“I like the way you tell me things.” Rusty wanted to be a team player but he had to say, “You explain the plays much clearer than Coach does.”
Cross frowned. “Isn’t Frasier an ex-NHL coach?”
“Yeah. I mean, he knows his stuff. Probably better than Coach Nilsson did. When Nilsson moved up to the AHL and Coach Frasier came out of retirement to replace him, we thought he’d be great.”
“But he wasn’t?”
Rusty shook his head. They’d sunk from third in their division with a shot at the playoffs to four points out of last place. “I thinkhe’stoogood for us. He says something once and if we don’t get it, he throws up his hands and goes after the next guy. Like you said, he coached in the NHL. Last summer, he worked at a top skills camp in Toronto. He’s asking too much of a bunch of rookies and guys who maybe love the game but don’t have the skills.”
“You’ve always picked things up quickly.”
“Because you take time to teach me, or even demo. Like, Coach will say, ‘Show me your crossblade formwiggle stance,’ and when I just stare at him, he huffs instead of explaining and walks away.”
“Formwiggle?” Cross hid his mouth behind his hand.
Rusty waved off his snicker. “You know. Something I’ve never heard of. I want to learn, but Coach is so used to polishing top players who already know this shit, he gets frustrated with us. Sometimes he’ll say something like, ‘Watch LaPlante in the second period of game three with the Rangers last Cup, and you’ll see what I mean.’ If I can track down the game, sometimes I can figure it out…” He let the words trail off.
“But you wish he’d be more hands-on.”
“Yeah. I do.” He felt disloyal, but hell, anything he could learn would help Coach win games. End justified the means, right? “So if you’re up for watching tape, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure. Absolutely.” Cross angled the remote and unfroze the game that was playing. “We’re up against Quebec next road trip. They have a couple of speedy young rookie forwards they brought up after injuries. I haven’t played against these guys, so I want to watch them here against Chicago, whose style is similar to ours.”
“Cool.”
“And keep your eye on Chicago number thirty-four, Lindstrom. Good two-way defenseman, scores a few goals but mostly gets a lot of assists. He’s about your size and he’s fast like you’re becoming. You can learn a lot from him.”
“Okay.”
“Hang on.” Cross scooted closer to Rusty as he changed the game playback to five minutes earlier, their shoulders only inches apart. “There’s something here off the face-off that I want you to see first.”
Rusty looked sideways, wondering if Cross realized how he’d closed the space between them. Rusty could feel the heat of those thick hockey-player thighs next to his through the velour of his robe. He could smell the light scent of herb and mint that echoed the expensive-looking shampoo in the guest bathroom, and with a subtle deeper breath, he imagined a hint of clean male skin underneath. Cross’s jawline carried a haze of dark stubble, filling in as the day wore on. The flicker of light from the screen caught flecks of amber in his storm-cloud gray eyes.
But Cross peered at the screen, seeming oblivious. “Here. Chicago wins the faceoff and Norsgaard passes to Lindstrom. See Quebec number sixteen? He’s in Lindstrom’s face, maybe chirping him. Now, watch the move Lindstrom makes to get around him…”
Rusty told his chubbing-up dick to behave and focused on hockey.
Around midnight, after three hours of some of the most useful coaching Rusty had received since Nilsson left, and after a break for food, Rusty’s clothes were clean and dry. He dressed and they headed back into the garage.
The old truck gleamed under the overhead lights. Cross went over and touched a spot near the rust above a wheel. “Feels dry. Shall we get the plastic off the windows? I’ll have more energy to pull the masking tape now than at four-thirty in the morning.”
“I can do it. You don’t have to get up.”
“Two hands are better than one. You can help me put away the fans too.”
“Sure. Absolutely.”
They worked in easy silence. Cross peered at the silver “Chevrolet” nameplate. “I did a crappy tape job here. It appears you now drive a ‘hevrol’ truck.”
“Fine with me.” Rusty picked at a little fleck of paint on the rim of a taillight. “Seriously, this looks great. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
Cross flashed him a quick smile. “Anytime. Although I hope it won’t happen again.”
“It could.” Rusty had been ignoring that fact all day, but it settled heavily in his stomach now. “I don’t know if the spray paint was Tyler or not. They could come back. I got no way to stop them.”
“Park up close to the arena,” Cross suggested. “Where people walk around all the time. We could buy you a little camera for the truck.”
“No way. You’ve spent enough on me already.”
