Page 6

Rusty left the arena last, after the Gryphons lost six-two a week later, waiting until all his teammates and coaches and most of the fans were gone.

He was in no mood to sign autographs, if anyone wanted his after that damned drop pass he’d fucked up.

He also didn’t want an audience if Tyler had decided to come back.

He’d spent the week jumping at shadows with nothing happening, and he fucking resented that.

Then that morning, he’d ignored three more calls with voice mails from a new random number.

He’d played the beginning of one, just enough to hear that familiar voice, before deleting it and blocking that caller too.

So much for hoping he got the message. What did I ever see in him?

Okay, sure, objectively Tyler was hot as hell, and when he wasn’t being weird, he’d made Rusty feel appreciated.

But seeing him next to Cross? The manicured eyebrows and fake green eyes and smooth tan couldn’t compete with a solid hunk of smokin’ hot, ripped and glowering defenseman. Cross was twice the man Tyler was.

Having Cross there fake-boyfriending and defending Rusty had been an odd mix of great and embarrassing.

Better to remember the hour afterward, talking hockey and slowly relaxing.

Their knees had bumped a couple of times, accidentally.

Once, when Cross was describing a play, his fingers had brushed Rusty’s hand.

That shouldn’t have been hot, but Rusty had sucked down a big ice cube, trying to cool himself off.

When they left, heading side by side to their separate vehicles, there’d been a moment when Rusty had debated suggesting heading to his place.

Maybe for a blow job to thank Cross properly for showing up for him.

He’d turned and met Cross’s eyes, and for a second, he thought maybe Cross would be into it.

Would a straight guy choose to play boyfriend like that, instead of just wingman?

Cross’s gaze had dropped to Rusty’s mouth and Rusty had stepped closer.

Then Cross thumped Rusty on the shoulder, muttered something about not seeing Tyler and good luck tomorrow, and turned away.

Probably Rusty had been imagining anything more…

The cool, damp night air beaded moisture on his skin as he crossed the parking lot.

Oregon was a lot less frigid than Kansas.

Back home in early March, snow was still a possibility.

Here the overcast and damp made forty degrees feel miserable.

He hunched in the collar of his jacket and trudged to the corner of the lot where he’d left his truck, passing a few vehicles, probably the staff still cleaning and closing the venue.

The only people around stood in clumps near the front doors a hundred feet away.

Rusty shivered and glanced around. He wasn’t afraid of Tyler, but he’d given a hundred and ten percent on the ice in their four-one loss, and he didn’t have the energy for an argument.

Luckily, Tyler liked his comforts. The idea that he’d hang about a cold, wet parking lot for hours, just to give Rusty a hard time, was ludicrous.

Nothing moved as Rusty approached his truck. He heaved a sigh of relief, rounded the back to the driver’s side, and stopped.

Well, fuck.

Someone— guess who, although there’d been a few “wages of sin” types two weeks back— had taken a can of pink spray paint to Rusty’s black truck.

Most of the graffiti was just sweeps of color across the panels and up over the side windows.

On the front fender above the wheel, there was a scribble that was probably meant to be a cock and balls.

On the driver’s door, a crooked smiley face grinned at him.

Well, shit.

No slurs, no F-words. No God hates. This sure looked like “Pay attention to me.” The only surprise was Tyler risking getting paint on his clothes.

Rusty touched the nearest splotch and tried to smear it, but the paint was dry under his fingertip. Not super recent, then. He’d been in the arena almost four hours. Tyler was no doubt long gone.

He knew what he should do. Drive home, ignoring anyone who stared or honked. Go out tomorrow and buy paint remover and a scraper. See if he could at least get the windows and mirrors clean.

But prickly heat rose up behind his eyes, and he rubbed at them with a fist. This sucks.

He was trying so damned hard to make his life work, but it seemed like every time he turned around there was one more thing.

Not just Mike and his family and leaving home, but if it wasn’t the bigots in the Gryphons’ room, it was playing a crappy game in front of a coach who just glowered, or dating a fucking creep, or having to take paint remover costs out of his fucking food budget.

He pulled out his phone and took a couple of pictures of the truck.

He was about to text Kris, his best friend back home, to bitch about it to someone when he realized how late it was in Kansas.

Kris worked on Scotty, Will, and Casey’s ranch.

Ranch work started at dawn. He didn’t need her commiseration enough to wake her up in the middle of the night.

One row down from his chat thread with Kris was Cross.

After that text of his with the address of the bar, and from Cross with his ETA, were a bunch of more recent hockey comments back and forth, showing Cross had taken the time to watch video of Rusty’s games.

Nothing personal in there, but friendly, at least.

The Rafters had flown back from a road trip that morning which meant no practice or game. Cross was probably still up.

Rusty took a deep breath. He’d get his shit together and deal with the truck soon. He was good at that, he could problem-solve. But he could use a friendly word, just for a moment.

Before he could second guess himself, he sent, ~So this happened.

Followed by a picture of his truck with the pink cock-and-balls décor.

The reply pinged back gratifyingly quickly. ~Is that your truck? Any messages?

~Other than the paint is pink? No.

~Any damage?

~Not that I can tell. Unless you count not being able to see the mirrors. At this hour, traffic would be slow enough he was probably safe.

Cross sent back, ~I can drive down give you a ride home. It’ll be midnight though.

The chill in Rusty’s core warmed at the offer. ~Fuck no. As long as it drives I can get home.

~Any chance the bastard was caught on a surveillance camera?

Rusty glanced around but saw only trees and fence. ~I don’t think we have that kind of security. I’m near the back of the lot.

~What can I do? Want me to get in Tyler’s face?

The thought made him smile for perhaps the first time that evening. ~I don’t even know for sure this was him. Could be because I fucked up and gave away a bad goal tonight.

~Assisted on one too. Nice pass.

~You were watching? Rusty hadn’t thought the game was televised anywhere but the local network.

~Streamed the game. Your teammates weren’t helping you out.

~We sucked.

~Doesn’t mean someone gets to tag your truck. Anyone else on the team get done?

~I don’t think so. I stayed late icing my leg. And hiding, which he didn’t have to admit. ~They’re all gone. But I didn’t hear anyone yelling.

After a moment, Cross added, ~That was a good block too, getting your leg in front of the shot. Like he thought Rusty needed more props, which was kind but unnecessary. And then, ~I can loan you a car for a few days, if you have to leave your truck at the shop.

Rusty snorted. ~Ha. No shop. I’m lucky if I have money for some turpentine.

~What can I do to fix this?

That was the downside to complaining to Cross. He didn’t seem to realize some shit couldn’t be fixed. ~I don’t need anything. I just wanted to tell somebody. Wanted to bitch, I guess.

~You can bitch to me any time. Can you at least buy some cover up spray paint? Not that there’s anything wrong with pink. Hell, you could make the whole thing pink. Big FU to whoever did it.

Rusty gave that a moment of serious thought.

He could text Tyler, “Thanks for the decorating suggestion.” Piss him off.

But he’d blocked that new number, and any contact would probably just encourage him.

And despite the temptation to park a pink truck next to Morty’s, provoking his teammates would probably end badly.

He wondered if any of them had seen the damage and not bothered to come back in and tell him.

Probably not. He’d parked in the far corner on purpose.

He sent, ~Not sure I want the attention.

~I get that. How about blue? Or better red. Might cover the pink easier. Might want to start with primer though. Then a top coat.

Rusty checked the weather app. Even if he could afford the paint, there was no point in wasting it. ~It’s supposed to rain for the next six days. Maybe after.

~I have a big garage. Space to work.

He’d never been to Cross’s place. Scott had a cool condo in Portland with a view of the water.

He’d been over there once, and remembered Cross saying he had a house.

But Cross was a tidy guy, finicky even. Rusty had spray-painted a lot of shit around the farm in his day, and it was never a tidy process.

~You can’t want me to get paint all over your garage.

~You can spend an hour helping get everything covered up first. Then yeah.

It was the idea of “helping” that made Rusty want to say yes.

And hour or two with Cross, working side by side, sounded like a slice of heaven after how alone he’d felt all week.

~Tomorrow? I have practice till 11. Neither of us has a game.

Maybe he kept track of the Rafters schedule a bit closely, but then, he was a fan.

~Sure. Our practice is optional. 3 p.m?

Rusty stifled a grin. Hell, yes. Almost worth the pink paint. ~I could do that.

~Let me buy the paint.

~I can afford some paint. Maybe. Probably. He’d have to go price it out.

~But it’ll take time. If I do that part in the morning you can get on the road quicker.