Page 85 of Playing His Game

Hey, can we hold off on public announcements? Parents asking me to keep it on the dl.

Mo stared at the text he’d drafted. Reread it. He added an eye-roll emoji and hit Send. Then, because he should probably explain more, he added:

Sorry. It’s a business thing and I just don’t want to deal with their drama.

He chewed his thumbnail and waited. And waited. Bubbles appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. God, this was agony.

Then the first text got a thumbs-up reaction.

Okay.

Well. If that wasn’t a text to obsess over.

Mo threw his phone onto the couch and slouched. Then, almost immediately, he stood up, grabbed his phone, and headed for the garage. He needed to be busy. Idle hands and all that shit.

Adam wasn’t back in Phoenix for twelve hours before Mo’s first text came through.

U up?

Jesus.

Adam rubbed his eyes and set the phone face down on the table, ignoring the lizard part of his brain that wanted to reply, even snarkily. It was noon. Of course he was up.

He knew that wasn’t what Mo meant. Mo meant,Hey, come over and fuck me and then leave again, or possibly,Hey, can I come and take your dick for a spin around my tonsils, jerk off on your chest, and then disappear before my jizz is cold?

And Adam had promised to stop lying to himself about it. Of course he wanted to see Mo. He pretty much always wanted to see Mo. That was the whole problem. He wanted to see Mo even if that meant watching six hours ofThe Witcherwhile Mo critiqued Henry Cavill’s wigs versus Liam Hemsworth’s. Adam didn’t even likeThe Witcher. Modern lighting techniques existed! Why was the screen black ninety percent of the time?

Adam wanted to see Mo, but Mo only wanted sex. They didn’t even have a fake relationship anymore. Which, did that even make sense? They had no fake relationship, but they weren’t publicly broken up either. And Mo wanted to continue fucking in this non-relationship limbo.

Adam pressed the heel of his hand to his chest. He must’ve taken a rough check against Boston.

The next time his phone chirped, he turned it off. He’d never get over Mo if he didn’t get some distance, so he’d ignore Mo’s attempts to hook up. Adam had indulged in enough self-destructive behavior for one season—maybe for the rest of his life. Even the rookies had started to notice, and not only because he had Jorts watching him like a hawk after every game he took a penalty. Of course, they just thought Adam had the yips, and not that he’d had trouble sleeping since he returned from Christmas break. Even after Mo blindsided him with a breakup—even when Adam had felt like the world he’d just made it to the top of had crashed down around him—with Mo next to him, Adam had slept.

Now every time he closed his eyes, his body remembered the space where Mo’s used to be, and he couldn’t get comfortable.

They should’ve stuck to that no-sleepovers rule. Adam should never have taken Mo back to Canada for Christmas.

But he couldn’t regret it either. However Mo felt about Adam, he didn’t deserve the family he’d been dealt. He didn’t deserve to be left alone for the holidays. And Adam was fairly certain that despite the hiccups, the evidence of all the happy-family time Mo had missed out on, the insanity of Adam’s four thousand relatives, and the chaos of cramming eight months of catchup into five days, that Mo had enjoyed himself. Adam took pride in it—that he’d been able to give Mo that.

Even if it was fake.

Even if giving it meant Adamhurt.

So he couldn’t see Mo again, not for a few days at least. Not until he’d had some time to process. Leaving Mo’s texts unread and unanswered was one thing. Adam would never be able to resist him in person. He could barely manage to feign indifference for more than a few seconds. One flutter of Mo’s eyelashes, one silly come-on, one touch of his hand on Adam’s chest, and Adam would give him whatever he wanted.

He rubbed his eyes. The Canyons had an optional skate later today. As captain, Adam normally attended all practices, but considering how poorly he’d been sleeping, he was more likely to injure himself or someone else than anything. Just this once, he could stay home and try to get some extra rest.

And hetried. He put on his softest sleep shirt and his favorite sweats. He turned the thermostat down. He set the white noise machine to its most soothing sounds. When none of that worked, he did ten minutes of breathing exercises.

Sleep didn’t come.

Mo stared at his phone, willing it to ping. Adam was back in town and Mo’s body buzzed with the knowledge that his favorite penis was less than ten miles away.

But apparently, his favorite penis was sleeping, or something. At, like, twelve thirty in the afternoon.

Maybe Adam was sick? Or maybe he’d lost his phone somewhere. Mo could go over and ring his doorbell to check on him, just to make sure he wasn’t dead or anything. And then if one thing led to another?—

Adam must have been sleeping, because he answered the door wearing a T-shirt one size too small and sweats that hung off his hips. Well, more like his ass. Mo wanted to climb him like a stripper pole.