“Nah. I’m going to spend tomorrow sleeping and FaceTiming with my guys. I don’t need a teenager around for that.”
Cross winced at the reminder. Yeah, Rusty was a teenager. Nineteen, with a grown man’s job and problems, and clearly no virgin, but still. “Okay.”
“Tell him he can call me, though. Text, PM. Like, if he just wants to bitch about what some douchenozzle said to him along the boards, whatever. I can tell him he’s not the only one. And half the time, it’s shit I heardbeforeI came out. Maybe they know it’s personal now, but that bullshit’s not new.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“What were you laughing at before?”
“He sent me a pic of his D-partner asleep on the team bus. Dude was asking for a Sharpie facial.”
Scott snorted. “God, I do not miss those buses. I wasn’t in the ECHL, but even in the AHL. Twelve-hour rides. Plus, they always smelled of sweaty men, and not in a good way.”
Cross glanced around the Rafters’ private plane, complete with seats that gave Scott’s six-foot-three frame legroom, andhad shoulder space for someone like Kenny. Not nearly as lush as his family’s jet, of course, but a long way from public transport. “We’re living the life.”
“If you don’t count the bruises.” Scott shifted in his seat. Cross remembered he’d taken a hard hit along the boards in the third period. “Although even those are better on a two-hour flight than a twelve-hour bus ride.”
Cross’s phone vibrated again in his pocket. He suppressed the reflex to pull it out. Rusty could wait. They were just shooting the breeze and Scott was Cross’s actual teammate. “Tell me about the ranch,” he asked Scott. “How’s Kris doing?” While he and Scott were mentoring Rusty, Will had taken on an eighteen-year-old girl with a love of horses. “How’s Nita and all the horses? And your men? Anything new?”
He forced himself to pay attention to Scott’s answers. After all, he did care about Casey and Will and Kris and the rest, after spending half of his summer getting to know them. If his phone vibrated a couple more times, well, there was no reason for him to put idle chat with Rusty ahead of team bonding with Scott.
Chapter 7
Rusty pulled over to the curb a block away from Cross’s place and leaned his forearms on the steering wheel. He was not going to get weird about spending time with Cross. For all he knew, the invite was casual and there’d be a bunch of the guys there.
Cross took that mentor shit seriously. The fact that Rusty treasured his words more personally than Cross probably meant them was his own problem. The fact that Rusty had spent more and more time scanning the internet for interviews with Cross, sweaty after a game, jersey stripped off to show his snug-fitting undergarment, didn’t mean Cross had any interest in him like that.
It was pathetic, really, the way Rusty sometimes scrolled back up through a chat, rereading and wondering if he saw more than just casual friendship on Cross’s end. Sometimes he would swear Cross was flirting. Then some other comment would make him doubt. He’d almost sent a copy to Kris for her opinion, but she knew Cross and that felt like outing him. If it was flirting. Which it probably wasn’t.
Rusty had a crush. He’d own that. Didn’t mean he was going to act on it. He knew Cross was way out of his league to begin with, and he’d get through the afternoon with his dignity intact. He squared his shoulders and put the truck in gear.
The gate across the driveway to Cross’s mansion— because that’s what it was— stood closed. He had a moment of doubt, wondering if he’d gotten the day wrong or the time, but before he could panic or text Cross, the right side swung open. He spotteda camera on the post as he drove through and wondered if Cross had been waiting for him to show up. Or was there some kind of gatekeeping service? AI truck recognition?
Rusty had no real grip on how wealthy Cross was, or how he lived. He kind of didn’t want to know. Top NHLers made millions, like, three to ten a year, which was more money than Rusty’s dad had made in his life. Rusty could hope to do the same one day, even if that boggled his mind. If Cross had more than that, Rusty didn’t want to think about it.
He parked close to the front door, took the steps in one bound, and hesitated. Doorbell? Knock? He settled for a rap of his knuckles on the door.
Cross opened immediately, smiling at him. “You’re here. Hey, did you bring your skates, gloves, stick? I forgot to tell you.”
“Yeah, you said stick handling, so I did. In the truck. Bring the skates too?” He wondered how that would work.
“Yes. Go grab them and come on in.”
Rusty dug his skates and gloves out of his bag, chose a stick, and carried them into the mansion. Cross closed the door and rearmed an alarm system behind them. “This way.” He led Rusty to the kitchen and down a flight of stairs to the basement.
Rusty blinked at the whiteness of a big sheet of plastic stretching maybe thirty by forty feet across the basement floor. The scrapes and swirls on the surface created very familiar patterns. “Artificial ice? Wow.” He’d heard you could get panels that mimicked a skating rink, good enough to practice on. He’d never seen it. “The closest I’ve come to a rink in the basement was when my dad used to flood the—” Memories caught up with him, closing his throat. Every winter for years, when a cold snap was predicted, Dad had turned a hose on the hollowbehind the barn, giving them a skating rink for fun and hockey practice. Bumpy ice, prone to melting on warmer days, but a gift. Probably wouldn’t do that for the younger boys now. Wouldn’t want them to grow up like Rusty…
He didn’t think he’d made a sound, but Cross put a warm, comforting hand on his back. “Check this out. No snow, no wind, and flat as hell. A bit sticky, though. Fifteen percent more friction resistance. You’ll get used to it fast.”
Casually lowering his hand, Cross went to a bench by the wall, lifted the top to get out a pair of skates and socks, sat on the seat, and began putting them on.
“The plastic won’t damage the blades?” Rusty assumed not, but he didn’t have extra skates and the team might not cover equipment he messed up away from the arena.
“No, you’re good. Doesn’t hurt to sharpen them afterward, get the little shavings off them, but it won’t damage anything.” Cross patted the other end of the bench. “Lace up.”
Rusty set his stick at the edge of the “ice” surface and sat. The bench was narrow. Cross’s arm brushed his as they laced their skates. Rusty automatically shifted over to the edge of the seat, then realized,I don’t have to.Cross didn’t care about Rusty in his space, didn’t hesitate in the practiced motions of his fingers. Rusty was so used to avoiding any contact with his teammates that this simple moment felt like freedom. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second before finishing off his laces.
The practice ice was small, maybe an eighth of a real rink, but enough to get several good strokes down the long sides. Cross had been right about the grippiness. Rusty’s skates didn’t glide quite right. But after a few minutes, the motions began to feelmore natural. Cross was watching, skating backward ahead of him, doing lazy crossovers around the corners.
