“I don’t think so. But it helped.” He didn’t want to think about his parents right now either. Mom had texted to make sure he was okay in the new place. She’d find time to visit next week. Dad was overseas, but he touched base daily. They were fine. “Dad and Marie were always close.” Sadly, Grandpère thoughtwomen should be seen and not heard, so Marie hadn’t been able to run interference there, although she’d offered hugs when he needed them.
The roar of the onscreen crowd as the first Rafters player skated onto the ice let him change the subject. “They called up Martin from the Tornados, lefty defense. I was hoping maybe they’d call you up to the Tornados in turn for their series. Make this bullshit worth something.”
“I don’t want to move up a league because you broke your legs.”
“You had nothing to do with my accident. Take advantage, especially since Tacoma’s in the playoffs.”
Rusty huffed a breath. “Well, I would but they called up Petrov. I guess they wanted someone with more experience, steady, you know? He’s the captain, he has a bunch of years in, I’m glad he’s getting this opportunity.”
Cross tilted his head. “Are you?”
Rusty grinned. “Not really. He kind of sucks. The room isn’t great with him wearing the C. But I did get moved up to first D-pair once he was gone, so there’s that.”
“I saw. Congrats.”
“And Morty stayed in the third D-pair. He was spitting.”
“You have ten times the skills Mortenson does.”
“He asked me whose dick I sucked to get the promotion.”
“Sorry.”
Rusty laughed. “Nah. Coach Nery was listening and ripped him to shreds. Very satisfying.”
“Will Morty take it out on you?”
“I doubt it will change anything.”
That non-answer told Cross pretty much all he needed to know about how things were going with Mortenson. “Fingers crossed you get invited to the Tornados development camp. I bet you’d get to stay in the AHL. Mortenson never will.”
“One more reason to work like hell this summer.” Rusty’s gaze was pulled to the screen. He leaned forward. “There’s Scott. Go, Rafters!”
“You could’ve stopped in Portland and gone to the game in person, you know,” Cross said, like picking at a scab. “Instead of driving all this way to watch on TV. Scott would’ve given you a ticket.”
“Nah, he has Will and Casey in town. He needs his tickets.”
“Oh. Good for him.” Scott spent time all season without the two men he loved, and Cross sometimes saw the toll that took, despite Scotty’s cheerful front. He wondered if he should offer the private jet for Will and Casey to fly to Vancouver next for the first two playoff games. But Scotty was a multi-millionaire now, with this year’s contract. He could fly his own boyfriends wherever. “I’d have given you one of my seats.”
“This is better.” Rusty reached over and laid his hand over Cross’s. “Shush now. National anthem.”
Cross turned his palm up, not sure if they were supposed to hold hands.Do boyfriends watch TV holding hands?It was a hockey game, not a movie, and he was likely to gesture without thinking if Axel iced the fucking puck, so he gave Rusty’s fingers a squeeze, then withdrew.
They watched the game quietly for a while, groaning in echo when a shot hit the post, yelling at the ref for an obvious hooking that went uncalled. Cross wasn’t sure what he felt about not being there with his team. He wished he was on the ice, yeah, obviously. Mostly he just wished his ankle didn’t feel like someone was shoving red hot pokers into it and hecouldbe on the ice. It was distracting.
His attention wandered, part of him oscillating to the throb of the pulse in his leg, part of him aware of the scent of Rusty’s shampoo and the size of his big hands resting on his knees. On screen, Scott scored a goal and Cross’s cheer was belated enough that Rusty gave him a concerned look. “Are you up for this? If you need to rest, I won’t be mad. It’s a nothing game anyhow.”
“I’m fine.” He forced his attention back on the screen, scrambling for something smart to say. “There, you see how Kenny cut down the angle for the forward coming in with the puck? He drove the play to the boards, tied the guy up, and that let Vicki poke the puck free. That’s how you use your size to advantage if you’re positioned right.”
“Saw that,” Rusty agreed.
The period wound down with the Rafters leading, one-zip. When they’d filed off the ice, Rusty took the remote from the arm of Cross’s chair and muted the commentators. “Are you okay? You’re sweating.”
Cross rubbed his damp forehead with his arm, and even that motion tweaked his ankle. He mostly muffled the gasp of pain. “I’m fine.”
“I call bullshit. You look like a ghost, and you’re all tensed up. Can I call someone?”
“I have Percocet,” Cross admitted. “I was holding off.”
