Rusty braced him easily and gathered Cross into the circle of his arms. For a while they sat in silence, looking out across the city to the silhouetted mountain beyond.
“You do me good too,” Cross said eventually. “You make me better, more real, more rounded. You make me laugh, you make me want to step out of my narrow comfort zone, as long as you’re there with me. You make me eager and unafraid to kiss you, because I can choose how far we go and you won’t be disappointed.”
“Not till you run down the batteries in the remote control, anyhow,” Rusty joked. But the moment felt too important for jokes. “You make me better too. I want to stretch myself to match you, to help you. I was this stupid, hick kid—”
“Never stupid.”
“Limited, maybe. I had hockey and that was all that mattered, but now I have you. Like, a whole wide world, with you at thecenter of it. Me of last fall would not believe where I am now, and I wouldn’t go back there for anything, not even a Stanley Cup ring.”
“I’m flattered.”
“It’s true.” Rusty kissed the top of Cross’s head.
Cross twisted around to look up at him. “We’re going to be good together.”
“We already are.”
“Yeah, we are.” Cross kissed him, the angle awkward, his lips a little chapped, and yet perfect. “We’re going places, you and me, and I can’t wait to see what that looks like.”
Me too.Rusty kissed him back.
“But I do want a cat,” Cross said. “Maybe two.”
“Seriously? The most romantic moment of my life, and you’re talking about cats?”
“Pets, yours and mine. A home. Fur babies.” Cross made wide eyes at Rusty and fake-pouted.
A laugh rose up from inside Rusty, as warm and free and sweet as that moment. “Sure,” he said. “Cats. Take three. They’re small.”
“We can name them after famous hockey players. Gordie Meow and Mark Andre Furry.”
“And Sidney Clawsby,” Rusty suggested.
Cross turned and tackled him right off the log. Rusty made sure he landed underneath because better his off-the-rack suit crashing into the sticky pine needles than Cross’s Tom Ford. Then he was weighed down with compact but solid hockeyplayer, and being kissed within an inch of his life. The scent of dried evergreens filled his nose, the taste of Cross made him dizzy, and Rusty knew, going forward, he’d divide his life intobeforeandafterthis perfect moment, flat on his back in the Oregon sunshine with the man he loved in his arms.
Epilogue –4 months later
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 moveforward in our new season. And now I give you, Roger LaCroix.” He beckoned.
