Page 7 of Playing His Game

Since that was better done sooner rather than later, he shoved his face back under the showerhead to finish up.

He was pulling one of his favorite lazy-day henleys over his head when a sudden memory of last night assaulted him.

Adam Murphy exiting the back seat of a taxi, then helping Mo stumble out the other side and up to his front door.

Oh God.

Mo closed his eyes.Please, please, please, let that be a dream.A false memory. A drunken delusion brought on by events early in the evening.

Mo ran into Murphy about once or twice a year now that he didn’t have to attendeveryCanyons function his parents deemed public enough to warrant their child’s presence. Once he’d left college, he’d managed to barter them down to only a few franchise events a season.

They hadn’t put up too much of a fuss, but he often wondered if that had more to do with their ever-longer and more frequent trips to Switzerland.

Although Mo no longer had to suffer through regular meetings full of boring, condescending conversation, every encounter with Murphy went much like the first—his handsome face looking down on Mo (literally and metaphorically) and judging him for being the messiest bitch alive. At least Mo was more interesting than cardboard and not afraid to begay.

The thought of stuck-up, nose-clean Mr. Perfect Murphy having to escort him home? Mo might have to exile himself to the Bahamas. Murphy would probably be extra judgmental the next time they met. Maybe the hockey gods would smile on Mo for once and Murphy would be snapped up by Seattle once the NHL announced the creation of a new team and the expansion draftfinallyhappened.

At least Drunk Mo had the good sense to opt out of the club fiasco-in-waiting. He was on thin enough ice with his parents after his attendance at the Antifa rally last month.“It’s time you learned that everything you do reflects on us. You need to take that responsibility seriously if you want to continue being a part of this family.”

With years of practice, Mo had bitten back a reply asking how beingagainst fascismcould reflect poorly on anyone.

Now, Mo settled at his kitchen island with a bottled smoothie and his tablet, and opened the security feed for his garage.

Unsurprisingly, it was not invigorating to watch his drunk-ass self stumble around the garage, but at least he could breathe a sigh of relief over Past Mo’s decision to ignore all the other cars.

“Note to self: do not drive the Jeep until you’re sure you didn’t accidentally cut the brake lines,” he muttered to his smoothie.

He should probably also figure out a way to keep this from happening again. Maybe he could install some sort of breathalyzer lock. He’d never forgive himself if he ruined any of his restoration and maintenance work because he couldn’t think of a better way to pass the time between the bar and his bed.

Not that he’d made it to bed either.

Platonic Life Partner calling.

Mo blinked at the FaceTime request. They never called without texting first. Unless they had texted?

“Hey, did I forget about a call?” Mo greeted.

Sage lifted a judgmental eyebrow. “Just how hungover are you?”

Mo groaned. “So hungover. Last thing I remember clearly is taking pity shots after we ran into the Canyons and I was thrown over for straight jocks. The indignity.” He refrained from whining about being left alone without his emotional support bestie on his birthday. He knew Sage hadn’t wanted to flake. Could it be called flaking when you got a once-in-a-lifetime job opportunity on another continent?

“I heard.” Sage smirked. Their green eyes sparkled as they rested their chin on one slim hand. Mo couldn’t see much in the frame, but wherever Sage was must be casual, judging by the hoodie pulled over their short brown hair.

“Huh?”

“The Internet has been gossiping this morning.”

Fuck! He’d gone home by himself andstillmanaged to be a topic of gossip? That didn’t bode well. His parents were still pissed about his twenty-first-birthday rant about the homophobia and sexism rampant in the NHL.

“What now?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were secretly entangled with Phoenix’s most eligible gay bachelor?”

“What?” Mo tried to parse those words. Surely he’d heard wrong. Of Mo’s many and varied romantic, or at least sexual, activities of late, none involved sustained commitment to any noteworthy bachelors.

“Well, the prevailing theory seems to be that you’ve been secretly dating for ages, proving all the Internet gossips correct about your youthful passion and longing looks,” Sage explained with an unbecoming amount of relish.

Oh.