Chapter 1
THREE YEARS LATER
As the brand-new captain of the Arizona Canyons, Adam had a designated spot whenever the team went out: smack in the middle, where the headache lived.
If he hadn’t been raised by two Canadian teachers, he probably would’ve just refused to go out with the team, and then the boys could have split along their internal political factions and gone to different bars.
But then Adam wouldn’t be captain, and also possibly Jorts and Smitty would have killed each other.
If Smitty had objected to Adam’s captaincy because he was gay, at least Adam could’ve dismissed him as a dick.
But no—Smitty and Jorts got into it because Smitty got lit and let slip that he thought Adam wasn’t “bro” enough, too quiet and too stiff.
Then, before Adam could say, Go home, Smitty, you’re drunk, Jorts, who was also drunk, decided the insult couldn’t stand.
Things escalated quickly. Someone—or rather, someones—got phone footage of the ensuing incident.
Which led them to this: Adam sitting in the center of a long table, Jorts to his right, Smitty across and to the left. He hoped they’d get over it before they got too far into the regular season.
He sighed and reached for his pint glass. “Are you sure you won’t just apologize?”
Jorts huffed. “He can’t talk about my kid like that and expect there won’t be consequences.”
Adam took that as a no. “I’m not your kid.” Even if he had spent the first two years on the Canyons’ roster living in Jorts’s basement suite.
“Shut up,” Jorts said agreeably. “You’re not too big to put over my knee.”
Across the table from him, Picks, their rookie, blanched.
Jesus Christ. “He’s joking,” Adam assured him. “I am absolutely too big for that.”
Picks’s eyes bulged and he reached quickly for his drink.
Adam had to get his kicks somewhere. Mildly tormenting their rookie was hardly the worst thing he could do. It could be meth! It could be seedy back-alley sex! He could keep his low-key rookie trolling.
Besides, Picks needed to get used to Adam’s sexuality not being a subject the team shied away from. If he blushed and stuttered and looked at his captain every time someone made a dick joke, he’d stroke out before playoffs.
But he couldn’t resist adding, lower, for only Jorts to hear, “As if I would ever pick a daddy named Jorts.”
Jorts spluttered into his beer.
“Hey!” Someone nudged his foot. “Isn’t it your turn to order a round, Cap?”
Adam glanced at Picks. “Don’t let anyone get into any fistfights while I’m gone.” He gestured to Jorts. “His wife’ll kill me if he doesn’t make it home tonight.”
Honestly, Jorts would probably last another half a beer before he tapped out to go home to his wife and kids.
If only he’d tapped out last week, before Adam got stuck in the middle of this exceedingly dumb cold war so his dumb teammates didn’t end up on the dumb Internet again.
He slid into an open spot at the bar and lifted his head to catch the bartender’s eye.
“Well, hello.”
Adam turned to the man next to him. The stranger was handsome—a shade shorter than him, green eyes, broad shoulders. If Adam were looking for company, he might be tempted. But he didn’t pick up when he was out with his team.
Adam nodded and returned to his efforts to snag the bartender. Maybe they’d be a fan and serve him faster. He didn’t like leveraging his fame, but he really didn’t want to be stuck next to someone pushing their luck…
“Buy you a drink.”
Damn it. Why couldn’t he take a hint? Adam pasted on his best just being polite smile.
“I don’t think you want to pick up my tab. I was sent to get the next round.” He tipped his head at the table where twenty-odd male pro athletes sat chirping each other and flirting with any women who ventured into their orbit.
The stranger looked at the guys, then back at Adam. “I didn’t offer to buy them a drink. I want to buy yours.”
He must have recognized them. Guys who knew who Adam was and who ran into him outside of his usual haunts tended to be the pushiest. They had some kind of laser focus on getting the rich athlete in bed.
There was a reason Adam preferred to pick up in cities where he could be anonymous—though even those were limited, given the red hair.
The idea of going home with a guy who wanted the story?
Who might post online (or worse, sell to a tabloid) what he was like in bed?
The stuff of nightmares. Adam wanted to play hockey, not field questions about his sex life.
“Yeah, well, I’m here with the boys tonight, so thank you, but no.
” He gave another polite smile, hoping to soften the blow.
God, he could just picture the gossip on hockey Twitter, shaming him for abandoning his boys to get his dick wet.
Never mind that all his teammates had done the same at some point—but none of them were gay.
“What can I get you?”
Thank God. Adam ignored the stranger and gave his order to the bartender. He kept his eyes fixed on the staff.
The bartender looked over at the Canyons’ table and raised an eyebrow. “Go have a seat, man, we’ll bring it over.”
“Thanks. Put the drinks on the tab.” He handed the guy a couple twenties for a tip and hurried away from the bar.
“He was cute,” Jorts said when Adam reclaimed his seat.
Adam snorted. “He was pushy.”
Jorts pulled a face. “Gross.”
Picks was watching them wide-eyed again, so Jorts rapped the tabletop in front of him. “Let this be a lesson, youngling: there is nothing attractive about a man who can’t take a hint. Respect a brush-off and go fish somewhere else.”
Picks nodded vigorously, clearly eager to impress.
“I hear you ordered another round?” A pretty youngish server flashed them all a smile and started passing out beer. Adam kept an eye, but she seemed well practiced at keeping people happy but in line.
In the end, Adam’s prediction was wrong—Jorts actually finished his beer before calling it a night. He stood up and announced, “I’m Ubering to Scottsdale. Speak now if you want to tag along!”
A couple of dads took him up on the offer, and a few more pulled out their phones to find their own rides. Down at one end of the table, Hallsy, young and single, was making plans to get to a club. Adam snorted, then caught sight of Picks. Had he ever been that young?
“Hey, Picks.” He leaned across the table and kept his voice down. “If you tag along, just remember that you can tell them no to another dance, another drink, or picking someone up.”
“Uhh…”
Adam stood and pushed in his chair. “And for God’s sake, drink plenty of water before bed tonight,” he gave as a parting shot and waved goodbye to the kid and everyone else. Some of them might still be around after Adam hit the head and paid his tab, but he wouldn’t count on it.
He weaved in and around people as he followed the signs to the bathroom. A busy bar made him feel like he was dodging defensemen on the ice—keep your head up and get out of their way before they smash into you.
So it was pretty ironic that he turned a corner and walked right into another man.
“Shit, sorry.” Adam grabbed the other man by the shoulders. He knew his own size and strength—he’d knocked people over before.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Captain Cardboard. Decide to go wild and crazy tonight?” Moritz Du Pont looked up at Adam coyly, a smirk playing around his too-pink lips.
Just like he had the first time they met, Adam registered how beautiful Mo was, with his dark eyes framed by long lashes and his wild “gay” hair.
The style changed constantly, but ever since he’d started college, there was always something distinctly queer about the cut.
The current look was both more subdued and more trendy than many of the past ones, with the light brown locks undyed, longer on top and short around the ears and collar.
“You know, I can stand without assistance, doll.”
And Adam was still holding on to his shoulder. He felt his cheeks warm as he let go. Why did Mo always make him feel off balance and stupid? “Sorry. For bumping into you.”
“As much as it would delight me to blame you and tarnish your sterling reputation, I think we share the blame equally, along with this blind corner.”
“Right.”
“Well, if that’s all, I wouldn’t want to keep anyone away from the little girl’s room. And I have friends to get back to.” He smiled, sharklike.
Adam frowned. How did Mo do that? Mention his friends and somehow make it sound like he figured Adam had none?
Never mind. It didn’t matter. Mo was already pushing past him toward the bar. Good. It wasn’t like Adam wanted to prolong the interaction. No matter Adam’s best intentions to be nicer “next time,” every run-in with Mo went the same as the first: oil and water.
By the time Adam emerged from the restroom, the hallway was deserted.
Something in his shoulders loosened. Adam had had enough of people tonight, apparently. He closed out his tab with a generous tip and walked outside.
The late-October night carried a gentle breeze and no trace of humidity. Adam had grown up on the East Coast of Canada, and it had taken him years to acclimate to Arizona. The dry air still gave him nosebleeds a couple times a year.
But nights like this, with mild temperatures and a sky so clear that—if not for the light pollution—he could’ve mapped out the whole Milky Way, did have their charms.
The sound of retching echoed from the alley beside the bar and brought him firmly back down to earth. Adam looked both ways, but of course there was no one around—if he wanted to ensure the person in the alley didn’t choke to death, he’d have to be the one to check on them.
Fortunately, he got only as far as the mouth of the alley before a woman of thirtyish exited, pale-faced but at least walking in a straight line. “Oh God, did you hear that?” She winced in apology. “Gas station sushi. Never again.”
Still, Adam reflexively offered, “Do you need me to call you a cab?”
She gave him an anemic smile. “You’re sweet. But no. I’m going to the CVS down the street for Pepto. Don’t worry, I’ve got pepper spray and I’m not afraid to use it.”
Adam believed her. “Okay. You have a good night.” Then he amended, “Uh—I mean as good as, you know—”
She cut him off with a laugh. “Thanks, Captain. Go Canyons.”
Adam watched her go, just in case, but the CVS was only a block and a half away. She was fine.
Meanwhile, he was standing in an alley like a creeper now. He should be calling his own cab.
He’d just hung up—the other guys might prefer Lyft or Uber but Adam supported unions—when the bar door opened behind him and spat out Moritz Du Pont. Unlike the unfortunate woman who’d just ducked into the CVS, walking in a straight line seemed beyond his capacity at the moment.
Adam was about to step forward and try to steady him when Mo raised his head, looked directly at Adam, and groaned loudly. “Oh. It’s you.”
The guy was obviously drunk—worse than he’d been ten minutes ago, even. Adam spent a significant chunk of his life around drunk people, but usually, they weren’t performing gay drama at top volume. He couldn’t help it: he laughed.
Mo did a double-take.
Behind him, the bar doors opened again and a bachelorette party streamed out onto the sidewalk. “Wait!” one of them shouted. “Wait, post-bar selfie!”
There was a moment where eight beautiful but sobriety-compromised women attempted to fit themselves into the frame of an iPhone held at arm’s length before one of them looked over and said, “Oh my God, do you mind…?”
For a second, Adam thought they wanted him to get lost, but then the bride-to-be adjusted her tiara and added, “Can one of you take our picture? Ow! Sarah, that’s my foot!”
“Sorry!”
If Adam were a worse person, he’d have let Mo take the phone. But instead, he smiled and stepped forward. “Sure.”
It only took a few seconds. Then he handed the phone back to the group with a polite “congratulations,” and retreated a respectable distance while they waited for their limo.
Or, it was a safe distance from the party—but not from Mo, who rounded sloppily on him and pointed a finger in his face. “This is your fault.”
Adam took a step to the left, hoping to lure Mo farther from the street. He didn’t want to watch someone get hit by a car. “Yeah? Are you going to tell me what I did?”
Like he’d planned, Mo followed him over the cracked sidewalk. “You and your stupid straight teammates. Ruining everything.”
In front of the bar, the bachelorette party was still waiting. A few of them had their heads bent together in conversation, and they kept glancing over at Adam and Mo. Great. Just what Adam needed—another potential public scene to embarrass the Canyons.
“Sorry.” What else could he say? He wasn’t exactly going to win an argument of reason at the moment.
“Sorry.” Mo narrowed his eyes and poked him in the chest. “You’re sorry—”
His shoe caught on the stupid cracked sidewalk and he stumbled forward. Adam caught him automatically, arms on his elbows, but Mo had basically fallen into him. They were pressed together from the chest down.
For a moment, Mo looked up at him with wide eyes, seemingly dazed. He was cute like this, Adam thought helplessly, and then hated himself for it. Even a walking chip on the shoulder could be cute if he shut up long enough.
After a moment that felt too long, Adam licked his lips. “Uh—are you okay?” He propped Mo upright and took a careful step back, letting his hands linger at his elbows until he was sure Mo was solid on his feet.
“No,” Mo said mulishly. “Your stupid team abond—absconded with my friends to some stupid club. Those are my friends.”
Adam had seen the crowd Mo usually hung out with. He hated to stereotype, but if there was a type of person who dressed to the nines and hung around at certain bars looking for the company of rich men, Mo had surrounded himself with them. “Why didn’t you go with?”
“Lifetime ban,” he said, sullen. Somehow, Adam didn’t laugh. And then, “And it’s my birthday.”
Okay, now that wasn’t funny at all. “Happy birthday,” Adam said softly.
Finally, his cab pulled up to the curb.
Kicking himself just a little bit, he offered, “Can I take you home?”