Page 18 of Changes on Ice

Cross looked away, almost shifty, but nodded. “Okay.”

“And Iwillpay you for the paint. Just, it might have to wait till I get paid.”

“I’ll email you the receipt, once I do the math on what we actually used. We have some left over. We can hang onto it for touchups, you can pay me if we need it.”

Rusty didn’t want to be coddled, but even twenty bucks did matter these days. “Thanks.” He pulled the last tape off the top of the grill and stepped back. The truck sat there, not a trace of the pink that had rubbed him raw as he drove to practice and then two hours up the 5, imagining everyone staring at him. “Fuck. It’s not that I think pink is unmanly or something. It’s just how other people react.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a second.

Cross tossed a ball of wadded up tape toward the trash. “Anyone who says, ‘Don’t listen to the bigots,’ has never had to work around them. I was on a line with Brett Price a few years back. The racist shit some of the other players said to him on the ice was rough. We told him he should get secretly miked up one game and post the audio, but he didn’t. He punched out one creep, but then a couple of the guy’s linies took it out on him the next time they met. It’s easy to say, ‘Ignore it,’ when you’re not the one getting cross-checked in the kidneys.”

Rusty braced against a whole-body shudder.

“Sorry!” Cross said quickly.

“I just want to play, you know? Not deal with this shit. I’m not scared.” Well not about getting cross-checked or whatever, although injuries could be career-ending and then what would he have? A broke farm boy with no family and only a high-school diploma? “I just… hockey shouldn’t have to be like that, just because Price is Black or I like to suck dick.”

“The world’s kind of fucked up,” Cross agreed.

Rusty figured all that money and his straight—or straight-passing— white skin kept Cross from really knowing down in his gut just how fucked, but he meant well. “Yeah.”

“Come on.” Cross headed for the door to the house. “Let’s get a few hours of sleep before we have to get you on the road.”

“You don’t have to get up early for me,” Rusty insisted. “I can show myself out.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll want to deal with the security system.”

As Rusty passed Cross, he tripped over the stupid lip of the doorsill and stumbled into him. Cross grabbed him, strong arms tight around Rusty as he made a fool of himself. But Cross just laughed. “Oops.”

For a moment, Rusty let himself sag into Cross’s hold. He leaned against the solid body supporting him and absorbed the feel of Cross’s hair against his cheek.God, this has been a day.This hug felt even better than when Scott did it. Hell, even after his rare goals, most of his team tapped his helmet or thumped his back instead of a hug. Hands off the gay guy. In this moment, Cross held Rusty like he’d never let him fall.

An instant later, Rusty remembered himself and leaned away, feeling his face heat.

But Cross gave him a squeeze before letting go, as if he could tell Rusty needed it. “Long day for you, kid. Let’s get to bed.”

Being called “kid” didn’t spoil the hug but it did change it. Rusty needed to remember these NHL guys were friendly, but they weren’t his friends, not really. Mentors, maybe. Big brotherly, which wasn’t the same as buddies. “Sure. Thanks.” He pulled free and hurried inside. “Good night.”

If— once under the covers in that big bed— he allowed himself a moment, despite the desperate need for sleep, to recall the width of Cross’s shoulders, the raised veins on his strong hands and forearms as he gestured, and the shape of his mouth as he licked sauce off his lips, that was between Rusty and a conveniently full box of tissues. It wasn’t like he’d ever do anything about this growing awareness. Might as well get it off his brain so he could sleep.

At some point in the night, he woke thinking he’d heard a cry. Not a scream, maybe a shout, someone angry or afraid. Cross? He lay awake in the dark, silent room for a while, straining to hear any sounds, words, footsteps. For long minutes nothing happened. Maybe he’d been dreaming.

As he was drifting back off, he became aware of soft footsteps approaching, then pausing by his door.Burglar? Murderer?Not likely given Cross’s security system, but he rolled on one elbow and tensed for action. Except there was no knock, no more steps, no turn of the handle. Just someone standing there outside his closed room as a minute passed.

Well, there was one obvious answer. He called, “Cross?”

“Uh. Yeah?” There was a small click, then Cross opened the door a fraction and peered in. He wore only sleep pants draped low on his hips, revealing cut abs and his wide, furry chest. His hair stood in a tousled mess and the dim backlight meant Rusty couldn’t see his face. “Crap. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Rusty cleared his throat. “Is it time to get up?” He was surprised his time sense was that off.

Cross said hoarsely, “No. A couple of hours yet. Sorry. So sorry. I was… I didn’t mean to be creepy or anything. I just needed to be sure you were… I hope you can sleep some more.Goodnight.” He ducked out, closing the door behind him, and Rusty heard him hurry away.

That was weird.Not in a threatening way. Something in Cross’s voice had made Rusty ache, like maybe the guy needed a hug himself. But Rusty had a long drive coming up, a tough practice to get to, and a freaking early start. He pushed the puzzle of Roger LaCroix out of his mind and closed his eyes.

Chapter 6

“What are you grinning at?” Axel leaned out of his plush airplane seat to peer at Cross’s phone.

“Just a meme.” Which was true enough, since Rusty had sent him a video of two fighting defensemen trying to pull each other’s jerseys off, set to stripper music.

“You’re smiling at your phone a lot. Got a girl finally?”

---