Page 93 of Playing His Game

He hadn’t meant to watch last night’s game. He should’ve gone out, or booked himself a flight to London to see Sage, or thrown a party. But nothing appealed, and in the end, he found himself in front of his television with a handful of snack mix.

He hadn’t watched TV since before New Brunswick, the last time Adam had come over to do more than have sex. Now their booty calls were more booty, less hanging out on the couch. Which explained why the hockey game had come on right away.

So Mo ended up watching.

And then a slew-footed defensemen took Adam out at the knees, his head snapped back as it hit the net, and he rag-dolled on the ice in a way that made Mo’s stomach claw at the back of his throat. No question he’d lost consciousness.

Even once he’d gotten up—not under his own power, but not on a stretcher either—Mo couldn’t quell his roiling stomach. He needed to hear Adam was okay from Adam himself.

But no matter how many times he called or texted, no one answered.

Finally, forty-five excruciating minutes after the game, a text came in from an unfamiliar number.

Hey, it’s Steve. Adam hit his head pretty good but he’s okay. I’m taking him home but he’s not supposed to look at screens. Text you in the morning.

Mo stared at his phone for two minutes before he remembered Steve was what Maddison called Jorts.

Thanks for the update.

After that, he tried to get some sleep. He woke up too early and drank too much coffee while he willed his phone to chirp again. When eight o’clock came and went, he figured enough was enough, pocketed his keys, and got in the car.

Ten minutes later, he pulled up in Adam’s driveway and parked next to a vintage gold Pontiac Firebird. Why couldn’t Adam have his friend’s taste in cars? Mo thought, even as he shuddered at the idea of how much gas that thing probably needed. And again at its lack of safety features. Although at least the thing was old enough to be made of solid metal rather than fiberglass.

Still. Adam’s brains had been scrambled enough. Who put him in a car with no airbags?

He was still spinning his wheels about that when Jorts answered the door, unshaven and with dark circles under his eyes.

Mo refrained from offering beauty-product recommendations. “How is he?”

In the doorway, Jorts crossed his arms. “What do you care?”

After a moment of undignified gaping, Mo closed his mouth. “I’m sorry?”

“About Adam. What do you care?”

Oh fuck.Mo’s heart sank. “He told you we broke up.”

“He told me you faked the whole thing for your parents. Except the sex. I know way more details about the sex than I ever wanted. I can never unknow these things.” He leaned down closer to Mo. “And you can never come in.”

“Wait,never?” Mo squawked. “We’re still friends!”

“I’m pretty sure friends don’t use each other for sex and good publicity.”

Maybe notstraightfriends.“Any using was mutually beneficial. You even said ‘each other’.”

It sounded feeble to Mo too.

“Uh-huh. Well, you’re not going to be anyuseto Adam—and he’s certainly not going to be used by you—until the doctors clear him to do more than lie in a dark room. So.”

“Wha—you don’t think I’m here forsex,” Mo protested. “First of all, getting yacked on while furthering someone’s brain damage is a major turn-off. Butalso”—he spread his arms wide and gestured—“does this outfit say ‘seduction’ to you?” He’d thrown on the first clothes he found: a pair of Adam’s basketball shorts that never made it home from Mo’s place and the sweatshirt Duncan and Katie got him for Christmas, which was pastel green and depicted Rudolph in red glitter.

For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw Jorts’s lip twitch. “Unfortunately, I know the two of you are freaks, but yeah, that’s probably taking it too far even for you.”

Mo searched for an appropriately biting rebuttal but only managed, “Thank you.” What the hell did Adam tell him? Or did straight people just have really boring sex? He’d never gotten that impression from Mads?—

Oh fuck.

Mads.