the seats still had a shine to them?

Like, seriously, did Cross replace them the second they showed any wear?

Whatever. He was going to get fitter, and he was going to talk to Cross. Not in that order.

Approaching the main gate made him aware of the cameras overhead.

He wondered if someone professional was watching.

Cross had told him there were motion sensors that alerted the security team when someone got close.

Cross’s father had wanted him to have an actual team around the house all the time and Cross had refused, so they’d rigged up lots of electronics.

Rusty wondered how far away the nearest flesh-and-blood bodyguard was.

If someone leaped out of the bushes and through the gate after him, hunting Cross, how fast would help arrive?

He shivered as he coded open the gate. He didn’t much like that thought. Not just the flash of fear but the reminder of how different he and Cross were. What does he really see in a broke, ordinary ECHL player?

As he jogged across the lawn toward the kitchen door, he made himself focus on here and now.

He was going to apologize to Cross, even if that argument was not his own fault.

His mother had always said the key to a happy marriage was saying sorry even when you were right.

Rusty wondered if Cross’s mother had taught him the same thing.

Maybe not, since she had yet to show up to see her son after the second surgery that had possibly ended his career.

That blew Rusty away. Sure, she’d called and FaceTimed, but if he’d been in surgery, his mom would’ve been there in the waiting room…

well, before. Not now. Now Rusty was dead to her, and she wouldn’t care.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob to swallow that down. Tonight wasn’t about his mommy issues, though, or Cross’s either. Rusty needed to make sure Cross thought this arrangement was working. That they were working.

When he’d coded this door too, and let himself in, the kitchen was quiet and empty. He headed to the living room and found Cross half-reclined on the couch, his foot up on a pillow. He sat up fast when Rusty appeared. “Oh, there you are. You went out without your phone.”

“I was in a hurry.” A flash of irritation rose for a moment.

“I’m sorry.” Cross rubbed a hand over his head. “I’m a terrible patient. I should’ve warned you. Even Marie doesn’t like to be around when I’m rehabbing.”

“I shouldn’t have got pissy about dinner, or told you what to do.”

“No, I…” Cross glanced away. “I like it, that you cared enough to yell at me. It’s just odd, having someone else here who matters.”

“Still, it’s your foot. If you want it to rot and fall off, that’s your choice.” Oops. Maybe Rusty wasn’t as ready to say sorry as he thought.

Luckily, Cross barked a laugh. “Yeah, that’d show you who was boss, wouldn’t it?” He sobered. “I should be grateful for everything you do. I am grateful.”

“I’m not doing it to make you grateful.” The big sectional couch had enough room for him to sit next to Cross’s foot and meet his gaze. “Whatever chance there is for your foot to heal right, I want it to happen.”

“Me too.” Cross sighed. “Maybe I got off the good pain meds a bit fast.”

“Hurting?”

“Some. And turning into an asshole.”

“Hey, I like assholes.”

Rusty had meant that as a joke but Cross got a tense expression, lips thinned and brow furrowed, suddenly older than his years. “Yeah, about that.”

“What?” They sat in silence for a minute, the quiet drawing out till Rusty added, “Now you’re making me nervous.”

“You remember how I said I was demisexual?”

“Yeah?” He’d got the “not interested in casual sex” part loud and clear, but when they were likely to move to sex was still a mystery.

“Except I think that was a lie.” Cross twisted his hands together, like he was going to pull his thumbs off. “I think I’m really asexual. Not gray or demi or whatever, just ace.”

“Okay…” Rusty let the word trail off and looked away, even though he had questions. Cross would explain, or not. Rusty didn’t really have any right—

“Don’t do that,” Cross said.

“Do what.”

“Get all, I don’t know, remote, like it doesn’t matter. If we’re together, what I want or don’t want in bed will make a difference to you.”