Page 71 of Playing His Game

From the smiles on all the Murphys’ faces, anyone would think Mo had solved world hunger, instead of agreed to a couple hours playing like a kid.

Duncan patted his shoulder. “That’s the spirit! Think we’ve even got a spare stick for you.”

Of course they did. That garage had way too much room for spare sports equipment.

“Now. What skate size are you, son?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Adam asked for the third time.

Mo looked from Adam to the window—where, admittedly, the snow was coming down like a frost elf on the roof was dumping it out by the sack load—and then back to Adam. Mo was wearing knitted slippers Mom had foisted on him that morning, Adam’s hoodie, which covered him to the tips of his fingers, and flannel pajama pants. He clutched a mug of hot cocoa to his chest as though it would save him from the perils of the Canadian outdoors. “I’m good here. Promise. Your mom’s going to let me help decorate.”

Adam didn’t know how to tell him that was practically a threat. He shook his head. “Suit yourself. Guess us manly men will have to bring the tree back all by ourselves.”

“It’s not like you’re even going to use an ax,” Mo teased. “I saw you load that chain saw onto the sled! What’s in it for me if there’s no sexy lumberjack, huh?”

“The boy has an excellent point,” Mom put in. She pressed a kiss to Adam’s cheek and then one to Dad’s. “And the weather’s not getting any better, so unless you want to hang ornaments from that sad fake plant in the living room, you’d best go out there and rustle up a pine tree.”

Dad turned to Adam and gestured toward the door. “Guess we’ve got our marching orders.”

Despite the snow, the weather wasn’t too bad—a little windy, which you couldn’t really avoid this close to the Atlantic, but only ten or so below freezing. Their outerwear kept them plenty warm while they perused the back part of the lot for the appropriate sacrifice.

“How about this one?” Dad gestured to a decently full six-footer, with sturdy branches and a good clearing around the trunk that would make it easy to cut down.

Any other year, Adam would’ve gone for it. But he was sure now that Mo hadn’t had a lot of (if any) good, real Christmases, with actual family who enjoyed each other’s company and all the trimmings that came with it. He shook his head and pointed to a tree several yards behind it. “That one.”

At eight feet fall, the blue spruce was plump with needles nestled under several inches of snow. The boughs closer to the ground sagged under the weight of it. It’d be difficult to get at the trunk, even with a chain saw. They’d have to take off a few of the lower branches first.

Dad gave Adam a knowing look.

“What?” Adam shifted from foot to foot. “It’s a nice tree.”

Dad snorted. “Mm-hmm.” Then he passed Adam the chain saw. “You want to show off for your man, you can be the one on your knees in the snow.”

One great thing about a New Brunswick winter—outside, no one could tell if Adam was blushing.

At last, they had the tree bound with cord to fit on the sled. Adam certainly felt the weight of it as they lugged it and the saw back to the house, but he didn’t mind.

He should’ve known to be suspicious, though, that Dad hadn’t invited Chelsea this year, because now that Adam had a literal tree slowing him down, he had nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

“So this young man of yours.”

He’s not mine.But he couldn’t say that. “He has a name, Dad.”

“Mm-hmm,” Dad agreed. “He gonna be changing it anytime soon?”

Adam tripped over a snow-covered tree root. “Dad!”

“What?” Dad said innocently as Adam brushed snow off his knees. “His parents saddled him with Moritz, that’s all I’m saying, and he obviously doesn’t care for it.”

“Yeah, right.”

“And he might as well do it at the same time as his last name, you know, two birds and one stone.”

For God’s sake. Adam snorted a laugh. “We’ve been together like three months.” Twofakemonths. “You don’t think you’re putting the cart before the horse?”

Dad shook his head, dislodging a shelf of snow from the brim of his toque. “You’re twenty-seven years old, Adam, and you’ve never brought anyone home for Christmas before. Don’t tell me there’s nothing to get excited about.”

Adam trudged along in silence for a few more steps.