He didn’t want to hold his phone for an hour, so he set it on his bedside table.
Rusty objected, “Hey, your wall may be a lovely shade of… what is that, like, dead-weed green? But I’d rather see your face.”
“Hold your horses, let me fix it.” He adjusted the charging stand. “And I think you mean sage green.”
“Isn’t sage a dead weed?”
Cross paused, startled. “Well, yeah, I guess.”
“See?”
He laughed, something he hadn’t expected to be doing right now, and leaned on his raised pillows, fixing the phone so the screen showed his face and shoulders, then switched back to Rusty.
“There. Much better.” Rusty toasted him with the beer. “Go, Rafters! Beat those fuckin’ overpolite Canadians.”
Cross chuckled. “Judging by the last game, overpolite is not Edmonton’s claim to fame.”
“Truth. Oh, here we go.” Rusty turned to his TV and clicked on the sound.
Cross waited a moment, eyeing his tiny screen, watching Rusty’s expression become animated as the Rafters skated out onto the spotlit ice for their introductions. The light of the TV flickered across Rusty’s features and glinted off a bit more stubble than Cross was used to. Rusty’s eyes shone as he watched the team getting their cheers and boos up there in Canada.
A sudden wish to be beside him on that Kansas couch swamped Cross, to have Rusty in his arms with his warmth and enthusiasm and vibrance. He sucked down some water from his straw-topped cup to hide his intake of breath.
“Scott was moving a bit stiff in warmups, you think?” Rusty asked.
Cross pulled his attention away from the phone to his own TV, unmuting it. “I thought so end of last game. He took that hit along the boards from Nikitin. Has to be bruised at least.” Remembering his own six playoff runs for other teams, he noted, “By round two, everyone looks like they took a beating. I just hope it’s not ribs.”
“Yeah, that’d suck.”
“I broke four, one time. Hurt almost as bad as the ankle.” He regretted the comment as Rusty threw him a concerned look.
It’s healing. I’m fine.
But Rusty just said, “Fuck Nikitin.”
Which let Cross come back with, “Not if you paid me.”
“Not your type?”
“He’s as close to an enforcer as they’ve got andviolent goonis not an attractive personality trait.”
“Ha. So what is?”
You.Cross coughed. “Empathy.”
“Oh.” Rusty’s brow furrowed as if he wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment or a problem, but then the Edmonton players began taking the ice, and he turned away to boo them.
Cross had never cheered and booed players on TV, but with Rusty’s example, he let himself express a little anger at Nikitin as he hit the ice to hometown cheers. The teams lined up along the blue lines for the national anthems. Despite his distance, Cross found himself getting a bit choked up.
I wish I was there.Going had seemed ridiculous, despite the private plane he could’ve commanded. Too much work, too much hassle, and for what? He had nothing to offer. But looking at his teammates’ serious faces as the camera panned down the line, he wished with every fiber of his being that he was beside them, even if just at rinkside.
The game opened with a flurry of Edmonton shots, held out by some amazing saves from Pushkin. His heroics seemed to spur the Rafters on, because they got a two-on-one rush thatresulted in an echoing crossbar. Rusty’s “Fuuuuck!” when the shot rebounded made Cross almost smile in agreement. He felt more alive than he had in a month— great hockey with his heart pounding and Rusty shouting and cheering.
Halfway through the period, the shots on goal were mounting. Both teams made defensive mistakes and Cross ached to be there helping.They need me.He pounded his fist on his thigh at a rookie screwup, the reverberation of pain up his leg seeming fitting punishment. Then an Edmonton shot rebounded onto Scott’s stick, and he took off up the ice with Vicki a step behind. They hit the blue line, Scott dropped a perfect pass for Vicki, and the experienced center flipped a wrister over the Edmonton goalie’s shoulder. The red light flashed. Rusty’s scream was louder than the goal horn. “Yeah! Goal, you fuckers!”
On the ice, Scott and Vicki slammed into each other in a hug, before returning to the bench, collecting fist bumps along the way. Cross caught himself reaching out a hand, like he could be part of that.Come on, guys, come on.
Play resumed with Edmonton pulling out all the stops, and Pushkin shutting them down cold. Rusty’s commentary was a mumble of swearwords, and Cross’s heart pounded, but Pushkin kept them in the game. At a break in play, Rusty said, “You guys will owe Pushy like a gallon of the good vodka if you pull this off.”
