Page 2 of Playing His Game

Mo barked a laugh. “Everyone in this crowd has said worse. About anal too, even if they’re too hetero chickenshit to talk about their own asses.” He cocked his head and studied Murphy’s neon face. “Think any of the other first-round draftees have talked their girlfriends into?—”

“Enough. Even if you don’t think the—the men deserve respect, you don’t have to talk about their girlfriends that way.”

“It’s adorable that you think those meatheads have only slept with their girlfriends.” He rolled his eyes. “But you’re right. I should be nicer to the ladies. Anyone who’s slept with one of you jocks has already suffered enough.”

“For someone who just handed me this jersey, you’re awful judgmental of hockey players.”

Oh, the personality returns.Curious about this side of the cardboard-like guy from the stage, Mo poked. “Don’t let it go to your head. You’re not special. I’m judgmental of everyone.” If he had an extra level of disdain for people who played the sport that he’d once enjoyed but was now making him miserable—well, Adam Murphy didn’t need to know.

“Are you… proud of that?”

Mo bristled. He was fifteen years old and barely five foot six. His judginess was basically his only defense mechanism. “Can’t all be hockey stars,” he said breezily. “Proud of our ability to hit a small rubber disk with a stick.”

Now Murphy frowned at him. “I thought you played.”

That—was not what Mo expected him to say. Sure, he played—his dad was the kind of person who bought a hockey team; of course he enrolled his kid. But in what universe did Adam Murphy care enough aboutMoto find that out?

Probably Mo’s parents had told him, Mo thought bitterly, while they were cooing over how proud they were to have theprivilegeto draft the first openly gay hockey prospect into the NHL. He shoved his hands in his pants pockets—or tried, and then remembered that his mother had the tailor sew them shut so he couldn’t. Just one more indignity heaped upon him today, along with the little rainbow tie pin that made him want to throw up.

If he had to be the symbol of progressive attitudes in hockey—barf—couldn’t he at least have done something cool, like dyed a rainbow into his hair?

But no, of course not. No Du Pont could ever do something so pedestrian.

His father had made him shave his head last year when he’d dyed it blue.

“Wow. Youthink?” He sneered. “Never seen a hockey player do that before.”

The indignant flush returned, but this time, Murphy only huffed to go with it. “Whatever,” he muttered.

Then he slumped back into the chair and took out his phone, dismissing Mo.

And that was fine, Mo told himself firmly. He didn’t want to know Adam Murphy anyway. And hedefinitelydidn’t care if Adam Murphy wanted to know him.

He got off the floor, buttoned his stupid jacket, and stalked out of the weird toilet waiting room, vowing to avoid Murphy for as long as he could.

Adam’s fingers itched to fiddle with his tie.

You’re in public, he reminded himself and tightened his hold around his drink. Not too tight, though. He could just imagine the media fallout if he squeezed a champagne glass to death—never mind if he smelled of alcohol all evening.

Adam hated these events—showy charitable to-dos put on by the Canyons’ ownership, where they trotted out the players like trained circus animals. It involved way too much talking to strangers and rules for how to be and behave.

Be polite and smile, but not too much or the rich straight men might think you’re coming on to them. Look good in a suit, but not too good; wear something interesting but nottoointeresting. Be gay but not too gay was the mandate, especially on nights like tonight, when the fundraiser of choice was an outreach center for LGBTQ+ youth.

God, Adam was being a dick. He was here to raise money for kids who hadn’t had safe, supportive environments to grow up in.

Jorts, Adam’s onetime landlord, leaned in and whispered, “Try to have fun mingling, kid,” then dipped out to do just that. Traitor.

An hour later, Adam took advantage of a brief reprieve from making nice with donors to search out the bathroom.

Naturally, as he was returning, Moritz Du Pont ran into him—literally.

His hair was something else. The left side was shaved close to the scalp, and the remaining locks had been bleached and dyed. Adam didn’t think Moritz identified as trans, but maybe something had changed and he was making a public statement with his pink-white-blue hair? Confusing and unclear, if so.

Despite the outlandish look, he was as pretty as always, though he’d matured from a waifish tween into an adult twink.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite cardboard cutout.” Moritz leered. He didn’t slur, but Adam was ninety-nine percent positive he was drunk—and not yet twenty-one. “I see you’ve once again mastered the ‘gay but not too gay’ look. Love the tie.”

Adam flushed, then berated himself for letting Moritz get to him. The tie was rainbow, but in subdued colors. He doubted Moritz actually liked it.