Playing His Game

Prologue

Mo curled up in the alcove corner, hidden by a large planter and an overstuffed chair. The room—basically a waiting room for the bathrooms—was empty of other people and blessedly quiet.

Well, as quiet as any room in a hotel hosting the ongoing NHL draft could be.

They hadn’t even finished the first round.

Every few minutes, another speaker-muffled name and round of applause disturbed Mo’s peace as the next team made their first pick.

It made him think of a terrible bachelor auction, a bunch of old men in suits haggling over barely-legal pimple-faced sports bros.

Ew. Mo couldn’t decide which half of that equation skeeved him out worse.

Mo had already played his part. He let his parents drag him out in a penguin suit and parade him around like a dancing monkey. No one would look for him until tonight’s festivities ended and his parents headed home.

Maybe not even then. It wouldn’t be the first time they forgot him someplace. At least he was fifteen now and not eight, so if they left him behind, he could just get an Uber, instead of having to wander a crowded building searching for someone in uniform who could call his nanny to pick him up.

Mo thunked his head against the wall behind him, closed his eyes, and rummaged in his pockets for his phone. He wasn’t going to sit here in silence for hours without entertainment.

He’d just pulled up Twitter when a light tread on the carpet broke the muffled-sound silence.

Mo couldn’t see them yet, but they sounded male—or at least not high-heeled.

There might be some women or agender people here in flat dress shoes.

Not that Mo had seen any. Women in flat dress shoes or anyone who defied gender norms.

The footsteps stopped, but there was no sound of an opening bathroom door or a phone call being made—the only reasons Mo could think of to come this way.

Well, that or hiding in corners to avoid your parents and all the eighteen-year-old hockey bros who thought they were God’s gift to the ladies even though they were as gross as any other teenage boy Mo had ever met.

The mystery person moved again: rustling fabric, then footsteps approaching Mo. They stopped in front of the chair, let out a loud sigh, and then collapsed into it. The chair jerked and the faux leather cushion squeaked and hissed.

Mo held his breath, but the person didn’t do anything—well, other than let out a sigh to match the chair and some muffled noises like they were burying their words in their hands.

Curiosity won out, and Mo leaned over to get a better look.

Oh. It was him.

“Shouldn’t you be downstairs with all the adoring fans?”

Adam Murphy jumped so high, he almost felt out of his seat.

“Good thing that chair’s so big. Would be an embarrassing injury to have to explain.”

Murphy, this year’s fifth overall pick, stared at Mo with wide eyes.

Right. Jocks.

“Like, if you fell out of it, you know? ‘Sorry I broke my wrist, but I have yet to master sitting in chairs.’”

“What?” The stunned look gave way to indignation. “I was sitting just fine until you scared the crap out of me. What are you even doing? Lurking in corners?”

Hiding from my parents and their exhausting expectations and disappointment, and also everyone else in this building, since my parents decided to use my sexuality as a publicity tool.

“Just looking for somewhere quiet.”

“You could have sat in a chair,” Murphy pointed out. Now that his surprise was fading, whatever personality Mo had knocked loose was fading. Figured. Mo kind of wanted to yawn at him.

He shrugged instead. “This looked more comfortable.”

“The floor looked more comfortable.” Murphy shook his head. “You’re kind of a weird one, Moritz.”

“Mo,” Mo snapped. Only his parents got to use that name—less a privilege and more a resigned truth.

They refused to call him anything but. No one who didn’t pay his bills would get away with it, though.

“And I’m not the one hiding from his adoring public.

Don’t you have more hands to shake and reporters to regale with the wonders of ‘social progress’? ”

Apparently, the sarcasm dripped strong enough that even a buttoned-up square like Murphy couldn’t miss it. His cheeks flushed—extra obvious under his close-cut red hair. “It’s a big deal to be the first out gay man drafted into the league. It would be—be remiss of me not to acknowledge that—”

“Oh my God, are you always this boring?” Mo refused to hear all this bullshit again. “I thought the robot impression was for the press, but damn. Did your fairy gay-mother not tell you you’re supposed to take the vibrator out after use?”

Murphy went bright red. “You shouldn’t use that kind of language, especially in public where someone might hear.”

Mo barked a laugh. “Everyone in this crowd has said worse. About anal too, even if they’re too hetero chickenshit to talk about their own asses.” He cocked his head and studied Murphy’s neon face. “Think any of the other first-round draftees have talked their girlfriends into—”

“Enough. Even if you don’t think the—the men deserve respect, you don’t have to talk about their girlfriends that way.”

“It’s adorable that you think those meatheads have only slept with their girlfriends.” He rolled his eyes. “But you’re right. I should be nicer to the ladies. Anyone who’s slept with one of you jocks has already suffered enough.”

“For someone who just handed me this jersey, you’re awful judgmental of hockey players.”

Oh, the personality returns. Curious about this side of the cardboard-like guy from the stage, Mo poked.

“Don’t let it go to your head. You’re not special.

I’m judgmental of everyone.” If he had an extra level of disdain for people who played the sport that he’d once enjoyed but was now making him miserable—well, Adam Murphy didn’t need to know.

“Are you… proud of that?”

Mo bristled. He was fifteen years old and barely five foot six. His judginess was basically his only defense mechanism. “Can’t all be hockey stars,” he said breezily. “Proud of our ability to hit a small rubber disk with a stick.”

Now Murphy frowned at him. “I thought you played.”

That—was not what Mo expected him to say. Sure, he played—his dad was the kind of person who bought a hockey team; of course he enrolled his kid. But in what universe did Adam Murphy care enough about Mo to find that out?

Probably Mo’s parents had told him, Mo thought bitterly, while they were cooing over how proud they were to have the privilege to draft the first openly gay hockey prospect into the NHL.

He shoved his hands in his pants pockets—or tried, and then remembered that his mother had the tailor sew them shut so he couldn’t.

Just one more indignity heaped upon him today, along with the little rainbow tie pin that made him want to throw up.

If he had to be the symbol of progressive attitudes in hockey—barf—couldn’t he at least have done something cool, like dyed a rainbow into his hair?

But no, of course not. No Du Pont could ever do something so pedestrian.

His father had made him shave his head last year when he’d dyed it blue.

“Wow. You think?” He sneered. “Never seen a hockey player do that before.”

The indignant flush returned, but this time, Murphy only huffed to go with it. “Whatever,” he muttered.

Then he slumped back into the chair and took out his phone, dismissing Mo.

And that was fine, Mo told himself firmly. He didn’t want to know Adam Murphy anyway. And he definitely didn’t care if Adam Murphy wanted to know him.

He got off the floor, buttoned his stupid jacket, and stalked out of the weird toilet waiting room, vowing to avoid Murphy for as long as he could.

Adam’s fingers itched to fiddle with his tie.

You’re in public, he reminded himself and tightened his hold around his drink. Not too tight, though. He could just imagine the media fallout if he squeezed a champagne glass to death—never mind if he smelled of alcohol all evening.

Adam hated these events—showy charitable to-dos put on by the Canyons’ ownership, where they trotted out the players like trained circus animals. It involved way too much talking to strangers and rules for how to be and behave.

Be polite and smile, but not too much or the rich straight men might think you’re coming on to them.

Look good in a suit, but not too good; wear something interesting but not too interesting.

Be gay but not too gay was the mandate, especially on nights like tonight, when the fundraiser of choice was an outreach center for LGBTQ+ youth.

God, Adam was being a dick. He was here to raise money for kids who hadn’t had safe, supportive environments to grow up in.

Jorts, Adam’s onetime landlord, leaned in and whispered, “Try to have fun mingling, kid,” then dipped out to do just that. Traitor.

An hour later, Adam took advantage of a brief reprieve from making nice with donors to search out the bathroom.

Naturally, as he was returning, Moritz Du Pont ran into him—literally.

His hair was something else. The left side was shaved close to the scalp, and the remaining locks had been bleached and dyed.

Adam didn’t think Moritz identified as trans, but maybe something had changed and he was making a public statement with his pink-white-blue hair? Confusing and unclear, if so.

Despite the outlandish look, he was as pretty as always, though he’d matured from a waifish tween into an adult twink.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite cardboard cutout.” Moritz leered. He didn’t slur, but Adam was ninety-nine percent positive he was drunk—and not yet twenty-one. “I see you’ve once again mastered the ‘gay but not too gay’ look. Love the tie.”

Adam flushed, then berated himself for letting Moritz get to him. The tie was rainbow, but in subdued colors. He doubted Moritz actually liked it.

“Thanks. I see you decided opted for a gay-on-steroids dress code,” Adam said, biting back anything more scathing about the rainbow dress outfit that clashed with his hair.

Moritz gave him elevator eyes and arched an eyebrow. “Honey, this is just gay. I’m not afraid of my sexuality.”

Adam bit his tongue. Hide his sexuality?

His sexuality seemed to be the only thing people cared about.

He’d love it if people saw him as less gay.

But the implication still rankled. “No, just trying to scare off others with your outfit of colors that don’t occur in nature except to warn other animals they’re poisonous. ”

Moritz narrowed his eyes. “It’s certainly kept you from taking a bite, so it’s working fabulously so far.”

As if Adam needed a warning when being gay and breathing the same air as Moritz were enough to fuel the gossip mill for weeks and had been since he got drafted, even though Moritz was only fifteen.

Actually, now that he thought about it, he should probably put some space between them, or he’d have Chelsea in his phone dragging him again for robbing the cradle.

At least Chelsea, unlike the internet in general, understood that Adam was not a sexual predator. She only teased him because she loved him. Or something.

“Yeah, well… maybe I’m just not hungry.”

Moritz laughed sharply and leaned forward into his space.

“Yeah, or maybe your trainer’s got you on a strict diet, huh?

Or maybe not the trainer—maybe it’s your agent.

” He poked Adam in the chest, then flicked his fingers like he was brushing away lint.

“Gotta make sure you keep that image squeaky-clean.”

That hit too close to the truth. Adam flinched back.

And knocked right into someone, just like Moritz had walked into him—only with significantly more mass.

There was an almighty crash.

Adam whirled around. The server he’d bumped into had been carrying a tray of champagne flutes—full—that had crashed to the floor, splattering everyone in the vicinity: Adam, the server, the other nearby guests. Broken glassware littered the carpet.

And now everyone was looking at Adam.

Fantastic.

“I’m so sorry,” Adam blurted, stooping to help pick up the glass. “I should’ve been paying more attention, I—”

Heat rose in his face as he stammered through his embarrassment. He was supposed to be a professional athlete, but put him in proximity with Moritz Du Pont and he lost all sense of spatial awareness.

As the janitorial staff arrived to take over cleanup, Adam slunk back to the bathroom to wash up as best he could, furious with himself. What was worse? That he’d let Moritz get under his skin again, or that he’d knocked over a server who was just doing his job and made a scene?

Or that somehow during the aftermath, Moritz slunk away, getting the last word and the last laugh?