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He was figuring out how to say no when Cross added, ~You can pay me back. I’ll keep the receipt.

But will he buy the cheap stuff? Rusty paced in a circle.

Cross had barely let him pay for a couple of Pepsis on their fake date, even though he’d driven all that way to help Rusty out, and for sure it should’ve been on Rusty’s dime.

Yeah, Cross made, like, eight million bucks a year, so he could afford it, but Rusty was done being dependent.

No one— not his parents, not Tyler, not Cross— no one got to control what he did or who he loved by buying stuff.

He steeled himself to say no, he’d shop for himself.

Call it off if the paint was out of his budget.

Except it was late, the fog was turning to drizzle down his neck, and Cross sent, ~Please? That way we can be done at a decent hour.

So was he being independent, or making things harder by being stubborn? Fuck if he could tell the difference anymore. He texted, ~Yeah. OK. Black though and not too pricey?

~You got it.

~You’re sure?

Cross just replied, ~See you at 3.

~See you. Thanks!

The driver’s door creaked as he got in. That had nothing to do with the vandalism, and everything to do with the fact that he’d bought the truck with chore money when he was sixteen and it’d been ready for the scrap heap even then.

It’d saved his life twice, carrying him from his parents’ house to Scott’s ranch when his world fell apart, and across the country to this desperate new chance.

It didn’t deserve the indignity of a pink dick.

Fuck Tyler sideways with a cactus.

The pickup was held together with baling wire and string, and if it died, he was screwed.

He rested his elbows on the steering wheel and breathed through his nose, his teeth clenched.

Every time he thought he was on track, he was reminded that his track was actually a tightrope wire ten feet off the ground.

His phone pinged again and he got it out.

Cross. ~Looking forward to it.

That was odd and a bit awkward, but cool. The words warmed the chill inside Rusty enough for him to relax his jaw and almost smile, as he stuck his phone in his pocket and drove home.

***

“Looking forward to it.” Cross set down his phone and hid his face in his hands. What a ridiculous thing to say to a guy whose truck was vandalized. Too late to take it back, though.

He spent the next several hours checking repair videos, which told him to use a proper spray gun, sand out and fill dents and cut out the bad rust and patch and, and, and…

except Rusty would no doubt try to pay him back for anything he bought.

Besides, unless the guy could be convinced to borrow a car, he’d need to drive the truck back down that same night.

Two quick coats would have to do. Paint over the rust and let it go.

The next morning found Cross squinting at racks of automotive and metal paint in the store. Research said five to ten rattle cans of paint and primer per coat, but there were half a dozen brands and several varieties of primer.

He pulled out his phone and texted Scott. ~Hey, you’re a farm boy right? Ever paint a truck or car?

After a few minutes, he got back, ~I’m not a farm boy, that’s Will. And no. Why? You planning to doll up your Porsche?

~Helping Rusty out.

~If it’s his old truck, that thing is half rust. Isn’t painting it like putting lipstick on a pig?

~I thought you weren’t a farm boy. What’s with the pig metaphor?

~Must be Will rubbing off on me.

~I don’t need to hear about your sex life.

~Your loss. Why are you painting Rusty’s truck?

Cross hesitated, but Rusty hadn’t said not to tell. He wouldn’t mention Tyler. He forwarded the picture from last night, the pale shade hard to make out. ~He says it’s pink.

~Motherfuckers. Can we buy him a new truck? Piss them off?

~I offered to help. Rusty said no. Well, he hadn’t gone as far as offering a new truck, but Rusty had turned down a loaner and a repair shop. He’d even been prickly about paint. Figured he would say no.

~So what’s the plan?

~He’s bringing it up to my garage since he can’t paint in the rain. I’ll clear out space, we’ll put a couple of coats on it and ignore the rust.

~OK what time? I’ll come help so your thumb doesn’t fall off.

~Thumb?

~From holding down the spray paint? Have you never?

Cross didn’t want to admit that his experience with household repairs was minimal. His dad had made his money before Cross was born and they’d always paid people to do the work. ~Not enough to sprain my thumb.

~I’ll bring a couple of the guys. Make the work go faster.

~3 PM

~Got it. So which of your babies are you going to put out on the street?

~My cars are not my babies.

~Could’ve fooled me.

~You like them more than I do. He’d read up on performance and specs before buying, and talked about them in the locker room because it was a way to connect with some of the other players.

He’d grown up awkward, nerdy, enthused about things the other kids didn’t seem to care about.

But he wasn’t stupid. Teambuilding was a challenge that could be researched, same as anything else.

In Juniors, he’d studied video games and superheroes and popular actresses.

When he hit the majors, he asked his dad to teach him to golf.

The cars were another entry point. He wasn’t attached.

Although, to be fair, he did like cruising down a highway in summer with the top down and a lot of power under the hood. He liked the rumble of the engine and the nimble response to his foot and hands… okay, maybe he was fond of them. Still not his babies .

He told Scott, ~They’re cars. They won’t melt.

~Always so mature. See you at 3.

“Mature” should’ve felt like a compliment, not an accusation.

But in a sport where he was maybe past his peak, coming from a guy who’d barely hit twenty-four, it stung.

He pushed that feeling aside and switched over to his shopping list. Respirators.

Better buy a bunch, since Scott was good at roping people in.

Box fans. He didn’t want to poison the lungs of his teammates with this little stunt.

Better get several. Sandpaper. Tarp. Masking tape. Plastic.

By the time he was done, he was glad he’d driven his SUV to get “a few cans of spray paint.”

Back home, he decided to clear the left half of his four-car garage, which meant putting out the working cars— the Highlander SUV and the Lexus he loaned his sister when she came to visit.

He unloaded, cranked up the heat in the garage because the paint said don’t use below fifty degrees and Portland had decided to do forty-five and raining.

Prep time. He glanced around the garage, his eye catching on the camera over the door into the house.

His house had a video doorbell and three-sixty-degree camera surveillance of the property and a camera on his gate, and this one, all monitored by his father’s security people.

Way overkill, except when he got back from the ranch last summer, he’d been pathetically glad of the security.

Now he was back to where the lack of privacy grated.

Well, it should grate, like it has all my life.

I should want to get rid of it. He pretended some dark little place back in his head didn’t shiver and get scared at the notion of being left unprotected.

Either way, it was what it was. He texted Amy Nelson, head of LaCroix family security. ~Will be putting two of the cars out on the road and having friends parking on the drive. One old battered truck in the garage.

He quickly got back, ~Noted. Dolan’s truck? And why not leave yours on the drive?

Of course she knew who in his life drove something like that. He really should want privacy.

~It’s raining. I don’t make my friends hike in the rain.

That was a better excuse than saying he didn’t want to show off his possessions in front of Rusty.

The kid had to know Cross was loaded, but maybe he could not rub Rusty’s face in it.

He could throw tarps over the Porsche and the antique Mustang, and they could be anything under there. Covering them would be smart anyway.

He set up the fans, the heat, the tarps, laid out paint and supplies.

Then he showered, even though he’d already had one that morning, and no doubt would again afterward.

He refused to examine why he wanted to feel totally fresh and clean.

Likewise, he didn’t think about why it took him ten minutes to persuade himself to wear old baggy clothes, instead of his favorite sweater that brought out the color of his eyes.

Rusty— and the guys— wouldn’t care how he looked, and he made the smart choice in the end.

He ate lunch and made sure he had fixings for nachos and sandwiches ready.

The guys would’ve eaten too— no one skipped a meal when they were fighting to keep on weight as the season wound down— but by the same rationale, they could always eat more.

He popped and seasoned a big bowl of everything-popcorn, got out crackers, hummus.

Stopped himself when he realized he was contemplating making a veggie platter. Keep it casual. Don’t be weird.

Volkov, their backup goalie, was the first to arrive, ringing the doorbell at two-forty.

Cross had been distracting himself by keeping track of the garage temperature (almost sixty now) and watching the Gryphons’ ECHL rival Sacramento wipe the ice with Reno in a recorded game on his laptop.

It wouldn’t hurt to give Rusty some pointers on Sacramento’s number twenty-seven.

He seemed to lose the puck if he was forced over to his left…

Cross shut off the game and buzzed Volkov through the front door. Time to focus on his own teammates.

Volkov handed Cross a case of beer as he came into the kitchen. “Here. Painting is thirsty work.”

“Thanks.”

“Edzie sent me picture of truck. Is there someone I can punch?”

Cross had to smile. “Sadly no.”