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Cross waited at the exit of the tunnel, as he had so many opening nights before. His teammates on the Rafters took to the ice one by one to loud applause as their names were called, winding up on the blue line in their spotlights. He was last this time, after the captain.

The crowd screamed loudly for Scott Edison and shook a bunch of the rainbow banners scattered about the dimmed audience. Cross knew this time, some of those were for him, too. Pushkin got a roar, the captain his cheers.

Finally, the announcer said, “And last year’s Norris-winning defenseman for our Portland Rafters, number five, Roger LaCroix!”

Cross stepped onto the ice, left skate first, as he had every time for ten years now. Pushing off, he swooped across the ice in the white circle of light that followed him, not to his place on the blue line, but to center ice. There he stopped in a shower of snow. One last time.

He wore his jersey with his number five on the back, he wore his skates, sharpened to perfection by the equipment manager. But no pads, no stick, no helmet. Never again.

Jerking his chin up, he reminded himself not to be so defeatist. He’d carried a stick just that morning, teaching two sixteen-year-olds to make a saucer pass. Still, a sense of loss filled his chest.

The announcer said, “And here to congratulate Roger LaCroix on his jersey retirement is Rafters General Manager, Paul Desrosier.”

A red carpet had been laid out from the bench to center ice, and Desrosier, clad in an expensive suit and shiny shoes, walked out to the microphone at its end, ten feet from where Cross stood.

“This is a special moment in Rafters history,” Desrosier said.

“The first of many banners we hope to raise in the years and decades to come, honoring the very best players to wear a Rafters uniform. And how fitting, that this first number belongs to Roger LaCroix…”

Cross lost the thread for a moment, searching the darkness behind the bench for the man he wanted to see, the lights in his eyes.

There? No, there, a tall broad-shouldered figure, a hand waving.

Rusty had made it after all. The Tornados had played an away game opener last night in Edmonton, and getting home had been a comedy of errors Cross had followed through more and more frantic texts.

At least, the saga would’ve been a comedy, if Rusty hadn’t almost missed this moment.

When Cross tuned back in, the Jumbotron was playing scenes from his playing days, a few from his other teams but mostly his best Rafters moments.

The announcer narrated overhead. Cross had a moment of worry that they would play the clip of his accident, but they stopped before that with his game-winning wrister against Fargo.

Desrosier went back to the mic. “We will miss Cross’s talent on the ice, and even more his leadership in the locker room, but part of what makes Cross such a great player is that he worked to build this team.

His mentorship, his skills development with his teammates, will continue to be part of our success as we move forward in our new season.

And now I give you, Roger LaCroix.” He beckoned.

Cross pushed those ten feet across the ice under thunderous applause to shake Desrosier’s hand, then stepped up to the mic.

“Thank you, Mr. Desrosier, the Rafters, and Portland fans,” he began, and had to wait out another round of cheers.

“Hockey has been my life, ever since I was a little boy. Every kid who laces on skates dreams of making it to the NHL, and here I am, having lived that dream. I wish it had been longer, of course. I wanted to lead the Rafters to a Stanley Cup. Maybe three Cups.” He let the laughter go by.

“But I’ve been blessed with what I accomplished.

This is the team where I won my second Norris, this is the team where I played some of the best hockey of my life, and this is the team who stood behind me when I came out as an asexual biromantic man in professional hockey. That means more than I can ever say.”

He’d decided at his first in-depth interview to come all the way out.

How could he consider himself a role model if he was still hiding behind the familiar first three letters?

Saying “asexual” had morphed paparazzies’ obnoxious “but who’s the girl?

” questions into a morass of equally offensive variations on “how do you have sex if you hate sex?” questions.

He’d barely managed to stop Rusty from replying to one persistent reporter with, “Maybe I have a blow-up doll at home.” Managed only by catching on fast and kissing Rusty in the middle of the word “up.” They’d agreed afterward that anything said as a joke was likely to be repeated as totally serious, but he’d caught Rusty literally biting his tongue sometimes.

There was still video out there of the time Rusty failed, when he was asked if it wasn’t frustrating to be with a guy who didn’t want sex.

Rusty’s comeback of, “People in a relationship don’t have to want the exact same things.

Do you get mad at your wife when she won’t peg you in bed?

” was floating around. It did give the reporter a silent guppy-face, mouth open as he fumbled for a comeback.

Cross had blown Rusty afterward, even though he shouldn’t have rewarded that lapse of self-control.

Still, Cross didn’t regret coming out. Here he was, saying “asexual biromantic” to a sold-out arena and getting back a respectful silence.

He continued, “Hockey’s a sport, fast and exciting and graceful and sometimes brutal, a game of hits and pucks, wins and losses.

But it’s also a community of players and teams and fans.

These men standing on the blue line here tonight are my brothers; the coaches and trainers and managers and office staff of the Rafters are my family; you, the fans, are my friends.

Community. And when you rose up as one—” Well, maybe not quite, but he was going for the positives tonight.

“—and supported me for who I am and who I love, when you affirmed the truth that hockey is for everyone, that was community at its finest.”

This time, the cheers took a while to die down.

“I’m moving off the ice, but I have the honor to continue to be part of the Rafters family, in scouting and development of young talent.

” The scouting job was part time, and while it meant travel, it let Cross base himself in Tacoma with Rusty and still keep a toehold in the Rafters organization. There was some comfort in that.

“I have a lot of people I want to thank, who helped me along the journey that brought me to this moment. My mom and dad.” Who’d actually taken the time to come to this event.

“My big sister Marie, who’s always been on my side.

My peewees coach, Mr. Hamilton…” He went through a list, still shortened from the one he’d first written.

“I’m eternally grateful to my friend and teammate, Scott Edison, for coming out to the world as the NHL’s first active gay player.

Scott, your courage made my journey easier. Thank you.”

The Rafters on the ice tapped their sticks in acknowledgement.

“And I want to thank my boyfriend, Rusty Dolan, who turned the roughest year of my life into also the best. Come on out here, and watch the Rafters send my number up to the roof.” He held his hand out toward the bench.

Rusty made his way onto the carpet, still dressed in a rumpled game day suit he’d probably slept in on the plane. His one really nice suit.

Cross was still working on the “what’s mine is yours” concept with Rusty, trying not to step on his boyfriend’s independence or his pride.

Rusty paid his share of groceries and utilities and gas, and they negotiated other expenses.

He couldn’t wait for his boyfriend to begin earning an NHL salary, and not because they needed the money.

The closest they came to fights were when Rusty felt Cross was overspending on him.

By now, Cross had figured out that it cost him less to back down than it cost Rusty.

Learning to cook, so Rusty could afford half the food bill?

Well, Cross had needed a hobby. Eating his own cooking? Ah, the sacrifices he made for love.

Tonight, Rusty was wearing the one bespoke suit he’d let Cross buy him as his official date for the NHL Awards ceremony.

Hints of “you look so good in those photos, it makes me proud” hadn’t convinced Rusty to let him add any more, so mostly his boyfriend wore off-the-rack.

But he’d made an effort for this farewell.

Rusty’s height, his powerful thighs, and round ass were perfectly showcased in slightly creased gray herringbone tweed.

The spotlight brightened Rusty’s blond hair to silver and showed off the width of his shoulders, and the width of his grin. I’m a lucky, lucky man. Cross reached out and grasped Rusty’s hand as they met. “Tough trip home?” The mic picked up his words.

“Wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

He kept his hold on Rusty, weaving their fingers together, as Desrosier leaned to the mic and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Portland’s first, and only, number five, Roger LaCroix!”

As the crowd cheered and the team pounded their sticks, a narrow box at center ice opened and a banner with his name and number was slowly hauled skyward.

The sound system played the team song. A spotlight tracked the blue, navy and white banner as it rose into place under the arching roof.

As it reached its height, Cross blinked hard and gripped Rusty’s hand.

Desrosier said, “Forever a Rafter. Number five, Roger LaCroix.”

The noise grew deafening. Cross patted his chest over his heart and raised his hand to wave to the crowd in thanks.