Page 1 of Playing His Game

PROLOGUE

Mo curled up in the alcove corner, hidden by a large planter and an overstuffed chair. The room—basically a waiting room for the bathrooms—was empty of other people and blessedly quiet.

Well, as quiet as any room in a hotel hosting the ongoing NHL draft could be. They hadn’t even finished the first round. Every few minutes, another speaker-muffled name and round of applause disturbed Mo’s peace as the next team made their first pick. It made him think of a terrible bachelor auction, a bunch of old men in suits haggling over barely-legal pimple-faced sports bros.

Ew. Mo couldn’t decide which half of that equation skeeved him out worse.

Mo had already played his part. He let his parents drag him out in a penguin suit and parade him around like a dancing monkey. No one would look for him until tonight’s festivities ended and his parents headed home.

Maybe not even then. It wouldn’t be the first time they forgot him someplace. At least he was fifteen now and not eight, so if they left him behind, he could just get an Uber, instead of having to wander a crowded building searching for someone in uniform who could call his nanny to pick him up.

Mo thunked his head against the wall behind him, closed his eyes, and rummaged in his pockets for his phone. He wasn’t going to sit here in silence for hours without entertainment.

He’d just pulled up Twitter when a light tread on the carpet broke the muffled-sound silence. Mo couldn’t see them yet, but they sounded male—or at least not high-heeled. There might be some women or agender people here in flat dress shoes. Not that Mo had seen any. Women in flat dress shoes oranyonewho defied gender norms.

The footsteps stopped, but there was no sound of an opening bathroom door or a phone call being made—the only reasons Mo could think of to come this way.

Well, that or hiding in corners to avoid your parents and all the eighteen-year-old hockey bros who thought they were God’s gift to the ladies even though they were as gross as any other teenage boy Mo had ever met.

The mystery person moved again: rustling fabric, then footsteps approaching Mo. They stopped in front of the chair, let out a loud sigh, and then collapsed into it. The chair jerked and the faux leather cushion squeaked and hissed.

Mo held his breath, but the person didn’tdoanything—well, other than let out a sigh to match the chair and some muffled noises like they were burying their words in their hands.

Curiosity won out, and Mo leaned over to get a better look.

Oh. It washim.

“Shouldn’t you be downstairs with all the adoring fans?”

Adam Murphy jumped so high, he almost felt out of his seat.

“Good thing that chair’s so big. Would be an embarrassing injury to have to explain.”

Murphy, this year’s fifth overall pick, stared at Mo with wide eyes.

Right.Jocks.

“Like, if you fell out of it, you know? ‘Sorry I broke my wrist, but I have yet to master sitting in chairs.’”

“What?” The stunned look gave way to indignation. “I was sitting just fine until you scared the crap out of me. What are you even doing? Lurking in corners?”

Hiding from my parents and their exhausting expectations and disappointment, and also everyone else in this building, since my parents decided to use my sexuality as a publicity tool.

“Just looking for somewhere quiet.”

“You could have sat in a chair,” Murphy pointed out. Now that his surprise was fading, whatever personality Mo had knocked loose was fading. Figured. Mo kind of wanted to yawn at him.

He shrugged instead. “This looked more comfortable.”

“Thefloorlooked more comfortable.” Murphy shook his head. “You’re kind of a weird one, Moritz.”

“Mo,” Mo snapped. Only his parents got to use that name—less a privilege and more a resigned truth. They refused to call him anything but. No one who didn’t pay his bills would get away with it, though. “And I’m not the one hiding from his adoring public. Don’t you have more hands to shake and reporters to regale with the wonders of ‘social progress’?”

Apparently, the sarcasm dripped strong enough that even a buttoned-up square like Murphy couldn’t miss it. His cheeks flushed—extra obvious under his close-cut red hair. “It’s a big deal to be the first out gay man drafted into the league. It would be—be remiss of me not to acknowledge that?—”

“Oh my God, are you always this boring?” Mo refused to hear all this bullshit again. “I thought the robot impression was for the press, but damn. Did your fairy gay-mother not tell you you’re supposed to take the vibrator out after use?”

Murphy went bright red. “You shouldn’t use that kind of language, especially in public where someone might hear.”