“I guess. Okay. And Cross? I’m glad you’re coming down, and not just because of the asshole.”
“It’s good to be wanted,” he said lightly. The warmth in Rusty’s tone made Cross wonder if the kid was lonely. Adjusting to a new team was always hard, and it was Rusty’s first time away from Kansas. And likely, being the only out gay player on his team wasn’t easy, especially with a coach who called it hislifestyle. “See you Friday.”
“G’night. Sorry about waking you up.”
“Get some sleep,” he told Rusty. But after they hung up, he lay awake staring at the ceiling.
At least this time, he wasn’t dealing with the kind of nerve-stretched, muscle-twitching awake he usually had after one of his nightmares. Talking to Rusty had been good, dragging reality back into Cross’s head.
In reality, no one had died in that SUV last summer. The gun in the bad guy’s hand had been pressed to Scott Edison’s head but he’d never pulled the trigger. Scott’s sheriff boyfriend Casey had taken the hijacking bastard down, their other boyfriend Will had helped. Scott was fine. Cross and the teen behind him inthe car hadn’t even had a scratch on them, let alone a spray of Scotty’s blood and brain matter and?Ugh.
He forced his mind away from that well-worn groove of what-ifs that always played out in his dreams.
Think about Rusty.They’d met in the midst of Scott’s disasters last summer, in the wake of murder and kidnapping—Stop. Think Rusty.
Cross had gone back and spent a few weeks hanging out with Scotty and the guys at the ranch, although he hadn’t told them he was trying to exorcise his demons. Seeing Scott alive and well every morning had taken the nightmares down a big notch. As a side bonus, he’d gotten to spend more time with Dale and Rusty, the two young players caught up in the mayhem. Working with Rusty—passing on some of his defense skills as they tried to corral Scott on a bumpy local rink— had been the most fun he’d had in years. Just playing for the joy of it.
So, now he and Rusty were friends, the same way he was friends with the rookies on teams he’d played for. Or maybe not quite the same.
Not sure why I felt that little rush when I realized it was Rusty calling me tonight.
For a moment, he let himself wonder if there could be something more than friendship to that flush of pleasure. Rusty was hot— Cross’s type, if you were talking about men. Cross liked athletes, liked tall guys with muscles. He even liked blue eyes and silky, straight blond hair like Rusty’s. The times he’d tried to go out and fuck around with men when he was younger, those were the guys he’d gotten on his knees for.
Those were also the guys he’d told not to bother to reciprocate. The ones he’d barely managed to get half-hard for, even with adick in his mouth, hiding his lack of response with a hand down his own pants. Faking it, hoping the next guy might be different.
Maybe Rusty’s different. I know him. I like him.
Cross tried to imagine Rusty naked and straining, dick hard and ready… He pictured kissing Rusty. Guiding him toward the bed… His cock barely twitched.Apparently no, whatever I felt wasn’t because he’s hot or I want him.
Rusty Dolan was a friend, and Cross’s dick was clearly inclined to keep him that way. He’d long ago decided he was demisexual— he’d become interested in sex when he had a deep romantic connection with someone— so he hadn’t lost hope, but sex and romance were turning out to be a slow road. Someday, he’d find the person to make him all hot and bothered.
It was probably just as well that miracle man wasn’t Rusty. Cross had eleven years more wear and tear and a whole lot more privilege, which made him a bad match for a young guy like Rusty.We could even end up on opposing NHL teams, a couple of years down the road.Friends. Platonic. Cross knew how to be a friend, and any little twinge of disappointment could be buried down deep with the rest.
Chapter 2
The Eugene Gryphons goaltender Lindstrom whacked at Rusty’s shins with his big stick as Rusty skated past in practice Friday morning. “You were supposed to be on top of the winger, kid. Not gazing at the rafters like you can’t wait to go off and get laid.”
I wasn’t!Rusty knew better than to say anything. Lindy wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t any kind of friend. Besides, Rusty had screwed up the man-on-man defense in front of the net. “Sorry, dude.”
Coach barked from over by the bench, “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Dolan. Get your head in the game and your ass in gear.”
“Yes, sir.” Rusty circled behind the net and lined up for the faceoff, working on deep even breaths, feeling the shake of exhaustion starting in his legs. They were scrimmaging first line against second after a long, hard practice. Even though Rusty was super proud of being on the second defense pair in his first ECHL season, that didn’t keep him from feeling like the opposing forwards could skate him into the ice.They’re so fucking fast.High school hockey to the pros, even at this level, was a giant leap.
Only a summer’s practice spent futilely defending against Scott Edison, hotshot goal-scorer of the NHL, gave Rusty any hope of keeping up with these guys. Seven months working with the team by now, and he was still scrambling. But what did Cross always say? Make it happen?
By the time they’d finished the scrimmage and worked half an hour on the penalty kill, which he was also honored to be on,fuck, he was ready to fall over. Five months into the regular season, and he was skinnier than he wanted to be, and not gaining stamina in exchange. At least not that he could tell.
Still, Coach Nery, Frasier’s assistant, gave him a nod and “Good effort at the end there, Dolan.”
He’d take that for a win.
Less of a win was the familiar dance he did around showering. Their captain, Petrov, had welcomed him to the team on day one, same as the rest of the rookies, but his tone and expression had showed he wasn’t a fan, and his indifference about what happened to Rusty since then proved it. Six months had calmed down the worst homophobes. Rusty could now shower with the rest without worrying his gaze might accidentally wander in someone’s direction. But the hazing and pranks that’d stopped months back for the other rookies hadn’t ended for Rusty, and Petrov just let things happen.
Scott had reassured him at the start that the Gryphons’ room had a decent reputation, not as nasty or as cutthroat as some. Either Scott’s info was outdated or those other teams must be awful, but he hadn’t said a word to anyone. He wasn’t a crybaby.
He stripped by his locker. Eyes forward, he headed to the showers and grabbed the empty last stall. After two incidents with the arena’s house soap and shampoo, he’d started bringing his own. Blue streaks down his chest that took days to fade, or smelling like garlic, made a man wise. The warm water felt amazing on his skin, the water pressure a miracle in this older venue. He showered a long time, soaping up twice, trying to be subtle about washing his balls and ass.
Not that Cross would likely care how clean he was, as long as the rancid hockey funk was gone. But still, he wanted to look his best for his hero.
