“Punk kid.”
They watched in silence for a while. Cross felt himself slumping again. He tucked his head in against Rusty’s neck.
Rusty murmured, “Should I stick around for another day? I could find a cheap motel, come visit again in the morning.”
“You’re going home,” Cross mumbled, reminding himself as well as Rusty. “There’s people waiting for you there. You should go.”
After a pause, Rusty said, “All right.”
The Rafters gave up a bad goal. Cross tried to explain what the defense had screwed up but his tongue felt thick in his mouth and he fell silent. At some point, he thought he heard Rusty talking, but he couldn’t wake up enough to understand.
A hand on his arm roused him, and he looked up to ask Rusty what the score was. But the chair next to him was empty and the hand belonged to an aide. Cross licked his lips and tried to get his thoughts in order.How did I not notice him leave? He didn’t say goodbye.
The aide said, “Here, Mr. LaCroix, let’s get you to the bathroom and bed, all right?”
Cross stared around the room as if Rusty might suddenly appear out of thin air. On the TV screen, the post-game host was interviewing a sweaty Nate Goldstien. Goldy must’ve either scored or screwed up. Cross didn’t really care which at the moment.
Rusty was gone. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t run after him and dip him into a kiss— although why his ridiculous brain even came up with that image he could not imagine. He couldn’t even shuffle or crutch after him with twouseless legs. He might as well go to bed here at nine p.m. like some senior citizen.
He let the aide wheel him to the accessible bathroom to prepare for the night, then she called for the lift assist and they heaved him into bed, a pathetic lump of bunged up hockey player. The aide asked if he wanted the TV left on and he said no, so she turned off the show and brought the remote to its holder on the bedside stand.
Cross spotted his phone blinking with a message and grabbed it. He waved the aides off, waiting till the door closed behind them before looking at the screen.
Rusty.~You were sleeping so sound I didn’t want to wake you. I’m going to get a couple of hours on the road before I stop for the night. Keep in touch. I hope your leg is better tomorrow.
That was something. Rusty hadn’t just vanished without a goodbye. But the more Cross reread those words, the emptier he felt inside. There was nothing there one hockey buddy couldn’t say to another. Scott could’ve written those same words to him, or Kenny.
Back after Cross first woke from surgery, the doctor had shown him X-rays of all the new hardware in both legs. The left should be fine, though he might need that IM nail out at some point down the road. But the doc had hmmmed at his ankle and said, “We’ll have to see how it heals,” and “Come back in three weeks and we’ll get some fresh images.”
“We’ll see,” was never good coming from a doctor.
Cross had asked, “When do you think I’ll be able to start back on the ice?” The flicker of the doc’s eyes and reply of, “Let’s see how the healing goes first,” had sent a chill down Cross’s spine,and in every minute since, unless he was deeply distracted, he could feel that cold slither of dread.
Every player knew they were one step away from a career-ending injury at any time. You had to pretend that’d never happen to get on the ice at all. Cross would be damned if this was that kind of hit, though. His head was fine, his back was fine. He knew how to work his ass off in rehab, had done it before, it would be fine, everything would be fine.
Maybe life would actually be easier when Rusty, with his worries and his kindness and sharp eyes, was two thousand miles away.
He texted back eventually,~Drive safe.Words as boring and friend-zone as what Rusty had sent. Then he set the phone on its charger and turned out his light. Strong meds or not, sleep came slowly, and his dreams were full of nameless monsters in the dark.
Chapter 17
“How’d things go for you, out in Oregon?”
Rusty jolted out of his distraction at Will’s words. His mare, Fancy, danced a step sideways but he moved with her easily, nine months not long enough that he’d forgotten how to keep his seat. The cool Kansas breeze brought the scent of grass and manure, pulling him into the present. “Sorry, what?”
Will tipped his Stetson back and met Rusty’s eyes. “Just wonderin’. You’re awful quiet since I got back.” Will had been out on the coast for Scotty, watching the Rafters win their Vancouver series in five games, but then had come back to the ranch while Casey stayed to cheer Scott on in the next one.
“Making up for Kris,” Rusty joked, although his best friend wasn’t that loud.
“Must be hard, coming home and not seeing your family?” Will let his tone tip that up into a question.
Rusty was happy to run with that painful truth. “Yeah, feels weird. I drove up County Road 7 the first day and hit that turn toward home and… kept on going past.”
“You think your folks might’ve come round a bit, now they’ve done without you for near on a year?”
He shook his head. “I can’t imagine. Mike’s dead—” He swallowed, cleared his throat. “And I expect they’re acting like I am too.” He’d thought about options for the last ten days, maybe heading to the high school to see if his brother Roy wasat baseball practice, or ducking up to the house to see his mom on Saturday morning, when Dad would be off at the farmer’s market with Jake. He’d chickened out every time. He couldn’t imagine how seeing family could go worse than the last time, but he didn’t want to find out.
“Well, you ever want some backup, let me know. I’d go with you.”
