Page 97 of Playing His Game

Fuck.He took a deep breath and leveled with himself.

Then he cleared his throat. “Yesterday, when I was over, uh, it wasn’t a good day. The day before, he felt well enough to do a little bit of light exercise and he was paying for it. Miserable headache, trouble keeping anything down.” In the past ten days or so, Mo had gotten used to this new, crankier version of Adam.

“Mm-hmm.” They stood and walked out of the frame, presumably toward their closet. “And?”

“And it’s not like it’sfun, you know? Seeing someone like that. And it’s not fun letting other people see you like that either. I get it. But I don’t know. I can’t just leave himalone.”

“Oh, no, of course not. The rich athlete certainly couldn’t afford to pay for in-home care for himself if he wanted it.”

Mo ignored them—not that the next part of the confession was any easier to face. “So I was just trying to be around, be quiet, keep him hydrated or whatever and let him rest. But I’d be pretty fucking miserable too if I was marinating in my own body fluids. Finally, he comes back from the bathroom and I ask if he wants a Gatorade and he just—snaps. ‘I don’t get it. My head’s fucked. My deck’s no good to you. We’re not friends. Why are you still here?’”

“Ouch.” They came back into view.

Mo swallowed and rubbed a hand under his eye. “I mean, it wouldn’t have been my pick of moments to realize it wasn’t the dating part I fucked up. It was the fake part.”

“Sap.”

He shot them the finger.

“So what’d you say?”

“That I thought after I’d helped him to the bathroom and met his family, I got friendship status.”

“Wow. So instead of saying, ‘I want to date you,’ you said, ‘I wanna be friends.’ Girl.”

“I know.” Mo dropped his head to the table with a thunk.

“I’m hanging up on you. I deserve intelligent conversation. And you—” They went silent until Mo lifted his head and saw their fingers waving at the camera. “—figure your shit out.”

Then Sage’s finger dipped south and the call ended.

“Rude,” Mo grumbled into the silent room. Sage had told him to figure his shit out, which he should definitely do. And the place to do it was the garage.

Mo stayed with his head stuck under the hood of the Trabant—an ancient, simple car that had been a tinkering present from Sage’s father when Mo turned seventeen—until his phone buzzed, and buzzed, and buzzed again. He should have realized that so many texts meant something. But once again, he was a naive child diving in headfirst, unaware of the jagged rocks at the bottom.

He unlocked his phone and read the first message.

“Fuck.”

Adam sat under an umbrella in the shadow of the building, wearing heavily tinted sunglasses. Jorts had given him a Look when he demanded they go outside—brighter lights still weren’t his friend—but Adam was desperate for a change of scene.

Besides, his symptoms were easing. So long as he didn’t overdo it with exercise or screens, Adam felt almost normal, if a bit tired.

So he’d dragged Jorts outside, where if he couldn’t enjoy the sun, at least he could breathe fresh air.

One of the biggest perks of moving to a non-traditional market for hockey—the un-Canadian winters. He missed the snow and the vibe of winters back home, but if he’d been concussed in New Brunswick, he wouldn’t be sitting outside enjoying twenty-degree highs.

Finally, Jorts broke the silence. “So, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I told you, no headache.”

Jorts slurped his Coke. Adam pulled a face. “That’s not what I meant. Why are you as prickly as a cactus today if you feel so good?”

“I’m not prickly,” Adam muttered sulkily, doing nothing to reinforce the statement.

“Murph.”

“Jorts.”