Usually when Marie had that look on her face, the world got out of her way and gave her whatever she wanted. “’Kay. Thanks.”
“Go to sleep,” she told him. “No doubt they’ll be back in an hour to wake you up and check your blood pressure or something. Take the rest while you can get it.”
“Right.” He couldn’t roll off his back. Both legs were encased with cumbersome splints, and he had the impression that new and fun levels of pain were lurking, ready to explode if he moved. Usually, he couldn’t sleep on his back, but right now, he didn’t think that would be a problem. “G’night, then.”
“Good night.”
As he drifted off, Cross had the impression of his sister sitting there in a suit of armor, ready to defend him.Silly brain.He wondered if Rusty had been in the room at all, or if he’d imagined the whole thing.
Chapter 15
As Rusty strode down the hospital hallways the next day, he figured he was being a fool. He’d had that feeling all morning, but that hadn’t stopped him from getting in his truck and driving the two hours up the 5 to West Memorial after practice. Yeah, he had a game that night, and yeah, four hours in a truck seat— if he was lucky— instead of his usual pre-game nap and routine wouldn’t help his performance. But he’d waited for an answer from Cross to his seven a.m.,~Hope you’re doing okay this morning,and his eight a.m.,~Going into practice, hope they’re giving you the good meds,and his eleven a.m.,~Hey, any word from the docs?
He’d gone home after practice and puttered, made food, tidied, waiting for his phone to chime. And around noon, after eating a good carb-laden meal that sat heavy in his stomach, he’d climbed into his truck and headed for the freeway.
A tough-looking dude sat in a chair outside Cross’s room. He stood as Rusty approached. “This is a private area.”
“This is a freaking hospital,” Rusty said, because sometimes his mouth ran too fast and he resented someone just taking over public spaces. But he added, “I’m here to see Cross. LaCroix.”
“Your name?”
“Rusty Dolan. I’m a friend.”
“ID?” The guard held out his hand.
Rusty fumbled out his driver’s license, reminding the snippy part of his brain that even if Cross was just some random NHL dude who didn’t have a gazillion extra bucks, they’d still be screening access to his room. The last thing a team wanted was the press finding out details about a player’s injuries or paps getting pictures.
The guard looked at the ID, checked Rusty over, and handed it back. “Okay, go on in.”
He hadn’t paid attention to Cross’s room the night before, but as the door swung back shut behind him, he noted that it was big, held just one bed, and that a surprising amount of the extra space was taken up by hockey players.
Before he could back off, Scott looked over at him. “Hey, Rusty, good to see you, dude. How’s life?”
“Um, okay?”
“We’re here to cheer Cross up. The more the merrier.”
Rusty wasn’t sure about that. Cross lay propped half-upright in his bed, but his face looked pale and his eyelids drooped. Five teammates was probably too much merry, even before Rusty showed up.
“Hey,” Axel said. “Did you bring chocolates? Because Cross has more stuffed animals than any man needs, and he’d share candy with us, right, Cross?”
“Not sharing anything with you barbarians,” Cross retorted. “Hey, Rusty.”
“I didn’t bring anything.” Rusty held up his empty hands. Maybe he should’ve.
“Not like I need it.” Cross made a sloppy gesture around the room, which, yeah, looked like the display area of a hospital flower shop, given the number of plants, balloons, stuffed critters, and fruit baskets that littered the windowsills and tables.
Rusty looked closer at a big toy in the corner. “Is that a Mitch the Moose in… splints?” The four-foot version of the Rafters’ inexplicable mascot— a cross between a cartoon Bullwinkle and a lumberjack— had both its hind legs wrapped in something bulky and white.
“Cool, right?” Zykov laughed. “Inspire Cross to get better fast.”
“Or make him sick to his stomach,” Rusty said before remembering he was talking to an actual NHL player, even one he’d met before. “I just mean, that one has a weird grin.”
“So it does,” Scott agreed. “Looks like it got into the whiskey last night.”
Cross blinked slowly. Rusty figured he was on some good drugs. The covers on the lower part of his bed were raised on some kind of frame as if to keep the weight off his legs. “Where’s Marie?” He was surprised she wasn’t shooing this hockey afterparty out the door.
“She went home. Stayed last night, and she was jet-lagged,” Cross said, rubbing his face.
