Bellser shifted foot to foot. “I just wanted to say don’t let him get to you. If you keep your head down and play like you’ve been playing, we’ll be watching you called up to Tacoma real soon.”
Rusty wondered how friendly the Tacoma Tornados would be to a queer player. Tacoma was deep in the Left Coast, but then so was Eugene. If he had the chance to move up to the AHL with its skill levels and its slightly higher salaries, he’d sure as hell be willing to find out. “Thanks,” he said belatedly. “’Preciate it.”
“No problem, Dodo. I mean, yeah, Rusty.” Belser cleared his throat.
Rusty laughed. “Dodo’s been my nickname before. Doesn’t bother me.”Better than Doodoo, like in Mites.Although the one benefit of being named after his weird great-uncle was that perhaps one day he’d convince a team “Rusty” was a decent hockey nicknamebeforeDodo took hold. “And don’t worry, Mortenson doesn’t bother me. We have a playoff spot to fight for.”
“Right. Great.” Bellser popped a light punch against Rusty’s bare arm and turned away. “See ya later, bro.”
Only a few of the guys remained in the locker room by the time Rusty had dried off and padded out to get dressed. They were sharing a phone, laughing at some kind of video, and Morty wasn’t one of them, so Rusty tugged on his clothes in peace and hurried out to the parking lot.
His old pickup still ran, though it started with a worrisome whine. He’d driven the thing all the way across the country for try-outs, almost giving up when it overheated in the mountains. But he’d set his heart on Eugene, the ECHL team closest to Scotty.And Cross.His truck had made it down from the pass, eventually, and was hanging in there. A good thing, since he’d be reduced to public transit if the pickup ever gave up the ghost.
The house he was rooming in stood on a dead-end circle about ten miles from the arena. Not a bad distance at all. He’d been lucky to get anything he could afford solo, and even luckier to have Mrs. Murinko as his landlady. The elderly Hungarian lady let him barter chores for occasional home-cooked meals, stretching his scant dollars.
He had the downstairs unit, or, if you wanted to get technical about it, the basement. He let himself in the back, jiggling the slider door in its tracks with a practiced motion. The space smelled musty, as always, but it was the scent of home. This was the first time he’d had space of his own, truly private, after sharing with his younger brothers all his life, and then the bunkhouse at Scott’s ranch.
Not that he wouldn’t give up personal space in a heartbeat to bring back Mike.
He closed his eyes for a second on the threshold. The moment in the shower had brought Mike into his thoughts. Sometimes he went days, even a week now, without thinking about his family at all. His closest brother would’ve been the only one of his family on his side these days. Smart, focused, just as queer as Rusty, and murdered for the sake of money.It’s not fair!
He breathed through that thought. Mike was gone and in the ground. Nothing would change that. Growing up on a farm meant you damned well knew what dead and gone meant.
Sleep easy, little bro.
But Rusty was alive and thriving, fuck his family very much. He blinked hard, strode in, shut the door behind him, and tossed his keys in the cardboard box on the counter. Added his wallet and plugged in his phone.
This basement apartment, with the carpet torn off the concrete and drywall missing a foot up the walls after a flood, was a steppingstone. Phase one. Maybe two, if you counted the ranch last summer. Mrs. Murinko had been lucky that the basement electrical outlets were above the waterline. The floor had been trashed, but the damage was all cosmetic.
A lucky break for Rusty, too, since he got a livable solo place within the ECHL housing allowance.
He needed to eat and nap. Routines were important. If he was going to play twenty minutes of full-out hockey every game, maybe twenty-five if Morty and the third line were having an off night, then he needed to be serious about his prep.
That thought brought a different kind of prep to mind, and for a moment he spiraled, remembering Tyler and how fucking good sex felt, even with the wrong person. Rusty had thought he was winning at life, with pro hockey and a hot boyfriend at last. Until he’d found Tyler looking through his phone without permission and acting weird when Rusty wanted to cut back on the partying and the booze.
Tyler had begun voice calling him at random times when he was home alone, like he was checking up. Having Tyler always take charge, making all the decisions whenever they were out together, got smothering. Even sex with the hot older dude wasn’t worth feeling young and stupid all the time. Rusty was glad he’d got up the nerve to say he was done.
Except then Tyler wouldn’t go away, showed up at the arena…
Rusty smacked his cheek lightly to derail his thoughts.Food. I need food.
The previous appliances had been ripped out after the flooding. He had a small fridge, a hotplate, and a microwave. Enough for him. Not like he could cook much. His mom had never let her boys in the kitchen. That was women’s work. Might turn them queer.
He sneered to cover the ache and dug in his fridge. Not much there this close to payday, but he had a bunch of American cheese slices and bread. Grilled cheese was easy and had protein.
Four sandwiches later, he washed his plate and hands, wandered over to his bed in the back corner, and stretched out diagonally to keep his feet on the regular double mattress. He was used to this by now, fit just fine with his head toward the corner. Pulling the comforter over him against the dank March chill coming off the floor, he tried to sleep.
Tried and failed.
Even visualizing plays, going back to his last game and running through his successes and his failures in his mind, couldn’t make him drop off. He tried humming favorite songs, which just reminded him he couldn’t carry a fucking tune to save his life. Got up, fetched his phone, and brought up his naptime playlist. Scotty had turned him on to this whole set of soothing instrumental stuff, and sometimes it worked to turn off his brain. Not today.
I’ll be seeing Cross in…He checked his phone for the time.Five hours.
He hadn’t seen any of the Rafters guys in person since the first week of the season. Casey and Will had been in town for Scott’s Rafters home opener, complete with the big gay circus of Scott hitting the ice as the first out NHL player. He’d invited Rusty up for the game with a free ticket, and Rusty couldn’t say no. It hadn’t been terrible, seeing a cheering sea of rainbows far outweighing the “God hates” folks, but he’d kept clear of the guys beyond a brief hello. That was Scott’s show, and he didn’t want to be a fourth wheel.
Then, all three of them plus Cross had come down to his first game as a Gryphon. There’d been a few rainbows and “it’s a sin” folks at his game, too, since one of the local tabloids had made sure Rusty could never sneak back into the closet. The whole thing had been a shitshow, with him all too aware of both friends and foe in the stands. He’d given up two bad turnovers and been on the ice for all three goals against. They lost 3-1.
After that, he’d told the guys they made him nervous and to please not come to his games, thank you but please. He didn’t tell them he got hassled to hell in the locker room for fucking up while trying to look cool for his “boyfriends.” Casey, Will, and Scott’s threesome was a closed triad. That didn’t stop the press or guys like Morty from speculating what a gay kid like Rusty had been doing around men like that. Rusty just wanted to play hockey.
