Cross squeezed his eyes shut.Fuck, fuck, fuck.Not that two goals in three minutes had been plausible to begin with, but three would be beyond a miracle.
The crowd in Edmonton was celebrating already, the players loose and laughing.
Coach put Pushkin back in the net, a silent acceptance that the game was done. Scott managed a blistering slapshot right on target but the goalie got his blocker in front of it and Edmonton picked up the rebound. The clock ticked down the last seconds. Then the horn sounded ending the game and the Rafters’ playoff hopes.
Edmonton spilled out of the bench, shouting and hugging, thumping each other’s backs to the screams and cheers of the home crowd.
At the other end of the ice, the Rafters gathered around Pushkin, delivering stick taps to his pads and hugs, shoulder bumps, acknowledging the huge effort that’d given them any chance at all. They’d dropped helmets and gloves, and the camera picked up face after face, sweaty, strained, the expressions of men who’d given their all and come up short but not humbled. Cross would’ve given every dollar he had to be there on the ice with them. His eyes stung and his throat tightened. He clenched his teeth against a sob.Dammit. Sorry, guys.
“Shit,” Rusty said. “That sucked. I mean, no one even thought you guys would make the second round—”
“Stop.” Eventually, Cross would be ready to hear that rationalization. In a week, or a month, he’d be proud of what they’d accomplished as a new expansion team, to get that far. But not tonight.
“Sorry. I wish I was with you. If I had, like, a private jet, or maybe a transporter, I’d be out there to give you a hug.”
Cross’s eyes welled up because he could use a hug right now. On the ice, the guys were moving through the handshake line. Scott had his elbow pressed tight against his ribs. That last slapshot must’ve hurt.
He turned off the sound, waited till his team had left the ice, then killed the video. The silence in his room highlighted the echoes inside his skull— plays, calls, misses, that last horn.Fuck.
Shifting position sent a stab of pain through his ankle, and he pressed his lips together.That might’ve been my last chance at a Stanley Cup, ever.He’d been fighting that thought with everything he had, but he couldn’t control it now. His ankle was still totally shit, still wait-and-see.If I can’t get back on the ice, I’ll never hoist a Cup.He shouldn’t complain. He’d made the playoffs seven times in ten years, counting this one, made the finals once although they lost… His breath hitched.
“What can I do?” Rusty asked.
“Nothing. There is nothingtodo. Welost!You get that?”
“Sorry.” The small tone of Rusty’s voice pulled Cross up short.
“No, I didn’t mean to yell.” Cross punched the pillows behind him and stretched out more, lifting the phone off its cradle to bring it closer. “I wish you were here.”
“Me, too. Hey, we could fool around. Video sexting? I know sex can’t change anything about tonight, but it might make you feel better for a few minutes.”
“It doesn’t, though,” Cross blurted out.
“What?”
Cross rubbed his face, but if he was going to show Rusty all his warts tonight, maybe that one should come out too. “Sex doesn’t make me feel better.”
Rusty opened his mouth as if to speak, then tried again. “You might have to explain that.”
“I’m weird, I guess. I know a lot of guys talk about how orgasms are stress relief, whatever, but for me, they’re not. Most of the time they’re more stress.”
“Like, with strangers?”
“With anyone. Like, Willow, um.”
“Your ex-girlfriend?” Rusty prompted.
“Yeah. I loved her, but sex was never really right. Sometimes she offered a fast blow job when time was short, trying to please me. But I didn’t want that. It didn’t work.” Maybe Cross was spilling secrets, but he wanted Rusty to understand him. “I didn’t like getting off if she didn’t. I… shit.” Putting himself in words was hard. “I figured out a while back that I’m demisexual. I’m not interested in sex unless I know the other person really well and care about them a lot. And I’d much rather see them get off than do it myself. I need my partner to come first.”Or solo. That’s fine too.
“Okaaay.” Rusty nodded. “I’ve seen the word demisexual but I need to pay more attention. I’m fine with coming first, though. Honestly, not a problem.” He gave a small grin. “In fact, the opposite because I have kind of a hair trigger around you. Youdolike me enough for this demi thing, right?”
“Yes, absolutely.” He could be honest there. “You already turn me on as much as Willow ever did, maybe more.”
“You liked kissing. I thought.”
“You’re a great kisser.” He laughed as Rusty buffed his nails on his shirt and blew on them. “Yeah, showoff. But it’s true.”
“And you like to be touched? Hugs, whatever? More than that?”
