Page 4 of Playing His Game

Across the table from him, Picks, their rookie, blanched.

Jesus Christ. “He’s joking,” Adam assured him. “I am absolutely too big for that.”

Picks’s eyes bulged and he reached quickly for his drink.

Adam had to get his kickssomewhere. Mildly tormenting their rookie was hardly the worst thing he could do. It could be meth! It could be seedy back-alley sex! He could keep his low-key rookie trolling.

Besides, Picks needed to get used to Adam’s sexuality not being a subject the team shied away from. If he blushed and stuttered and looked at his captain every time someone made a dick joke, he’d stroke out before playoffs.

But he couldn’t resist adding, lower, for only Jorts to hear, “As if I would ever pick a daddy named Jorts.”

Jorts spluttered into his beer.

“Hey!” Someone nudged his foot. “Isn’t it your turn to order a round, Cap?”

Adam glanced at Picks. “Don’t let anyone get into any fistfights while I’m gone.” He gestured to Jorts. “His wife’ll kill me if he doesn’t make it home tonight.”

Honestly, Jorts would probably last another half a beer before he tapped out to go home to his wife and kids.

If only he’d tapped out last week, before Adam got stuck in the middle of this exceedingly dumb cold war so his dumb teammates didn’t end up on the dumb Internet again.

He slid into an open spot at the bar and lifted his head to catch the bartender’s eye.

“Well, hello.”

Adam turned to the man next to him. The stranger was handsome—a shade shorter than him, green eyes, broad shoulders. If Adam were looking for company, he might be tempted. But he didn’t pick up when he was out with his team.

Adam nodded and returned to his efforts to snag the bartender. Maybe they’d be a fan and serve him faster. He didn’t like leveraging his fame, but hereallydidn’t want to be stuck next to someone pushing their luck…

“Buy you a drink.”

Damn it. Why couldn’t he take a hint? Adam pasted on his bestjust being politesmile.

“I don’t think you want to pick up my tab. I was sent to get the next round.” He tipped his head at the table where twenty-odd male pro athletes sat chirping each other and flirting with any women who ventured into their orbit.

The stranger looked at the guys, then back at Adam. “I didn’t offer to buy them a drink. I want to buy yours.”

He must have recognized them. Guys who knew who Adam was and who ran into him outside of his usual haunts tended to be the pushiest. They had some kind of laser focus on getting the rich athlete in bed. There was a reason Adam preferred to pick up in cities where he could be anonymous—though even those were limited, given the red hair. The idea of going home with a guy who wanted the story? Who might post online (or worse, sell to a tabloid) what he was like in bed? The stuff of nightmares. Adam wanted to play hockey, not field questions about his sex life.

“Yeah, well, I’m here with the boys tonight, so thank you, but no.” He gave another polite smile, hoping to soften the blow. God, he could just picture the gossip on hockey Twitter, shaming him for abandoning his boys to get his dick wet. Never mind that all his teammates had done the same at some point—but none of them were gay.

“What can I get you?”

Thank God. Adam ignored the stranger and gave his order to the bartender. He kept his eyes fixed on the staff.

The bartender looked over at the Canyons’ table and raised an eyebrow. “Go have a seat, man, we’ll bring it over.”

“Thanks. Put the drinks on the tab.” He handed the guy a couple twenties for a tip and hurried away from the bar.

“He was cute,” Jorts said when Adam reclaimed his seat.

Adam snorted. “He was pushy.”

Jorts pulled a face. “Gross.”

Picks was watching them wide-eyed again, so Jorts rapped the tabletop in front of him. “Let this be a lesson, youngling: there is nothing attractive about a man who can’t take a hint. Respect a brush-off and go fish somewhere else.”

Picks nodded vigorously, clearly eager to impress.