Page 64 of Playing His Game

Damn. If only they weren’t in an airport. “Too bad we can’t relieve stress in the best way.”

Adam snorted, threw his arm around Mo’s shoulder, and pulled out his phone.

When they deplaned, Mo learned why Toronto Pearson Airport had put such a dark look on Adam’s face. Mo had never felt more in solidarity with Adam than he did in wishing severe bodily harm on whoever designed the place. Still, they managed to catch their connecting flight. At least they avoided a second agonizing gate-side wait.

Mo hadn’t thought about how they’d get from the airport in Fredericton to Adam’s parents’ place, but had vague notions of a car rental or a cab. He never expected a woman in her thirties holding a sign that readMo + Guest—he would’ve walked right past her if Adam hadn’t grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt.

“That’s you, babe.”

Mo stopped short before he could choke himself—not because of Adam’s grip but at the wordbabefalling so casually from his lips.

“Wow, he’s trying to get away from us already,” the woman said. “Great sign, little brother.”

“Great sign yourself,” Adam shot back. “You get Chuckie’s help with that?”

“What, and have to tell her you were coming early? Please. I didn’t want to ruin her Christmas.”

Then they hugged and the woman wiped her eyes.

Who the fuck were these people?

He didn’t have to wait long to find out, because she turned to him next and extended her hand with a smile. “Hi, I’m Chelsea. You must be Mo. I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

Mo must be in the twilight zone. “Hi,” he said belatedly, shaking on autopilot. “Nice to meet you too.”

Adam and Chelsea bantered nonstop from the airport to their parents’ house. Mo had played high-level hockey, so he knew what chirping sounded like, and he’d never been shy to join in. He and Sage had their own snark-based love language.

But this particular version involved specialized vocab and an unfamiliar accent—Adam always spoke with a bit of a melodic lilt, but this was on another level—and Mo quickly found himself out of his depth. Rather than participate, he leaned his head against the window and watched the scenery roll by.

With parents who loved winter sports, Mo had grown up on ice rinks and ski slopes. But his parents’ destinations of choice had all had a certain cachet to them—they catered to the upper crust. Even the rustic atmosphere was cultivated to be luxe.

Fredericton didn’t have the dramatic landscape to be a ski destination. It was positioned in a valley with a river running through it, the slopes on either side too gentle to draw an elite crowd of thrill-seekers. A few homes, particularly along the water, looked like the kinds of places the Du Ponts could have deigned to stay in or maybe even compliment.

Between the hills and trees, the river, the snow, and the stately buildings of the old town, it looked like a perfect Christmas card. A few of the big houses even had homemade ice rinks in the front yards. Maybe the river was too big and didn’t freeze? Or maybe it did, but the ice wasn’t smooth enough for good hockey.

Chelsea chattered away as they crossed the bridge over the water. The banter had given way to updates on family members whose names and faces Mo would soon have to learn.

“Oh, and Uncle Ian got a new tattoo—he went all the way to Halifax for it. It’s so fucking ugly. Chuckie loves it.”

“What did he get this time?”

“It’s a monkey riding a tricycle. Right here.” She tapped the side of her neck.

At least Uncle Ian would be easy to identify.

Finally, Chelsea pulled the car into the semicircular driveway of a large, modern stone house set back from the road, screened by tall pines, and put the car in Park. Then she turned around and addressed Mo. “Adam’s gonna get mobbed as soon as he walks in. Nothing I can do about that. But I can sneak you in through the garage if you’re shy.”

“You’re never this nice tome,” Adam protested.

Chelsea flicked his nose, causing him to recoil. “You’reused to this madness. Look at him; he’s barely said a word since we got in the car. And you let him sit by himself in the back seat like a neglected dog.”

Mo opened his mouth to protest, only to stop short when Adam flushed with shame and shot him an apologetic look. “Okay, there’s no way my legs would fit in the back seat, but I’m so sorry. Chels and I can get a little carried away.”

Mo waved this off, uncomfortable with the sincerity. He wasn’tactuallyAdam’s boyfriend, after all. “No, no, it’s fine, I’m tired from the flight anyway. I’ve just been trying to get a handle on the accent. Uh, what’s a bootlegger’s?” The usual definition didn’t seem to fit.

“Oh, an old joke about the crowd,” Adam said sheepishly, with a wave toward all the cars.

Then one of the big wooden double doors at the front steps flew open wide and a trio of red heads appeared. One of them yelled, “They’re here!”