Page 42 of Playing His Game

He yanked the door open and stared at Mo.

“Why are you assaulting my doorbell?”

“Hi,” Mo said almost cheerily. He turned to face Adam, his eyes hidden behind dark aviators. “Good morning, beefcake, I brought breakfast!” He held up a large paper bag at his eye level, which was barely past Adam’s nipples, as Mo stood a step down on the porch.

“We weren’t scheduled to meet today,” Adam said stupidly.

“Nope!” Mo pushed into the house. “I haven’t really slept. Just got in from London and got a text from my parents. They want to meet you.” He didn’t pause for an answer, just kept moving into the house, unbothered by the fact that he’d never been here before. He found the kitchen without error and started rummaging through the cupboards.

Too stunned to protest, Adam followed, feeling like a dog trailing after its master.

Mo started pulling items out of the bag. The smell of fried breakfast food assailed Adam, but he kept his thoughts focused. “I’ve met your parents already. Many times.”

Mo scoffed, flicked open a container—eggs, bacon, potatoes—and after a rummage, found a serving spoon to plate the food. “You’ve met the public persona pod people, not myparents.”

Adam arched his eyebrows. Then he figured he should give in to the inevitable—Mo was determined to serve this breakfast—and asked, “What do you want to drink?”

“Tequila. Skip the body shots just this once.”

Adam blinked.

“But I’ll settle for coffee.”

“Coffee it is.” Adam flicked on the grinder and kettle. “Since I’ve already met them, why do they want to do a meet-the-boyfriend dinner?”

“Because they’re sadists? I don’t know, Adam! Why do they do anything?” He shoved a plate into Adam’s hands. “Probably some bigwig at Du Pont Technical pulled a CEO at a Coldplay concert or something and they want to redirect publicity. They’re taking usoutto dinner.” He helped himself to a seat at Adam’s island/eat-in table and picked up his fork. “Which is better than having us over, actually, because there’s a limit to how insane they can be in public.”

For lack of anything better to do, Adam scooped potatoes into his mouth. Then he set the plate down and poured the coffee grinds into a filter. “You talk about a dinner invite like it’s a court summons.”

“Now you’re starting to get it.” Mo stabbed a piece of bacon. “Anyway, they’ve decided that you’re free tomorrow since you don’t have a game.”

Ah. Adam was starting to see the shape of the family dynamic—or at least the family dynamic Mo thought he had. The man was nothing if not dramatic. Case in point: he’d ordered breakfast for two and invited himself over to Adam’s place first thing in the morning after getting off a red-eye flight.

Could you tell your fake boyfriend to go to therapy?

Probably better not to risk it until after he’d had his real coffee.

“I was going to watch ESPN until eleven, but I guess I can just catch the highlights in the morning.” He gestured to the mug. “Cream or sugar?”

Mo snorted. “You’re cute. Gimme.”

Adam handed it over before anyone got hurt, sat across from him, and eyed his plate. Last night’s alcohol consumption thought it looked delicious. The carefully curated nutrition and practice schedule on his fridge, less so.

Oh well. A little extra protein and veg at lunch and he’d be fine. It wasn’t like he had to try to skate a full game after eating a stack of French toast with whipped cream and maple syrup (a mistake he only made once). “Okay, so dinner. Believe it or not, I have eaten in restaurants before. With weird rich people, even.” He’d had to go out with the commissioner of the NHL once, just before he was drafted. Looking back, he figured that was all about image too—showing public support for the gay hockey hopeful. At the time, he’d mostly wondered if he was allowed to order steak.

He’d decided not to risk it.

“Anyway, unless there’s some complex strategy to dinner with your parents, it’ll be fine. What’s the worst that could happen? They expect me to try to pick up the bill?”

Briefly, Mo surfaced from his communion with his still-untouched coffee. “While I don’t hate the idea of you arm-wrestling my dad over the check, no. They invited, they’ll pay. That’s how it works.” He went right back to the mug—not sipping it, for which Adam was grateful because he didn’t want to watch someone burn the skin off the inside of their mouth, but putting his face in the steam and closing his eyes. “I need time to strategize. Can’t do that until after coffee.” He pulled back long enough to get another bite of potato in. “Dinner’s at seven. I’ll be here at five thirty so we can plan.”

Adam didn’t know what kind of strategy they could need, but since all of this was happening because Mo had lied to his parents… well, he wasn’t about to argue. Besides, chances were Mo would settle down a bit once he wasn’t hopped up on adrenaline and lack of sleep. “Fine. I’ll be here. Now can I please eat my eggs? They’re getting cold.”

Mo had already freaked out to Sage—via text, because he wasn’t going to mess with time zones and sleep patterns when his bestie was killing it at the Globe. He preferred his balls intact.

But after that, he didn’t have anyone to freak out with. All his other friends—and he used the term loosely—thought his relationship was real. For a couple weeks, when this whole thing started, he’d still gotten occasional texts from Devonte or Marcel, but once he made it clear he had no interest in going to a club to hook up or hooking up with them, that tapered off. Xenia and Mel held out a little longer, begging him to come to this new club opening or that party, none of which were events he could take Adam to without risking his parents cutting him off.

And then there was the weird thing where the more fake dates he went on with Adam, to get coffee or watch a hockey game or check out the fucking butterfly garden, the less appeal the club scene held.