Chapter 5 #3
Moritz Du Pont, boyfriend of Adam Murphy.
Like, right out there in bright lights for every homophobe in the country to see.
A rumble of interest went through the crowd—generally neutral, though Mo picked out a few boos and cheers.
On the ice, Jorts nudged Adam.
Adam looked up.
For a second, Mo couldn’t read his expression. Surprise, maybe, to see boyfriend of followed by his own name in a sports arena. Mo almost thought he was going to blow their cover.
But then he grinned—he was chewing on his mouthguard, and he pushed it to one side of his mouth, which was gross, Mo knew it was gross, Mo had done the same thing with his mouthguard every time he’d used one.
You couldn’t give an adolescent boy something to put in his mouth and expect him not to develop a habit of chewing on it.
The thing was, though, Mo was only a man, and confidence and competence both turned him on. A cocky grin on calm, collected Adam, who had punched opposing players without emoting? Of course that turned Mo’s head. He had an ego.
As if he were reading Mo’s thoughts, Adam raised his eyes from the Jumbotron to the press box. Mo doubted he could see much, but he tilted his head up anyway before he skated back to the bench to confer with the coach.
When the game restarted, Adam skated to the face-off dot and leaned in. His wide frame and firm stance highlighted his barely repressed strength. He looked like a cat, muscles on a spring and ready to strike.
The puck dropped and Adam flicked it back to Jorts, who banked left and carried it up the ice, Adam and his second winger, 98, hot on his tail.
Jorts passed to Adam, who deked right around d-man before lobbing the puck to 98, who shot it back to Jorts in front of the net. Jorts took the shot.
The puck rebounded off the goalie’s blocker, but Adam picked up the trash. He caught the puck, flicked his wrist, and sent it sailing over the goalie’s pads, past his hip, and straight to the back of the net.
Fuck. That was hot. The confidence, the speed, the accuracy.
Oh God, Mo had the hots for his fake boyfriend’s real hockey skills. This was a horrible development.
On the ice, Adam and Jorts were in the middle of a goal celebration. Then they detangled to skate past the bench for high fives.
“Damn, Du Pont, most people dream of inspiring hockey that pretty.”
Mo tried to shrug off the suggestion. He would not linger on the idea that the sexy hockey was for him, to impress him, otherwise he might start to question whether Adam wanted Mo to be impressed.
Adam was not trying to get a rise out of Mo’s dick—maybe from his sense of humor or outrage, but nothing else.
“Nah, Adam always plays that pretty.”
On the bench, Jorts was saying something to Adam; his smirk was visible even at a distance. He gestured towards the box again. Adam thunked the top of his helmet, clearly refuting a smartass comment.
Buoyed by the goal, the Canyons followed their captain’s example and lit up the ice. Of course, no one burned hotter than Adam. He was scorching, racking up shots on net and assists to them so fast, it was shocking that he left the game with only two points.
The game ended with the Canyons up by two, and Mo sent a silent thank-you to the universe that he wasn’t up as well. Fourteen-year-old Mo would have been chained to his seat for the foreseeable future if he’d had to watch a guy play hockey that smoldering while everyone thought it was for him.
Did playing get Adam going? Maybe he’d be so horny, he’d be willing to let Mo suck his dick.
Maybe Mo should get a hold of himself and figure out how to get to the locker room.
“Well, if that doesn’t deserve a postgame celebration, I don’t know what does.” Maddison stood and jerked her head toward the back of the box. “Shall we go find your man?”
“Oh please. I have a sudden and desperate need to see him right now,” Mo drawled with a leer.
“I bet you do.”
Maddison took him the back way down to the locker room, which took forever but at least avoided the crowds. Finally, she led him into a quiet hallway. “We can wait here.”
“The thing is,” Mo began, “I want to make a locker room appearance.”
Maddison lifted an eyebrow. “To the private or public one?”
“Public.” Mo had no desire to go into an actual locker room with men who’d just played an hour of hockey. Besides, he was looking for Adam’s postgame interview. “Adam’s about to face down the press and shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
Maddison gave him a searching look before she nodded, peered into the bustling hallway, and then grinned. “Elsie, just the woman we need.”
Elsie paused in her purposeful stride, and turned her blond head toward Maddison—and did a bit of a double-take on Mo. “Hello. What can I do for you?”
“Mo here wants to pay Adam a visit.”
Elsie looked him up and down, her brown eyes appraising. “Right now?”
“That was the plan.” Mo gave his most charming, impish grin. “Maddison says you can help?”
“I could. I’m the journalist liaison. You’re not going to make me regret helping you if I do, are you?”
“I would never!” Mo said with a hand to his heart. “I’m just a simple girl who wants to congratulate the big strong man on his victory.” He fluttered his lashes.
Elsie huffed. “They’re going to love you. And something tells me you know just how to handle the bullshit.” She turned and strode down the hallway. “Keep up, lover boy!”
Mo gently squeezed Maddison’s arm. “Thank you. It was wonderful to—”
“Yes, yes, go. Before you lose her.”
“Thanks,” Mo said again and hustled after Elsie.
“Until next time,” Maddison called after him.
Mo waved over his shoulder.
Elsie stopped him just outside a door through which Mo could make out milling reporters.
“Stay. I’m about to get players in front of the mics.” She gave him a long look. “You’ve had media training, right?”
“Do you think the Du Ponts would let their only child out in public without it?”
She snorted and ducked into the room.
It turned out that Elsie was a genius. From his spot behind the door, Mo could hear all of Adam’s interview.
Elsie had the journalists well-trained too, apparently—it started off with a softball question about strategy. Even Mo could’ve answered without engaging a single brain cell.
He expected Adam to answer the same way all hockey players answered—in practiced, meaningless clichés.
Instead, Adam broke down the thought process: they’d applied pressure on this defenseman because he’d just been called up from the minors, or that winger because he was playing on his off side tonight, and by the time he wound up his answer, half the eyes in the room were glazed over from information overload.
Adam might actually be low-key kind of a genius too. Mo would’ve bet half the reporters in the room had forgotten they had questions about Mo’s presence.
After a few seconds, the journos realized Adam’s train of thought had concluded, and restarted their own.
“Adam, you’ve been playing in the league almost a decade now, but unless I’m mistaken, you’ve never had a significant other in the stands before. What did it mean to have your boyfriend, Moritz Du Pont, in the crowd tonight?”
Mo froze, remembering Adam’s spiel from their drive the other day. First out gay hockey player has first out gay boyfriend in out gay stands! He would’ve winced if all that media training hadn’t given him a perfectly smooth public mask.
“Ah, well, you know.” From this angle, Mo could watch the red creep up the back of Adam’s neck.
“I think all the guys would like to say we try to play our best all the time, but when you’ve got someone special in the stands, it does make it easier to dig a little deeper and push a little farther. It’s good motivation for sure.”
Fer sher, echoed Mo’s brain in Adam’s Eastern Canadian accent.
And then the whole thing derailed with an internal record scratch when the next reporter asked, “Do you have any plans for how to celebrate?” and the ticking time bomb of Mo’s patience went ding.
Before he knew it, he was pasting on a smile and sashaying into camera view. “Don’t answer that, handsome, or we’ll have the whole Internet breaking down our door for an invitation.”
A ripple went through the scrum as the assembled vipers adjusted to having a secondary target.
Adam looked back too—surprise took over his expression before he could school it.
Guess he hadn’t expected Mo to actually ride to the rescue.
Always good to be able to pleasantly surprise your lover, fake or not, Mo supposed.
He lifted his eyebrows in silent question and got a tiny nod in response.
Time to give the people what they wanted. Or at least what they deserved. He leaned down and smacked a kiss on Adam’s sweaty cheek. “And I’m very sorry, ladies and gentlemen, gays and theys, but entry to tonight’s postgame event is by invitation only.”
Miraculously, Adam didn’t tense at his touch. Either the telegraphing had helped, or he was still partly in hockey mode, where touch was expected. He glanced up at Mo. “Who let you down here?”
“Oh my goodness, what a question. You make it sound as though I’m up to something nefarious. Who would want to stop me from congratulating my man in person?” He held Adam’s eye just long enough to make the reporters feel awkward about witnessing it, and then stood straight and faced them head-on.
Adam gave him a knowing look before returning his attention to the media and clearing his throat. “Uh, anyway. Who’s next?”