So now he’d be face to face with Cross again for the first time in five months.
I’m nineteen now.
Like that birthday made him suddenly cooler, able to hang out with an NHL All-Star defenseman. Like it would do anything for the inconvenient crush he’d been hiding since last summer.
Giving up on sleep, he propped himself up with a couple of pillows and typed “Rafters defe—” The search autopopulated with Cross’s name. Maybe he’d searched a time or two before. Just keeping up with Cross’s stats. Cheering him on.
In the past, Rusty had been careful to keep his reading to hockey only, no personal history beyond awards and injuries, trades and teams, no off-ice photos. Nothing to make it weird.
This time, he let himself click on other links.
There was a lot from the summer.“Heir to LaCroix fortune and NHL hockey star Edison survive kidnapping attempt.”Really, Coach Dawson hadn’t even cared that Cross was wealthy, except that he came with a private plane. The hostage-taking had been about Dawson trying to evade arrest and escape their small town.
About money and drugs, corruption and Mike’s murder. And Sheriff Kensington’s.
Rusty scanned headlines, not sure if he was grateful or mad that Scott and Cross’s fame and Kensington’s law officer status had mostly overshadowed Mike’s death.
Grateful, probably. Mike would hate his private business being smeared across the internet.
Even more grateful on his own behalf, of course. He was a tiny side note to the whole mess, and if the stupid Eugene tabloid hadn’t decided to run with “Local hockey player in gay sex and murder scandal” before his first Gryphons game, he might’ve slid under the radar completely.
As it was, four wins in the next five road games after the opener and a solid plus-minus, and his queerness had faded toa minor irritation for fans, something the bigots only hauled out whenever he had a bad game.
Rusty tapped a different link and found himself in a story about Cross’s sponsorship by an athleticwear company. Which led to some thirst-trap pics of Cross modeling said athleticwear.Fuck, dude is ripped.Rusty wondered when that photo shoot was during the season. Early, most likely, from the powerful curves of biceps and triceps and the thick, flat planes of Cross’s pecs. By playoff time, even Cross probably leaned down to stringier muscles and hollow stomach.
The photos hid the little recession of Cross’s dark hair at each temple that Rusty knew was there. It made him feel… something, to know a secret about Cross that the public couldn’t see. The photographer had gone for intense expressions, a stare, a scowl, brows lowered over dark gray eyes that Rusty had seen laughing and bright as they raced each other for the puck. That glare was hot, though. No denying it. Probably a lot of women and gay men had breathed a little faster, saved the photos, wishing Cross would turn that dark gaze on them.
Rusty wasn’t going to be one of those fools. He flipped over to a site praising Cross’s ability to rush the puck on a breakaway, and to find a hole through traffic in front of the net. Cross had more goals than most defensemen in the league and was a menace on the powerplay. Rusty was six inches taller and not as quick, but he wanted to be an offensive defenseman too. Studying game tape of Cross was a legitimately useful way to spend his time.
The alarm he’d set to end his nap recalled him from a site about… best goal cellys. He’d wandered that way somehow. Oh, yeah, from Cross celebrating a goal in the playoffs five years back. Fucking internet sucked a guy into the worst black holes.Not that there was anything wrong with grinning over a Jaromir Jagr salute, but Rusty would have to score more often for cellys to beusefulwatching.
He pushed down the comforter and swung out of bed. Cooking and eating would burn another half hour in the unending afternoon.
Ten-to-nine found him outside the bar he’d picked, wearing his best jeans, his boots, a navy henley, and the battered leather jacket Scott had given him. Scott said it was his lucky jacket when he was starting out. Rusty hadn’t asked what kind of lucky, but any version would help tonight.
He sucked in a slow breath, then pushed open the door. He’d been in the place before. One of the guys he’d hooked up with had picked it as quiet, dark, and not sports-centric. They’d had a beer— well, pop for Rusty— before heading back to the guy’s place for an educational session of sixty-nining. Educational in the sense that Rusty discovered he couldn’t focus on someone else while a guy was expertly sucking his brains out his dick. He’d made up for it after, though. Dude had been hot as hell.
I am not thinking about blow jobs while meeting Cross.
He swept his gaze around the bar. The low lighting made it hard to make people out, but he didn’t spot anyone who looked like Cross.Should I get a table? Sit at the bar? Will he recognize me?Which was stupid, because they’d shared a locker room a dozen times that summer. Cross knew what Rusty looked like.And I sure as hell know what he looks like, with those arms and abs…
A tap on his shoulder made him jump and whirl around.
Cross stood behind him, hands raised. “Sorry, you didn’t seem to hear me.”
“I zoned out.”About your abs. Which I’m never going to admit.“Sorry.”
“No problem. Want to get a table? When’s the douchebag supposed to get here?”
“I told him nine-thirty. Tyler’s hard to predict, though. Might come early to catch me out, might come late to make me wait.”
Cross wrinkled his nose. “Hate people who play games.” He pointed. “Over there? Put your back to the room, and my profile.” He glanced at the TV toward the back which was playing some music video. “At least it’s not a sports bar.”
“I’m not stupid.” Rusty flinched. “I mean—”
Cross grinned. “No, you’re not. Come on.” He led the way to a table near the back and nudged a chair Rusty’s way. “I’m gonna get a beer. You got a fake?”
“Yeah. But I don’t drink much.” He had at private parties Tyler brought him to, but he wasn’t going to risk his spot on the team with illegal drinking in public, even if a bunch of his teammates did.
