Cross held his jacket, trying to sort through the feelings swamping him. This was the right decision. He knew it. When he’d put his new ankle through a whole battery of testing in September, his doctor had laid his prospects out clearly. Almost no chance of ever skating at the intensity required for the NHL. A strong possibility a hit at the wrong angle could leave him worse off than ever. He’d bitten the bullet and called the Rafters management. It wasn’t fair to keep stringing them along for nothing. He’d known leaving would hurt, but the ache in his chest felt like a heart attack. The one thing tethering him to the moment was Rusty. “Come on.”
“Where?” Rusty followed willingly.
“This way.” He led them through familiar hallways, passing the occasional well-known face with a nod or a wave. Around one more corner and, “Here.”
“What’s here?”
“A strange dead-end hallway.”
“Ah.”
Every arena had its hidden spots, the places you could go to be alone, or in happier moments, to make out with a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Cross had used this one once or twice alone to get back his game face, and assumed he’d never use it for its other purpose. On this night of firsts, why not one more? He caught Rusty’s hand and pulled him around the support strut and into the small private space.
“Are you—?
Cross cut off Rusty’s words by hauling him down into a kiss.
“Oh,” Rusty mumbled against his mouth. “Sure.” He hauled Cross into a tight, satisfying embrace.
Cross kissed his boyfriend as a collage of images flashed through his mind, of a hundred arenas, a thousand moments, of the joy of the sport but also the loneliness as his teammates dated and flirted and boasted while he sat to the side, alone. Even with Willow, his relationship had felt like a tepid imitation of the real thing everyone else cheered about. He’d blamed himself.
Until Rusty came along and turned the intensity dial to eleven. This wasn’t tepid. This wasn’t an imitation of anything. Rusty’s mouth on his was life and breath, his arms were defense and support, his blue eyes at unfocused distance held a promise of forever. They kissed fervently, with heat and tongues, and then slower, gentler, winding down into a hug.
Cross laid his head on Rusty’s shoulder. “I love you.”
“Back atcha. That ceremony was pretty intense, huh?”
“A bit, yeah.”
“Satisfying, though.”
“A bit, yeah.” At Rusty’s laugh he admitted, “Okay, a lot.”
“Are we meeting with your folks?”
“Nope.” Mom, Dad, and Marie had been in town for two days leading up to this, while Rusty was on his road trip, and Cross had done lunch, and brunch, and dinner with them. Marie still had a tendency to hover, his kidnapping perhaps giving her more nightmares than it did Cross. He’d found, to his surprise, that escaping this time had helped put his old fears on the back burner. He was sleeping fine, especially with Rusty in his bed. Rusty had also ditched his therapist after a couple of months,but Marie still sometimes called him out of the blue, a hitch in her voice.
His parents, on the other hand, had gone back to remote mode, other than persistent job offers. The distance stung, probably always would, but he knew they loved him, in their own way. Not how he’d needed as a kid, but he wasn’t a child anymore. Still, Cross wasn’t sorry to say, “My family’s heading out now. Marie has a meeting in Sweden tomorrow, and Mom has someone she wants to schmooze for charity.”
“So it’s just us?” Rusty kissed his temple. “Can’t say I mind.”
“Me either.” He pushed away from his wonderful warm shoulder-pillow. “You must be beat. Great game yesterday, though.” Rusty had two assists and a monster hit on an Edmonton forward, and a plus two, for his first game as a Tornado. Cross had no doubt he’d be staying in the AHL. Might even move up to the Rafters at some point, if they got unlucky with injuries this season.
He rapped a knuckle on his head to detoxify that thought.
“I bet you can come up with a suggestion or two for improvement.” Rusty grinned.
“Maybe don’t trip the guy on the breakaway?”
“He didn’t score on the penalty shot, though.”
“Uh huh. You got lucky.”And so did I.Cross’s active playing days might be over, but he still was in the game. He had his boyfriend to nag into reading the opposition better, his teens to coach, and an interesting prospect in a seventeen-year-old junior with silky mitts and a crappy slap shot to take another look at. He had his family, if he could accept them as they were. Douchebag Tyler and his accomplice in kidnapping had takenplea bargains and were locked up for a minimum of twelve and ten years. After that? Well, they’d worry about it when the time came, but who knew where Rusty might be playing then. And out in the parking lot… “So, I did a thing.”
“What thing?”
“Uh, you might call it retail therapy.”
“Do I want to know?”
