Page 40 of Playing His Game

“I can’t believe a jock is better at this than me,” Mo lamented. Then, under his breath, “Also, how big is your dick if you think those are?—”

Without thinking about it, Adam poked his paintbrush into Mo’s cheek. It left an orange smudge.

Mo gasped. “Howdareyou, Adam Murphy.” He looked positively delighted that he’d made Adam misbehave.

“Excuse me!” interrupted the paint instructor before Mo could get a good head of steam going. They were holding their phone and smiling brightly. “Would you mind if we got a pic for the socials?”

Adam looked from them to Mo and his orange-splotched face to Mo’s borderline pornographic painting. These public dates served a purpose—but part of that purpose was to keep Mooffhis parents’ shit list.

“Maybe we just put the one painting in the photo.”

Inevitably, even though he’d weaseled out of postgame hangouts with the team, Mo became prime material to chirp Adam.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Smitty leaned forward across the table at their usual postgame pub. “You took himcar shopping?”

“He knows more about them than me,” Adam protested. The Land Rover situation had spooked him. Once bitten and all that.

Smitty waved this fact away. “My five-year-old knows more about cars than you. It’s the level of commitment I’m questioning. You haven’t been dating that long.”

So? “It’s not like I bought the car for him!”

“Bro.” Oh God, Jorts had joined the conversation—and he appeared to be on Smitty’s side. Bad news for Adam. “You bought aredone.”

Adam always bought white. He lived in Arizona. White was practical. If he left a black car in the sun, he’d broil alive every time he tried to get in. “It’s cool! And it was the only one on the lot!” Besides, Adam didn’t have unlimited time to spend replacing his unsafe vehicle. Taking Mo’s advice had been practical.

Smitty and Jorts looked at each other. “Since when do you care about being cool?” Jorts said.

“Since he started banging the owner’s kid.” Smitty nodded sagely.

And then, to top off the betrayal, Picks chimed in. “I mean, have you seen the crowd Mo usually hangs out with?” He shook his head. “They areflashy. High heels, Lambos, black credit cards.”

“Youhave a black credit card,” Adam pointed out.

Picks nodded earnestly. “Yeah. ’Cause I’m a normal professional athlete. And we’re flashy. You”—he reached across the table and poked Adam’s chest, much like Mo had the night this whole charade started—“are not flashy.”

“He’s like a little tropical bird doing his mating dance.” Jorts smirked.

Adam’s face heated.We’re not even really dating, he wanted to say. He had no reason to preen for Mo’s attention, or whatever they were accusing him of.

On the other hand, should he take pride in the fact that somehow, they were selling this farce?

“Where is he tonight, anyway?” Jorts asked. “You’re usually attached at the hip.”

Somehow, Jorts hadn’t cottoned on that Mo would stop by the locker room after a game to say hello, but always declined an invitation to anything afterward. But apart from that, he was kind of right. Adam’s busy schedule meant he spent most of his home off nights with Mo one way or the other.

He glanced at his watch and did the math. “Probably somewhere over the Atlantic. His best friend’s play opened in London today. He was going to catch the red-eye back.”

He’d barely gotten the words out before Picks whipped out his phone.

“Is that Mo’s Instagram?” Adam couldn’t keep the alarm from his voice. “Do you follow him?”

“I wouldn’t have to if you got your own socials.” He clicked on the most recent photo. “Is this them? Wow, look at that bouquet?—”

Adam’s ears burned as Picks read the caption. He was just a baby, and a little bit drunk. His lips moved silently while he did it.

Then he said, “Aww, Cap, you sent his bestie flowers!”

“What?” Jorts lurched forward to get a look. “Oh my God. It’s huge.”