Page 59 of Playing His Game

Mo smirked.

On Saturday, Adam donned the black trousers, gray shirt, striped tie, and burgundy vest the team’s PR branch provided and tried not to wince and how little the color suited him. Shame this burgundy nightmare didn’t come with a helmet to hide his hair, but he didn’t have to look good. He just had to schmooze with rich folks to get them to part with money they could afford to lose.

The event itself wouldn’t start for a few hours, but the team couldn’t pass up an opportunity to show off all their good work—and how handsome some of the players looked while doing it. If last year’s events repeated, posts staring Adam, Hallsy, Jorts, and a few others would make the rounds on social media for masc-attracted fans (and sometimes strangers to the game) to drool over. Adam didn’t spend much time online to know about it, but Picks and Smitty always seemed keen to share such updates in the name of ribbing.

Of course, this year, Adam wouldn’t be alone. Knowing Mo, he’d throw in a monkey wrench and destroy all of Adam’s expectations.

But the team hadn’t asked Mo to come in early. That meant Adam was surrounded by his team when he made his appearance—a horrible time to have an audience of annoying pseudo brothers. Mo looked—Adam couldn’t describe how he looked.

He was wearing black and gray slacks and shirt like the rest of them, but his unlike the boring poly-blend the team wore, his waistcoat hugged him like a glove and looked to be cut from actual silk. And it wasn’t burgundy. It was an intricate pattern of red swirls and swoops over black, with extra pops of black throughout to keep the bright vibrant color from looking garish. He’d paired the vest with a red-accented belt and shoes, red-tinted nails and lips, and ruby studs in his ears. He wasn’t wearing a tie, and the top button of his shirt was undone, showing off a tantalizing bit of throat that Adam wanted to bite.

Mo had no right looking so unexpectedly hot at a Canyons’ charity event.

“What do you think?” he asked coyly, smirking.

Before Adam could finish rebooting his brain, Hallsy called out, “Don’t think the rest of us wanna hear his thoughts!”

“I t’ink ’e broke ’im,” said Bouchy in his thick Quebecois accent.

Followed by Rother: “Guess we know that was definitely a hickey, then.”

And Smitty: “Did we doubt it?”

“Nah, but you know Murph. Couldn’t discount a hockey injury.”

“Or vacuum.” Adam didn’twantto know who said that.

“Shut up, jeez.” Adam flushed. He was surrounded by idiots. “I think you look beautiful,” he finally answered. Remembering his role as Boyfriend, he took a step closer and squeezed Mo’s arm.

“Oh my God,” a new voice cut in, loud and dramatic, “do my eyes deceive me or is our fearless leader engaging in PDA?”

Adam and Mo turned to see Jorts fanning himself with one of the evening’s cheat-sheet pamphlets.

“Keep this up, Murph, and you’ll make Victorian maidens blush!”

So many idiots. Adam blinked concerned eyes and said as earnestly as he could, “First worrying about your eyesight and now offended by hand-holding? When did you get so old, Jorts? Do you need some prune juice? An early bedtime?”

Fortunately, Adam’s rookies took the opportunity to start heckling the vet, distracting everyone from Adam and Mo.

Adam leaned in and murmured, “That wasn’t too painful, was it?” He honestly couldn’t understand why Mo was so reluctant to meet the boys.

Ever the actor, Mo swayed toward him, one hand on Adam’s chest, and replied sotto voce, “Darling, just because I can handle the pain doesn’t mean I should.”

Adam’s hind brain, newly trained to respond to Mo, perked up. Wait—was that an insult?

At that moment, Elsie swanned in, somehow projecting both harried and poised, and told them it was time to get to their places.

Jorts and Hallsy headed for the cameras. Adam caught Mo watching and took his hand to guide him to the bar. “The film crews will find us at some point, get some footage of us serving drinks and being civic-minded, but I told them to give us space first.”

Chinner joined them on the way to the bar. The guy was a few years younger than Adam, with the kind of chill that Adam associated with leaf-based hobbies. He shook hands with Mo and explained they were stuck with him because he “tended bar in the AHL off-season once or twice.”

Already behind the bar stood two professional bartenders.

“We’ll work behind the scenes to make sure things run smoothly.”

Thank God. Adam didn’t want to be held responsible for parched people not getting what they wanted when they wanted it.

Mo smirked. “Darling, are you doubting my ability to pour a drink?”