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“Last summer neither. I am sad. What color paint did you buy?”

“Black.” Cross held up a hand to fend off Volkov’s reply. “Rusty asked for black.”

“I guess he wants to look badass. We will fix it for him.”

“Right.” Another ring at the door heralded Goldie and Axel. Cross unlocked for them, and Scott was hard on their heels.

Goldie brought more beer, Scott had a big bag of takeout. “In case Rusty didn’t get to eat after the game,” he said. “Plus some for the rest of us.”

Fries, even sweet potato fries, weren’t on Cross’s cheat list. Hopefully he’d be putting in enough elbow grease to burn off the fat. He wasn’t strong enough to turn those down.

A little after three, he heard another car in the drive and the door cam showed Rusty’s truck approaching.

The pink swaths stood out in the afternoon light.

Cross was an even-tempered guy, but the urge to smash Tyler almost choked him.

Rusty worked so damned hard and he had so little stuff. No one should get to wreck it.

Taking a breath and fixing on a smile, Cross headed onto the front porch with the other guys trailing behind. Rusty climbed out of the cab looking wide-eyed.

Despite the rain, he turned in a circle on the driveway, checking out the property. Then he jogged up the steps to meet Cross. “Wow, this place is incredible. I didn’t think— I mean, I knew you had money and you’re an NHLer and all, but wow.”

“Not to worry,” Volkov said over Cross’s shoulder. “In a few years, you’ll be in NHL too and can buy many cars like Cross.”

“Many cars?”

Cross threw a glare at Volkov over his shoulder and pulled the door wider, beckoning Rusty inside. “He exaggerates. Our starting goalie has nine. I’ve got, like, four and one of them’s for my sister.”

Scott chuckled but just said, “Come on, Rusty, I got food.”

“We should put the truck in the garage first,” Goldie pointed out. “Let it start drying off and warming up.”

“Right.” Cross remembered that from the videos he’d watched late into the night. Not just a warm room, but warm metal. “Here, Rusty, you get in the truck, and I’ll open up the garage. There’s a tarp on the floor. Just pull right in onto it.”

The guys, of course, tagged along as Cross headed into the garage, entered the code, and hit the opener. Axel shook one of the cans of spray paint lined up on the plastic-draped workbench. “Twelve cans of each? You think we’ll need all that?”

“I think going out for more in the middle of the job is worse than returning the excess later.” Not that he’d bother.

Keeping some extra paint around that matched would let Rusty touch up again if he had to.

Hopefully not because he got tagged again.

Cross made a mental note to offer the Gryphons’ arena some highly-visible parking lot surveillance equipment ASAP.

“Fair enough.” Axel shrugged.

Goldie said, “You sure did a good job draping everything off. Super picky.”

Cross elbowed him. “I’m putting cans of spray paint in the hands of my teammates. This is probably under protection.”

Zykov laughed. “We will be good. Not spray your precious cars.”

They stepped back as Rusty carefully pulled his pickup forward into the garage.

Rain dripped from the gray and pink sides and off the rusted fenders.

Goldie waved him squarely onto the tarp, then held up his hand.

The broken-muffler roar of the engine gurgled and then died.

Rusty swung out and eyed his decaying ride. “It’s pretty wet.”

Cross suggested, “Let’s eat some of Edzie’s food and let the truck drip for a while. Then I bet I have some old towels around. We’ll get it dried off, taped up, and spray some primer on.” He gestured at his teammates. “Lots of hands’ll make it quick work.”

Rusty scrubbed a hand through his damp hair. “I didn’t expect this. I really appreciate it. You all don’t have to work on my truck—”

“That’s what we came here for,” Goldie interrupted.

“If we can give you a hand, let us.” He, Volkov, and Axel had also met Rusty in the summer in the midst of all the drama.

They knew Rusty had gone through hard shit.

There was nothing Cross or his teammates could do, then or now, to soften that blow, but Cross knew all the guys wanted to make life a little less rough for Rusty.

Scott added. “Although sadly, not even a good coat of paint can save that rust bucket for long. Dude, can we get you a better truck? Used, if you prefer?”

“No!” Rusty backed up a step. “Look, I know you could afford it, but I can’t take gifts like that!”

Scott held up a hand. “Got it. I won’t push. Come on. I brought tacos and fries and Cross has hummus and all kinds of other stuff. Let’s fuel up and then tackle the job.”

Cross ushered them back toward the kitchen.

Rusty, bringing up the rear, paused in the doorway to turn to him.

“Thanks, really! I was, uh, kind of upset about it and this is awesome.” His blue eyes caught the light from the garage overheads and a trickle of water ran from his rain-darkened hair over his cheek and down his neck, until it disappeared under the collar of a ratty jean jacket.

End-of-season weight loss and a year of maturity were sharpening those cheekbones of his, in contrast to his soft full lips.

Cross felt the urge to step closer, to wipe that trickle off with his thumb, and brush it across that mouth, to make Rusty feel better…

Cross realized he’d been staring. “Not a problem. Seriously. Now get some food before those hungry jackals eat all the fries.”