He was halfway out the door when his phone pinged twice. He almost didn’t want to look, but paused in the dim entryway.
Two messages.~Don’t you have painting to do?
But followed by another selfie of Cross face-palming, eyes half hidden by his strong hand.
Rusty sent back,~Thanks.Then ducked out into the sunshine where he could overthink that mixed message to death while slathering red paint on weathered wood.
Chapter 18
Cross glared at the TV across his rehab bedroom. The Rafters were in Edmonton for the second round of the Western Conference and in the hole three games to one with their backs against the wall, needing the win to stay alive. And he was here in Seattle, completely unable to help. Not that him travelling to watch would’ve been any use.
After a resounding game-three win where Scott had two goals and an assist, Cross had arrived at the arena for game four, wheelchair and all, to cheer them on. The guys had given him fist bumps on their way out to warm up and he’d felt part of the team again in some small way. And then they’d been taken down six to one, the last empty-net goal sliding home from the Edmonton blue line like insult to injury. Whatever part of the team Cross had imagined he was, it wasn’t a good luck charm.
It didn’t matter that he wasn’t there tonight.
He clicked off the TV, then turned it back on and muted the sound. He was going to watch, of course, but he didn’t need to hear the doom and gloom of “It’s tough to come back from a three to one deficit” from commentators. Let alone, “The injury to LaCroix…” No, thank you. He stretched out his legs on the bed. At least, the vicious pain of the first two weeks was muted these days, and he’d been off the strong meds for a while.
His phone chirped, a sound he hadn’t heard in a while. Video call.
He was tempted to let it go unanswered. The only people he wanted to talk to were taking the ice up in Canada right now. But in case it was Marie and important, he groped the phone off his bedside stand.
Rusty.
Cross fumbled the phone. They hadn’t really talked since Rusty headed to Kansas. Cross had been trying to give Rusty some distance from the train wreck that was his life right now, just messaging. And not too much of that, although over the last week he’d picked up a bit. Rusty kept sending him pictures and comments from the ranch, and it felt like kicking the guy not to respond.
But they hadn’t done voice, and they hadn’t done video… He answered anyway. “Hey, Rusty, what’s up?”
Rusty on his little screen looked the same as ever. A bit more tanned, his blond hair lighter and longer down into his eyes, but the same grin.God, I’ve missed him.Cross wished he could reach through the screen and touch Rusty, brush that strand of hair out of his eyes, get a whiff of young healthy male in this sterile place.I’d kill to hug him right now. Distance hurts.
Rusty said, “Hey, Cross, good to see your face. You watching the game?”
“Was planning to, yeah.”
“Okay, I thought we might watch it together. Well, side by side or whatever. No one here really cares or knows hockey.”
“What about Will and Casey?” Surely they were invested in Scott’s team.
“They went up to Edmonton to cheer Scott on, or I guess console him if need be. Lucky bastard. I wouldn’t mind being in the middle of that sandwich.”
“Isn’t Will, like, almost forty?”
“Doesn’t keep the guy from being smokin’ hot.” Rusty brushed his hair away from his eyes and grinned. “I like ’em older.”
“What about Ayden?” Cross was horrified to hear himself ask that. He’d been very carefully not commenting about Ayden, even though the young man showed up in a bunch of Rusty’s pictures. Ayden was stunning. Cross had watched a few episodes ofQueer as Folktrying to figure out his sexuality, and Ayden was a redheaded version of Justin, all full lips, perfect cheekbones, and silky hair. Ayden and Rusty together were like an ad for young gay maleness— the twink and the jock. If they started making out, they could make a fortune off the porno.
And why wouldn’t they go for each other? They were there working side by side all day, healthy and so young, while Cross watched the lines in his face get deeper with pain and frustration, and the muscles in his legs start to go stringy. They were out riding and working, while he still couldn’t put either foot on the ground outside the parallel bars of the therapy room and sat around like a lump. Why would Rusty even want to be around him?
But Rusty frowned. “Huh? Ayden haszerointerest in hockey. Or did you mean does he like them older too? Because that’s not a question I’m likely to ask. Jesus, Cross.”
“No, I… That’s not what I meant.” He didn’t want to explain what he had meant. “Sure, we can watch the game.”
“It’s better when someone else is yelling at the refs too.” The view on Cross’s screen tilted, then steadied, showing a moredistant view of Rusty sitting on a couch Cross recognized as being in Scott’s living room. Rusty raised a beer can at the phone. “Pregaming. I guess you can’t with your meds.”
His tone was matter-of-fact which let Cross answer, “I’m off the hard stuff. I could have a beer, but I figure I owe it to the team to watch this sober. Is Sheriff Casey okay with you swiping their beer?” Underage players drank often enough, but he didn’t want Rusty to get in trouble with someone he cared about.
“Casey’s not that by-the-book, as long as I keep it in the house.” Rusty grabbed a remote and clicked. TV commentary came on in the background and he muted it. “Okay, they’re gonna pull this off, right?”
“Of course we will,” Cross insisted, like he believed it. He sure hoped morale on the team was better than his. He’d posted in the team chat wishing everyone luck, and texted Scott and Kenny and a couple others personally, and he wanted to see a miracle. But the fact he thought itwouldbe a miracle was telling. The wheels had come off the bus the last game, and that was hard to come back from, especially on the road. Especially down three to one.
