Page 103 of Playing His Game

Of course, he had bigger problems than a set of homeless tools. There were the homeless cars too.

Not to mention their homeless owner.

He was still standing in front of the garage, probably getting sunburnt, when a set of car doors closed behind him. A moment later, Sage’s father, Oleander, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Rose is making up the guest room. I brought the truck,” he said gruffly. “Figured your taste in cars with no trunk space would bite you in the ass one day. Not like this, though. Your parents suck.”

Mo let out a sharp laugh that turned ugly. He pressed a hand to his eyes and squeezed them shut, shuddering.

Everything in his life had gone to shit. Adam hated him. His parents didn’t give a shit about him. And he was going to have to sell his most prized possessions to build a safety net.

But he wasn’t alone. He had Sage and their family. And for the first time in his life, he had freedom too.

Mo wiped his face on his arm and looked up at the house one last time.

He’d always hated it anyway.

“Right,” he said, ignoring the crack of his own voice. “We’d better get to work.”

15

Under Jorts’s supervision, Adam recovered from his concussion without further complications. He wouldn’t have said he made a particularly good patient—he’d bitten his nursemaid’s head off a few times—but Jorts never took it personally.

Even if he did threaten Adam with a pacifier, once.

By the beginning of March, the doctors cleared him to go back to skating with the team. The Canyons were holding on to their playoff spot by the skin of their teeth, but no one wanted Adam to play before he was ready and set himself back. Besides, after all the rest he’d had, he needed time to rebuild his stamina and muscle mass.

The first time he stepped back on the ice for a game, the world righted itself that much more. The fans had packed the arena for their home game against Nashville. A win tonight and they’d clinch a spot in the playoffs for the first time in three years.

Before the anthem played, Jorts elbowed Adam in the side. “Good to have you back, Cap.”

“Don’t call me that,” Adam muttered, but he couldn’t stop the smile.

Despite the practice he’d put in, it took him until the middle of the second period to hit his stride. The Canyons were up 1–0 when Picks fumbled the puck at the center line and the opposing forwards took possession.

Their line’s shift should be ending, but Adam still had legs. He dogged the Bandit into his own defensive zone and somehow managed a reach-around move to knock the puck off his stick without being called for hooking. Sometimes, it paid to be tall.

His opponent lost his footing when he tried to keep up with Adam’s one-eighty. Better, Adam had caught the Bandits unawares, and now there was no one between him and the goalie. The long change meant they couldn’t get fresh legs on the ice to catch him.

Adam’s shot went bar-down and the stadium erupted.

Picks hit him first, laughing. “Wow, Cap, maybe I should fuck up more often!”

Jorts came next, breathing hard even as he pressed a loud kiss to the top of Adam’s helmet. “Jesus Christ, have some mercy on an old man.” Then he shoved them both toward the bench.

The Canyons demolished the Bandits 7–1. With two more points, they would make the playoffs even if they lost the rest of their regular-season games.

Adam put up two goals and an assist and got first star of the night, a standing ovation from the home crowd, and the time-honored shaving-cream pie in the face in the locker room afterward.

He should have been ecstatic. In October, a night like this would have put him on top of the world.

Tonight, it felt empty.

“Drinks?” Picks said hopefully.

“Drinks!” Jorts and Smitty chorused.

Adam made himself smile and agree. He might not be in the mood to go out with the team, but he wanted to go home to his empty house even less.

For the first three days of disownment, Mo didn’t have time to make himself sick over Adam.