Chapter 6 #2
Mo gasped. “How dare you, Adam Murphy.” He looked positively delighted that he’d made Adam misbehave.
“Excuse me!” interrupted the paint instructor before Mo could get a good head of steam going. They were holding their phone and smiling brightly. “Would you mind if we got a pic for the socials?”
Adam looked from them to Mo and his orange-splotched face to Mo’s borderline pornographic painting. These public dates served a purpose—but part of that purpose was to keep Mo off his parents’ shit list.
“Maybe we just put the one painting in the photo.”
Inevitably, even though he’d weaseled out of postgame hangouts with the team, Mo became prime material to chirp Adam.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Smitty leaned forward across the table at their usual postgame pub. “You took him car shopping?”
“He knows more about them than me,” Adam protested. The Land Rover situation had spooked him. Once bitten and all that.
Smitty waved this fact away. “My five-year-old knows more about cars than you. It’s the level of commitment I’m questioning. You haven’t been dating that long.”
So? “It’s not like I bought the car for him!”
“Bro.” Oh God, Jorts had joined the conversation—and he appeared to be on Smitty’s side. Bad news for Adam. “You bought a red one.”
Adam always bought white. He lived in Arizona.
White was practical. If he left a black car in the sun, he’d broil alive every time he tried to get in.
“It’s cool! And it was the only one on the lot!
” Besides, Adam didn’t have unlimited time to spend replacing his unsafe vehicle. Taking Mo’s advice had been practical.
Smitty and Jorts looked at each other. “Since when do you care about being cool?” Jorts said.
“Since he started banging the owner’s kid.” Smitty nodded sagely.
And then, to top off the betrayal, Picks chimed in. “I mean, have you seen the crowd Mo usually hangs out with?” He shook his head. “They are flashy. High heels, Lambos, black credit cards.”
“You have a black credit card,” Adam pointed out.
Picks nodded earnestly. “Yeah. ’Cause I’m a normal professional athlete. And we’re flashy. You”—he reached across the table and poked Adam’s chest, much like Mo had the night this whole charade started—“are not flashy.”
“He’s like a little tropical bird doing his mating dance.” Jorts smirked.
Adam’s face heated. We’re not even really dating, he wanted to say. He had no reason to preen for Mo’s attention, or whatever they were accusing him of.
On the other hand, should he take pride in the fact that somehow, they were selling this farce?
“Where is he tonight, anyway?” Jorts asked. “You’re usually attached at the hip.”
Somehow, Jorts hadn’t cottoned on that Mo would stop by the locker room after a game to say hello, but always declined an invitation to anything afterward. But apart from that, he was kind of right. Adam’s busy schedule meant he spent most of his home off nights with Mo one way or the other.
He glanced at his watch and did the math. “Probably somewhere over the Atlantic. His best friend’s play opened in London today. He was going to catch the red-eye back.”
He’d barely gotten the words out before Picks whipped out his phone.
“Is that Mo’s Instagram?” Adam couldn’t keep the alarm from his voice. “Do you follow him?”
“I wouldn’t have to if you got your own socials.” He clicked on the most recent photo. “Is this them? Wow, look at that bouquet—”
Adam’s ears burned as Picks read the caption. He was just a baby, and a little bit drunk. His lips moved silently while he did it.
Then he said, “Aww, Cap, you sent his bestie flowers!”
“What?” Jorts lurched forward to get a look. “Oh my God. It’s huge.”
Picks gurgled, laughing like a preteen, and Smitty jostled in to leer over his shoulder and hummed. “Who are you trying to impress with that: the beau or the bestie?”
“It’s not like I could go with him,” Adam grumbled. “We had a game.”
“Oh right, because you definitely couldn’t have just sent a message,” Smitty said.
Picks nodded. “He’s not a Chad.”
“Course not. Everyone knows that after two months, besties rate flowers when you can’t go see them.”
“They’re performing Shakespeare. In London.
England. At the Globe,” Adam protested. It wasn’t like a missed dinner.
If they’d actually been dating and Adam had the free time, he wouldn’t have thought twice about hopping on the plane with Mo.
He hadn’t even questioned the impulse to open up his web browser and search for the best local flower shop that would deliver.
“Is this what he’s like when twitterpated?” Smitty scrutinized Adam with narrowed eyes, head cocked.
Jorts shrugged. “How should I know? You ever seen him twitterpated before?”
“I’m not—” Adam tried.
They ignored him in favor of this new double act.
“Good point.”
“This is definitely different.” Jorts nodded. “Not his usual MO.”
“Wait… like what?” Picks asked.
“Extra stuffed-up and stiff,” Smitty said with a nod and pull from his beer bottle.
“As if you know anything about my partners being stuffed-up or stiff,” Adam grumbled.
Picks’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. Jorts cackled.
“No, but seriously, Picksy, it’s like he’s worrying about checking everything off the perfect-boyfriend list.” Jorts gasped. “Murphs, Murphs, do you have a checklist? Can I see it?”
Adam spluttered and wondered what he’d done to deserve these drunken idiots. “I do not have a checklist. Also, I’m texting Mads and telling her you’re pissed.”
“She won’t care.”
Adam lifted an eyebrow and Jorts smirked. “Besides, she wants me here to find out the hot goss. Mo’s her new bestie.”
Adam snorted. “Now I know you’re sauced. Time for you to go home, old man.”
An hour later, Adam flopped into bed and flicked his phone on to stare blearily at his screen. After loading others into cars, getting home himself, and then downing half a liter of water, he was more awake now than he had been when he left the bar.
He unlocked his phone and found a new text from Mo:
Sage loved the flowers. Says you’re already their fave of all my “squeezes”.
Adam snorted.
Well they’re definitely my favorite fake friend-in-law of all my fake boyfriends.
He passed out before Mo’s reply came in, his eyelids shifting from flung open to fully shuttered without him registering the encroaching drowsiness.
He woke the following morning to his off-day alarm. After hydrating and stretching, Adam hit the treadmill.
He was halfway through his five-mile run when someone leaned against his doorbell.
“Jeezus,” he grumbled as he stomped toward his foyer. The mystery visitor was now ringing the bell in an erratic pattern as if tapping out the rhythm of a song.
He yanked the door open and stared at Mo.
“Why are you assaulting my doorbell?”
“Hi,” Mo said almost cheerily. He turned to face Adam, his eyes hidden behind dark aviators. “Good morning, beefcake, I brought breakfast!” He held up a large paper bag at his eye level, which was barely past Adam’s nipples, as Mo stood a step down on the porch.
“We weren’t scheduled to meet today,” Adam said stupidly.
“Nope!” Mo pushed into the house. “I haven’t really slept.
Just got in from London and got a text from my parents.
They want to meet you.” He didn’t pause for an answer, just kept moving into the house, unbothered by the fact that he’d never been here before.
He found the kitchen without error and started rummaging through the cupboards.
Too stunned to protest, Adam followed, feeling like a dog trailing after its master.
Mo started pulling items out of the bag. The smell of fried breakfast food assailed Adam, but he kept his thoughts focused. “I’ve met your parents already. Many times.”
Mo scoffed, flicked open a container—eggs, bacon, potatoes—and after a rummage, found a serving spoon to plate the food. “You’ve met the public persona pod people, not my parents.”
Adam arched his eyebrows. Then he figured he should give in to the inevitable—Mo was determined to serve this breakfast—and asked, “What do you want to drink?”
“Tequila. Skip the body shots just this once.”
Adam blinked.
“But I’ll settle for coffee.”
“Coffee it is.” Adam flicked on the grinder and kettle. “Since I’ve already met them, why do they want to do a meet-the-boyfriend dinner?”
“Because they’re sadists? I don’t know, Adam!
Why do they do anything?” He shoved a plate into Adam’s hands.
“Probably some bigwig at Du Pont Technical pulled a CEO at a Coldplay concert or something and they want to redirect publicity. They’re taking us out to dinner.
” He helped himself to a seat at Adam’s island/eat-in table and picked up his fork.
“Which is better than having us over, actually, because there’s a limit to how insane they can be in public. ”
For lack of anything better to do, Adam scooped potatoes into his mouth. Then he set the plate down and poured the coffee grinds into a filter. “You talk about a dinner invite like it’s a court summons.”
“Now you’re starting to get it.” Mo stabbed a piece of bacon. “Anyway, they’ve decided that you’re free tomorrow since you don’t have a game.”
Ah. Adam was starting to see the shape of the family dynamic—or at least the family dynamic Mo thought he had. The man was nothing if not dramatic. Case in point: he’d ordered breakfast for two and invited himself over to Adam’s place first thing in the morning after getting off a red-eye flight.
Could you tell your fake boyfriend to go to therapy?
Probably better not to risk it until after he’d had his real coffee.
“I was going to watch ESPN until eleven, but I guess I can just catch the highlights in the morning.” He gestured to the mug. “Cream or sugar?”
Mo snorted. “You’re cute. Gimme.”
Adam handed it over before anyone got hurt, sat across from him, and eyed his plate. Last night’s alcohol consumption thought it looked delicious. The carefully curated nutrition and practice schedule on his fridge, less so.