Because of course he was. Cross wasn’t just any old NHLer, but perhaps the most popular player on the Rafters. Probably a bunch of these folks would feel it was worth the crappy loss they’d endured to have a moment one on one with Cross.
You’re just jealous,a voice in Rusty’s head told him. He bared his teeth at the thought and took his grumpy ass off toward his truck. He wasn’t going to wade through that crowd like he was something special to Cross. Especially with all the cell phonesout taking pictures. Cross knew what Rusty’s truck looked like. He could come find him when he was done being the local hero.
As he skirted the crowd, Rusty had to dodge around people. A couple turned and actually asked for his autograph, which was a little balm on his soul after that game. He signed a hat and a team picture, shook a few hands before some of his better-known teammates coming out pulled attention away. He was distracted enough that he was putting his skates into his truck before he spotted Tyler, standing by the rear wheel.
Rusty slammed the door on his fucking thousand-dollar skates— although at least now the team paid for his equipment— and turned to face Tyler. “What do you want?”
“Aw, come on baby. Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Fuck off.”
“After I spent all this time waiting for you?” Tyler smiled. “Come on, I know you don’t mean that. Did you miss me on your road trip?”
Rusty clenched his teeth against the impulse to shove Tyler into a puddle. No doubt there were cameras and ears turned his way. The last thing he needed was to get booted from the league for abusing a fan. “I have nothing to say to you.”
Tyler said, “I just want to talk. Hey, you got a new truck. That’s cool.”
“It’s the same fucking truck, with a fifty-dollar coat of spray paint.” He stuck a finger into one of the holes in the fender and wiggled it.
A shifty look twisted Tyler’s smile. “Aww. Did something happen to your paint?”
Rusty sucked air through his teeth. “I was in a mood for black.”
“I think I saw it. It was pink, right?”
“Are you pretending you didn’t do it?”
“Me? I’m not some ’phobe. I would never.”
Rusty was pretty convinced that was a lie.
Tyler added, “You should have told me so I could protect you, you know? As your boyfriend, it’s my job to make sure nothing happens to you or your stuff.”
“You’re not my boyfriend. We broke up. I’m with someone else.”
“You got a little emotional and stepped away for a moment. I’m not holding that against you.” Tyler pressed his hand over where a normal human would have a heart. “I forgive you. Now that short, ugly muscle-dude is out of the picture, we can forget all about him. Want to go for a drink? I know a place.”
“No! No drink. No anything. Go away!”
Tyler stepped closer and closed his fingers on Rusty’s arm. “You know you don’t mean that. We’re so good together.”
Rusty shook him off. “Don’t touch me. Look over there.” Rusty pointed dramatically toward the nearest camera and was pleased when Tyler turned that way, then scowled. “Yeah, you’re on camera. Keep your hands to yourself or…or I can charge you with assault.”
“For touching your arm? When you’re so much bigger than me? Oh, baby, they’d laugh you out of court.” But Tyler backed up and turned his head away from the surveillance, which showed he knew he was crossing a line.
“Stay away from me. Find someone else who likes to be manhandled and made to feel like shit.”
Tyler’s face darkened and any hint of a smile vanished. “Hey, is that nice? That’s not nice. And I brought you a present and everything.” Something about his expression and voice made Rusty wonder if he was high.
“Jesus, would you just fucking fuck off already?”
Someone cleared their throat behind Rusty and he flinched, but when he turned it wasn’t a fan or worse, his coach. Cross raised an eyebrow at Tyler. “You again? Does Rusty need a restraining order?”
“We’re just having a conversation—” Tyler broke off as a couple of fans hurried over in Cross’s wake.
“Sorry, so sorry, Cross. Mr. LaCroix. If you could just sign this for our son. To Mitchell.” The woman thrust out a crumpled hockey jersey in Gryphon colors.
Cross took it, scrawled with his Sharpie, and handed it back. He fixed a glare on Tyler, then looked harried as more fans approached. “You’re done here. Rusty, get clear and text me.” Whirling, he strode off, trailing clumps of people who kept dogging him, getting them out of Rusty’s business.
