Page 100 of Playing His Game

“Adam…”

He couldn’t take the pity. Not about this. He’d made his own dumb decisions for his own dumb reasons and they’d bitten him in his own dumb ass. He’d deal with that by himself, like an adult. His concussion symptoms were practically gone.

“I need you to leave, please.” The words came out steady, but Adam’s hands were shaking. He clenched them harder on the counter.

“Adam—”

God damn it. “I’m going to fucking cry if you’re here.” His voice cracked. Jorts had always been his safe person, a guy he could display a full range of emotion to. Normally, he appreciated that deep friendship. “And if I cry, I’m going to get a migraine and throw up again. You gotta go, man, please.”

“All right,” Jorts said finally. “I’m calling to check on you later. You better answer.”

“Ugh,” Adam said.

He stayed where he was until he heard the front door close and Jorts’s car start in the driveway. Then he slid down to the bathroom floor and pressed his head against the cool enamel of the tub.Breathe in. Hold for four. Breathe out. Repeat. Just focus on the breathing.

Eventually, the burn behind his eyes dissipated and he got off the floor.

He should drink some Gatorade. He’d been out in the heat too long. He couldn’t afford to get dehydrated—not if he wanted to return to skating in time for the playoffs. So he’d get some fluids, then take a nap.

Tomorrow, he had a doctor’s appointment. If the evaluation went well, Adam could get cleared for light workouts.

That was something he could control. He needed to focus on that.

Mo burned rubber all the way to Adam’s.

He was twenty-four; outside of overseas check-ins with Sage, he’d never voluntarily made a voice call in his life. But he made CarPlay dial Adam’s number over and over, until on the third try it didn’t ring at all, just sent him straight to voicemail.

Fuck his parents. Jesus Christ. Had they really just used Mo’s love life to makemoney? And how had they managed to squeak that deal past the NHL’s ethics committee? Bribery?

Fuck.

Finally, he pulled up outside Adam’s house. Somehow, Jorts’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Mo left the keys in the engine and jogged up the front steps.

“Adam!” He pounded his open palm against the door.

Oh fuck. Was he making a scene? It was the middle of the day. Belatedly, he looked over both shoulders. One of Adam’s neighbors a few doors down was pruning a potted cactus or something.

Fuck it. He knocked again. “Adam! Open the door, come on!”

He had to be home, right? Mo didn’t remember him mentioning any upcoming appointments.

He could be sleeping. But that wouldn’t explain why he’d sent Mo’s call straight to voicemail.

It fucking figured. Mo finally found the stones to own up to what he wanted and his parents went and shat all over it. They couldn’t have planned it better if they’d known about the fake thing the whole time.

Finally, the doorbell speaker cracked to life. “Fuck off, Mo.”

“Can we talk? Please?” Mo peered at the doorbell’s camera, hoping the fish-eye lens didn’t distort his sincere expression into something else.

“I only talk with friends.”

“We are?—”

“Was ‘fuck off’ not clear?”

“Adam, please.” Mo wasn’t above begging.

“No means no.”