“Two gallons,” Cross agreed. He glanced away from a commercial toward the little screen.
Rusty grinned back at him and raised his beer. “I might need another of these to survive the rest of the period.” He got up and disappeared out of view, then returned to drop onto the couch.
“How come none of the other ranch hands are watching with you? I know you said Ayden isn’t interested.” Cross hid a tiny satisfaction at that. Ayden might be right there and perfect to look at, but Rusty would never get serious about a guy who didn’t like hockey. Right? “I’d think Kris and Nita, at least, would be cheering Scotty on.”
“Um.” Rusty scrunched his nose. “They are, down at the local rink. They set up the big scoreboard to show the game and a lot of folks will be there. Beer sales will go to youth hockey. Plus, Scott’s pretty popular around here.”
“And you didn’t want to go along?”
“I wanted to watch with you.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Cross looked down the bed at his booted and propped-up legs that made him a charity case instead of being out there with his boys.
“Not as some kind of consolation thing for you, Jesus, Cross.” Rusty glared at him. “You know the team, you know the game, you’re not going to say some stupid thing I’ll want to bop you on the head for.”
“Would Kris?”
“Possibly. Sometimes to chirp me more than anything.”
“She seems a lot like Marie.”
“If you mean the annoying sister who won’t go away? Yeah, sometimes.” Rusty took a long pull of his beer. “Plus here I can have a brew or three. At the rink, I’m not legal.”
Because he’s nineteen.Cross managed to tease, “Ahah, the true reason comes to light at last.”
“You and beer, or no you and no beer. Wasn’t even close.”
Play resumed and on Cross’s phone, Rusty hunched forward, elbows on his knees, leaning into the plays. Cross watched him almost as much as the puck, until the fast plays on the ice sucked him back into the game.
The period ended with the Rafters up one-zero. Cross allowed himself a little hope. The guys were playing like maniacs out there. If the defense could tighten up and stop making Pushkin carry the load, they had a chance.
Rusty got up and dropped to the floor for pushups, mostly out of sight of the camera. Cross envied him the ability tomove, to work out a little of the tension physically. Cross had small hand weights on one bedside table and he took them in both hands, focusing on a lot of reps, working biceps. He’d spent the last 4 weeks putting hours into his upper body strength and core, since he was forbidden to work anything below his thighs. His arms had never been more ripped, his stomach was flat and hard, but his calves had gone skinny, the muscle melting off faster than he’d expected.
He focused on his form and breathing, raising and lowering the weights, fast and smooth. Two hundred reps. Three hundred. He wished he could see Rusty rather than hear the grunts and breaths as he ground out his own reps.
When the second period opened, Rusty reappeared on the phone, his face flushed and strands of sun-bleached hair clinging to his forehead. Cross ached to reach across the miles and push those damp strands aside… He turned his attention to the game.
For seventeen minutes of the second, the Rafters hung onto their lead against an Edmonton team seemed to gain energy with every play. Scrums around the puck in the corners got rougher. Checks got harder. An Edmonton defenseman tookScott to the boards with a borderline-illegal check that knocked him off his feet. As Scott struggled up and chased the puck, Cross could see he was leaning to his left, an elbow against his ribs.
“Fucking boarding!” Rusty shouted. “Comeon, refs. Are you blind?”
No penalty was called and in the scramble in front of the Rafters’ net, an Edmonton shot went off someone’s foot and under Pushkin’s pad. The horn sounded.
“Shit.” Rusty threw himself back on the couch. “That should’ve been a penalty, not a fucking goal!”
“Playoff hockey. Refs don’t call anything that doesn’t have a neon sign.” Cross wasn’t as calm as he made himself sound. His pulse throbbed and his clenched muscles made his whole body ache. He blew out a breath. “It’s one-one. We can come back from that.”
“Right. Yeah.”
Play resumed and Cross could see the Rafters starting to falter. Most of the play was in their end, and Pushkin had to make another great save. Then with thirty seconds left, one of the rookies got called for hooking.
“Bullshit!” Rusty snapped. “I thought you said they didn’t call penalties.”
“Except sometimes they do.” Thathadbeen hooking, just as much as the hit on Scotty had been boarding. The Rafters needed a break and hadn’t gotten one. They survived the last thirty seconds, but the team straggling back to the locker room looked a lot more subdued than after the first period.
Rusty gulped his beer. “Fuck. Scotty looked like he was hurting after that hit thatshould’ve been boarding.”
Cross couldn’t argue with that. “They’ll have him icing his ribs, maybe give him something in the locker room.” This was the playoffs, the make-or-break game. A shot of Toradol, and out you went. If you weren’t half dead, you were expected to be on the ice.
