There was no good response to the emoji that wouldn’t make Cross seem weird, so he left it on read and headed to bed. His shower was warm comfort, and he let his mind drift untethered. He realized as he stood under the spray that his hand had drifted to his dick, rubbing softly. He waited to see if anything would arise—hah— but he never got more than half-hard. Deliberately, he didn’t let his thoughts drift to Rusty. That would’ve felt a bit creepy, secretly jerking off to the guy. And honestly, he was afraid nothing would come of it. That hot kiss but soft dick, even with Rusty right there under his hands, had shown his demi side wasn’t ready yet. Better to wait.
In bed, he tossed and turned. He used to fall asleep the moment he hit the pillow, a talent some of his teammates had envied. Ever since the kidnapping, he’d had a hard time relaxing into sleep, even now that his nightmares had become less frequent.
He turned on his white-noise machine which helped a bit. A little buzz of arousal still simmered under his skin from the shower. Cross slid his hand into his sleep pants and fumbled down under his balls. Pressing against his taint send a low throb through him, prostate stimulation echoing in his groin. He rubbed again rhythmically, relaxing into the pulses of electricwarmth that never quite got him hard. Some time later, his hand still in his pants, he drifted off.
Chapter 9
Rusty sprinted back down the ice, chasing the opposing left winger on a breakaway toward the Gryphons’ net. Not his fault, he’d been where he was supposed to be, but Wilkins had delivered the puck right onto the Mountaineers forward’s tape like he was gifting the dude with a pass.What the fuck, Wilkie?
Ericksby wasn’t as far out of the goal as he should’ve been to cut down the angle. Too far behind the winger, Rusty lunged, shoving his stick forward, trying for some kind of poke check. The winger hurdled his stick and flipped a wrist shot into the top corner over their backup goalie’s glove. The goal horn melded with the clang of Rusty sliding shoulder-first into the goal post.
Double fuck.He got up, rotating his arm, and gave Ericksby’s pads a thump with his stick. “Our mistake, dude. Sorry.”
Ericksby nodded, tipped his mask back, and squirted water down his throat.
Rusty headed back to the bench.
Halfway through the second period, and they were already down four-one. Coach would have steam coming out of his ears after that boneheaded play. Sure enough, when he swung over the boards, they were all getting the heavy glower and angry pacing from Coach, although Coach Nery did say, “Good hustle, Dolan.” That helped some.
Suddenly, as they lined up for the faceoff in their end, the arena began chanting something. It took a moment for Rusty to recognize, “Cross! Cross! Cross!”
What the hell?
Bellser pointed up at the scoreboard video screen. “Looks like we have famous company tonight.”
Sure enough, the screen showed Cross sitting in the stands somewhere ten rows up, a Seattle Mariners ballcap over his dark hair. When he realized he’d been spotted, Cross half-rose, waved, and then pointed down at the ice. The crowd chanted a few more times, then settled for the ref to drop the puck.
What’s he doing here?
Not that Cross couldn’t come to any game he wanted to. The Rafters had a night off and the Tacoma Tornados were on a road trip, so if Cross wanted to indulge his hockey obsession with live action, this was the place to be. It didn’t mean anything that he hadn’t told Rusty he was coming. Maybe it was spur of the moment. Maybe he’d texted and Rusty had already been suiting up. He’d probably find a text on his phone after the game.
He always wanted to win, but knowing Cross was in the stands made him dig a little deeper. Sneaking a backhand pass between two defensemen and square onto Bellser’s tape was a moment of pride, even if Bellser didn’t get it past the Mountaineers’ goalie. Rusty wondered if Cross had noticed.
Probably. The guy seemed to notice every detail happening on the ice. Watching game tape with him was like a masterclass.
The Mountaineers scored again with two minutes left in the period. At least Rusty wasn’t on the ice for that goal, but they went into the locker room down five-one with twenty minutes left to play. Rusty sucked down his electrolytes and listened to the chatter around him. Players chirped each other about shots a drunk man should’ve sunk and blind passes that missed by amile. No one talked to Rusty, one way or the other. He was used to that.
Coach Frasier came in before the third period and gave them a lecture about controlling the puck in their own end and not needlessly screening their own fucking goalie. He called out Morty for his sloppy passing and Rusty grimaced. Mortenson was always fun to play with when he’d been ripped a new one. They’d be lucky if the bastard didn’t take a bad penalty when the team needed it least.
Rusty wondered if Coach would pull Ericksby and put Lindy in net for the third period, but their first-string goalie needed the rest and frankly, most of those goals were on the defensemen, not Rickie. Coach finished up with, “We have one of the best defensemen in the league up there in the stands. Show him you have some idea how to protect our own net.”
As inspiring speeches went, that left something to be desired. But Rusty really wanted to come through for Cross anyhow. Sadly, the rest of the game was the same shitshow as the first two periods. Bubs did put one in the opposing net at the four-minute mark, but then Morty checked a Mountaineer behind the play and got called for boarding. Only a minor, but their opponents capitalized and made it six-two. That took any steam out of the Gryphons, and they were lucky to get out of the game only four goals down. Ericksby practically stood on his head keeping shots out of their net in the last ten minutes. The fact he was named the third star of the game after letting in six said a hell of a lot about the Gryphons’ defense. None of it good.
Rusty hustled to the locker room and into the showers. He wondered if Cross would stick around till he came out. Okay, also wondered if Cross had maybe come down specifically to see him. If maybe another kiss wasn’t impossible. His stupid dickgot optimistic and he had to turn the water cool, until he was shivering and his dick got the message.
Cross wanted to be friends. No benefits. Rusty would get that through his own thick skull eventually.
When he was back in his clothes, he headed for the parking lot.
“You’re in a hurry. Got a hot date?” Wilkie called after him.
Rusty grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Morty sneered. “Ew. No. We have no interest in where you’re getting your f—”
Coach Nery’s throat clearing headed off the obvious slur, but it soured Rusty’s mood. He slammed his way out of the door and stomped to the players’ exit.
KigoElectric Arena didn’t have barriers between the players and the fans. There was usually a crowd waiting in the parking area after a win, but not so much after a loss. So Rusty was surprised to step out of the exit into a throng of fans. Until he realized that they weren’t looking at the door waiting for the Gryphons. The guy standing off in the center of the crowd was Cross, chatting with fans and signing autographs.
