Page 3 of Playing His Game

“Thanks. I see you decided opted for a gay-on-steroids dress code,” Adam said, biting back anything more scathing about the rainbow dress outfit that clashed with his hair.

Moritz gave him elevator eyes and arched an eyebrow. “Honey, this is just gay. I’m not afraid of my sexuality.”

Adam bit his tongue. Hide his sexuality? His sexuality seemed to be the only thing people cared about. He’d love it if people saw him as less gay. But the implication still rankled. “No, just trying to scare off others with your outfit of colors that don’t occur in nature except to warn other animals they’re poisonous.”

Moritz narrowed his eyes. “It’s certainly keptyoufrom taking a bite, so it’s working fabulously so far.”

As if Adam needed a warning when being gay and breathing the same air as Moritz were enough to fuel the gossip mill for weeks and had been since he got drafted, even though Moritz was only fifteen. Actually, now that he thought about it, he should probably put some space between them, or he’d have Chelsea in his phone dragging him again for robbing the cradle.

At least Chelsea, unlike the internet in general, understood that Adam was not a sexual predator. She only teased him because she loved him. Or something.

“Yeah, well… maybe I’m just not hungry.”

Moritz laughed sharply and leaned forward into his space. “Yeah, or maybe your trainer’s got you on a strict diet, huh? Or maybe not the trainer—maybe it’s your agent.” He poked Adam in the chest, then flicked his fingers like he was brushing away lint. “Gotta make sure you keep that image squeaky-clean.”

That hit too close to the truth. Adam flinched back.

And knocked right into someone, just like Moritz had walked into him—only with significantly more mass.

There was an almighty crash.

Adam whirled around. The server he’d bumped into had been carrying a tray of champagne flutes—full—that had crashed to the floor, splattering everyone in the vicinity: Adam, the server, the other nearby guests. Broken glassware littered the carpet.

And noweveryonewas looking at Adam.

Fantastic.

“I’m so sorry,” Adam blurted, stooping to help pick up the glass. “I should’ve been paying more attention, I?—”

Heat rose in his face as he stammered through his embarrassment. He was supposed to be a professional athlete, but put him in proximity with Moritz Du Pont and he lost all sense of spatial awareness.

As the janitorial staff arrived to take over cleanup, Adam slunk back to the bathroom to wash up as best he could, furious with himself. What was worse? That he’d let Moritz get under his skin again, or that he’d knocked over a server who was just doing his job and made a scene?

Or that somehow during the aftermath, Moritz slunk away, getting the last wordandthe last laugh?

1

THREE YEARS LATER

As the brand-new captain of the Arizona Canyons, Adam had a designated spot whenever the team went out: smack in the middle, where the headache lived.

If he hadn’t been raised by two Canadian teachers, he probably would’ve just refused to go out with the team, and then the boys could have split along their internal political factions and gone to different bars.

But then Adam wouldn’t be captain, and also possibly Jorts and Smitty would have killed each other.

If Smitty had objected to Adam’s captaincy because he was gay, at least Adam could’ve dismissed him as a dick. But no—Smitty and Jorts got into it because Smitty got lit and let slip that he thought Adam wasn’t “bro” enough, too quiet and too stiff. Then, before Adam could say,Go home, Smitty, you’re drunk, Jorts, who wasalsodrunk, decided the insult couldn’t stand.

Things escalated quickly. Someone—or rather, someones—got phone footage of the ensuing incident.

Which led them to this: Adam sitting in the center of a long table, Jorts to his right, Smitty across and to the left. He hoped they’d get over it before they got too far into the regular season.

He sighed and reached for his pint glass. “Are you sure you won’t just apologize?”

Jorts huffed. “He can’t talk about my kid like that and expect there won’t be consequences.”

Adam took that as a no. “I’m not your kid.” Even if he had spent the first two years on the Canyons’ roster living in Jorts’s basement suite.

“Shut up,” Jorts said agreeably. “You’re not too big to put over my knee.”