That woke Cross up.Bed.He had things he needed to say, or maybe do, and his fuzzy brain wasn’t up for that. “Can we just sleep tonight? I’m tired.”
“Sure.” Rusty brushed a kiss against his temple. “I’m not taking advantage of a sleep-deprived man. Do you want first dibs on the bathroom?”
“Second. I’m moving slow. If you could bring me my crutches, you should go ahead.”
Cross accepted the sticks from Rusty but didn’t make a move to get up. Rusty hovered a moment until it was clear Cross wasn’t going anywhere, then he grinned and headed to the bathroom whistling under his breath. If the song was a message, Cross was too old and uncool to recognize it.
Once Rusty was behind the bathroom door, Cross got himself up on his feet. Standing was good. He felt more like himself. Walking wasn’t too bad. Things ached, especially his right foot in the boot, but he was a hockey player. That was his natural state. He reached his toiletries bag, and faced the issue of picking it up. Clutching one crutch, he managed to stoop and grab the handle without losing the other arm cuff. Go him. He straightened and met the issue of three things to hold and two hands.Fuck. I fucking hate this.
Rusty came out of the bathroom in sweatpants. The soft gray fabric clung to his thick hockey thighs. He looked young and vital and fit and alive. Cross knew his own legs were closer to an Egyptian mummy’s.
Before he could say anything, Rusty hurried over. “Hey, let me get that. You want it in the bathroom or bedroom?”
“Bathroom on the counter.”
“Got it. Sweats okay?” Rusty gestured at himself. “In the interest of no one jumping anyone, I figured naked wasn’t the way to go.”
“Sweats are fine. Good plan.” Cross followed behind Rusty’s springy strides, hobbling slowly, crutch and leg, crutch and leg, like his therapist directed.
In the bathroom, he navigated the toilet without missing—go, me— and scrubbed some of the travel sweat off his skin with a washcloth. He sat on the john to remove his left sock and baggy khakis, and contemplated changing his boxers for sweats, but getting stuff over his boot was an exercise in not falling. Boxers would have to do.
He pushed to his feet and eyed himself in the mirror, that vibrant image of Rusty fresh in his mind.
He’d built powerful muscles in his chest and upper arms, and maintained a flat hard stomach, sure, despite his worries. The last month of obsessive upper body and core work had kept him toned. But his skin bore marks and moles and scars, and the thick mat of hair on his chest led downward like a rug, not like the treasure trail Rusty sported. Cross noted a frown-crease on his forehead that no amount of relaxing, deep breathing, and raising his eyebrows smoothed out. His eyes stared blearily from dark circles of fatigue, the bruised look not improved by however much nap he’d managed against Rusty’s shoulder.
At thirty, Cross should’ve been a young man, but hockey players aged in dog years, and he felt ancient and used up.
What’s a hot young man like Rusty doing climbing into bed with me?
He crutched his way back into the bedroom, about to say something on the topic, but his tongue stuck in his mouth atthe sight of Rusty. With the sheet pulled up to his waist to hide the sagging sweatpants, Rusty’s summer-tanned skin was all on display like he was naked. The glow in Rusty’s blue eyes as he held out a hand and murmured, “C’mere, Cross,” made it hard to breathe.
Cross limped across the ten feet of space to his side of the bed and set the crutches carefully within reach.
Rusty leaned over and lifted the covers. “Get in and lie down.”
Obediently, Cross sat, turned, lifted his boot to the mattress, then his good leg, and slid down. The bulk of the boot made it hard to get comfortable, but his surgeon had threatened dire things if he removed it even to sleep. He lay on his back, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, and tried not to kick Rusty with the stupid plastic monstrosity.
“You good for me to turn out the light?” Rusty asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
The room plunged into darkness, lit only by a low strip of lights he’d left on in the bathroom. If he had to get up in the night, he wanted to avoid tripping over a chair and breaking his arm as well.
“Can you roll over?” Rusty asked. “Or do you have to lay like that?”
“I can roll.”
“Put your back to me then, babe.”
“Babe?” Cross asked, even as he rolled onto his side, lifting that boot up and over to a fairly comfortable position.
“Don’t like it? I was trying out pet names in my head and none of them sounded right.”
“Are we at the pet names stage?”
“See, I’d use your hockey nickname, except I already do.” In the dark, the mattress dipped as Rusty edged closer to Cross. Rusty’s knee brushed the back of Cross’s thigh, then his arm slid across Cross’s ribs. “And I don’t want you to use mine.”
“No kidding.” He wasn’t calling Rusty “Dodo” even in fun.
