Chapter 6 #3
Oh well. A little extra protein and veg at lunch and he’d be fine.
It wasn’t like he had to try to skate a full game after eating a stack of French toast with whipped cream and maple syrup (a mistake he only made once).
“Okay, so dinner. Believe it or not, I have eaten in restaurants before. With weird rich people, even.” He’d had to go out with the commissioner of the NHL once, just before he was drafted.
Looking back, he figured that was all about image too—showing public support for the gay hockey hopeful.
At the time, he’d mostly wondered if he was allowed to order steak.
He’d decided not to risk it.
“Anyway, unless there’s some complex strategy to dinner with your parents, it’ll be fine. What’s the worst that could happen? They expect me to try to pick up the bill?”
Briefly, Mo surfaced from his communion with his still-untouched coffee.
“While I don’t hate the idea of you arm-wrestling my dad over the check, no.
They invited, they’ll pay. That’s how it works.
” He went right back to the mug—not sipping it, for which Adam was grateful because he didn’t want to watch someone burn the skin off the inside of their mouth, but putting his face in the steam and closing his eyes.
“I need time to strategize. Can’t do that until after coffee.
” He pulled back long enough to get another bite of potato in.
“Dinner’s at seven. I’ll be here at five thirty so we can plan. ”
Adam didn’t know what kind of strategy they could need, but since all of this was happening because Mo had lied to his parents…
well, he wasn’t about to argue. Besides, chances were Mo would settle down a bit once he wasn’t hopped up on adrenaline and lack of sleep.
“Fine. I’ll be here. Now can I please eat my eggs? They’re getting cold.”
Mo had already freaked out to Sage—via text, because he wasn’t going to mess with time zones and sleep patterns when his bestie was killing it at the Globe. He preferred his balls intact.
But after that, he didn’t have anyone to freak out with.
All his other friends—and he used the term loosely—thought his relationship was real.
For a couple weeks, when this whole thing started, he’d still gotten occasional texts from Devonte or Marcel, but once he made it clear he had no interest in going to a club to hook up or hooking up with them, that tapered off.
Xenia and Mel held out a little longer, begging him to come to this new club opening or that party, none of which were events he could take Adam to without risking his parents cutting him off.
And then there was the weird thing where the more fake dates he went on with Adam, to get coffee or watch a hockey game or check out the fucking butterfly garden, the less appeal the club scene held.
But he couldn’t exactly text Xenia back and say, Actually I’m over clubbing, but do you want to go to the farmers’ market with me this Saturday?
Mel, maybe. But not Xenia.
Maybe Mads would want to do paint night again when the Canyons were out of town. Last time had been fun. Mads painted, Mo drank hurricanes, and they gossiped to rival the talk Mo had heard behind the scenes at drag shows.
After Mo left Adam’s that morning, he didn’t have anything to distract himself from the upcoming horror or anyone to complain to. He spent most of the twenty-four hours in his garage, trying not to think about anything other than the machine in front of him.
The next day, he arrived early at Adam’s, which was mostly on purpose.
They’d agreed that it would be good to meet up early to continue to talk strategy, but when Mo pulled up the drive and knocked on the door, he was a few hours ahead of liftoff.
To his credit, Adam didn’t look surprised.
He just rolled his eyes, stepped to the right, and motioned for Mo to enter.
“Are we going to need a full three hours to get ready for dinner, or were you just hoping for more of my company?”
Mo ignored this patently stupid—and clearly sarcastic—question and demanded that Adam lead him to his wardrobe.
Adam lifted an eyebrow, but again, he didn’t argue. Maybe Mo looked especially manic today.
“Were you hoping to borrow something?” he snarked. “Because I’ve got to warn you, I don’t think any of my clothes will fit.”
“Hardy har, like you can’t tell I’m already dressed to go.
” Mo wore a pair of butt-hugging trousers and a pink floral top that was far from flamboyant with the return in popularity of 70s patterns.
The shirt wasn’t a favorite, but at least it let him walk the line between his own style and the more socially acceptable en vogue his parents expected. “Now, show me your outfit.”
Once again, Adam didn’t protest. Instead, he led Mo to his bedroom and motioned to the bed, where he’d laid out his outfit for the evening.
It wasn’t a horrible choice: a pair of dark trousers and a deep brown button-up.
Mo didn’t doubt that Adam would look delicious.
The man knew how to dress. He might not be very adventurous, but he knew how to put together a non-athleisure outfit that flattered, which was more than Mo could say for most of the guys he’d ever played hockey with.
However, the color of the shirt would clash against Mo’s choice.
“No.”
“No?”
“No. We’ll clash. We can’t show up looking like we’re not together. We need to coordinate.” Without waiting for an invitation, Mo started rifling through the closet. “What are the topics to avoid?”
“Huh?”
If Adam didn’t stop being so dense, Mo might hurt something. “The topics of conversation to avoid. That we talked about yesterday.”
“Right. What about them?” Adam sounded distracted, which was ridiculous. Mo was the one appraising clothes and directing the conversation.
“Prove you remember them.”
“Am I being quizzed right now?”
Weren’t hockey players supposed to be better at following a coach’s directions? “Yes. I refuse to sit through an awkward meal just because you’re too proud to remember a list of banned topics.” He spun around with two hangers and jabbed one in Adam’s direction. “Now start listing.”
Adam rolled his eyes and tossed the shirt on the bed as though he had no regard for wrinkles. He’d regret that later when Mo made him iron it. “Do not talk about politics. Big shock there. I’m not a total idiot.”
Then, before Mo could refute that statement, he pulled his shirt off.
Startled, Mo forgot what he was going to say.
Which was so dumb—what had he expected? Adam stripped naked in front of people all the time. Taking off his shirt in the privacy of his own home wasn’t going to bother him. But Mo’s ears had gone hot and he felt the bizarre urge to avert his eyes.
Fortunately, Adam turned around to pick the shirt up, giving Mo a moment to collect himself. And also to stare at the muscle definition in Adam’s back. He was suddenly reminded, once again, that circumstances made him involuntarily celibate.
Mo hadn’t gotten off with another man in… longer than he wanted to think about right now.
Also that he might be standing too close to Adam if he could feel his body heat. He took a careful step back. “Great—you got the most obvious one. Keep going.”
“Global warming.” Adam shrugged into the shirt and started doing up the buttons. “Which is ridiculous. I mean, they like winter sports. Gonna be hard to play those when there’s no winter.”
Mo agreed, which was annoying. He preferred to be disagreeable.
Adam turned around and held his arms out at his sides. “Well? Does this pass?”
Mo assessed him. The shirt had been tailored during the late off-season, probably. It fit snugly at the shoulders but not so much around the waist. A belt could take care of it.
His mother would absolutely tsk at Mo for not having taken his escort to the tailor.
He sighed and motioned to the second option. “Next, please. Now give me a green-light topic.”
This time, Adam didn’t turn away. “I just gave you winter sports,” he complained. He unbuttoned without looking. “Fine. Travel.”
Mo tore his gaze up from Adam’s chest. “Be more specific.”
Adam took the shirt off and flung it at his head. “European travel. Your parents sound like assholes, by the way.”
Do not inhale, do not inhale, do not inhale—Damn it, Adam’s body wash smelled good. Mo would have to creep on his shower products.
“No shit,” he answered after a moment as he fussed to get the shirt back on its hanger, regardless of creases. “I wasn’t drilling you for this dinner because I thought it would be a good time. I hope you have alcohol for after.”
“I can’t drink tonight. I have practice tomorrow morning.”
That made no sense. “What are you talking about? The night this whole mess started, you were out drinking with the team when you had practice the next—” Mo caught up and narrowed his eyes. “Are you—are you being sarcastic?”
“No,” Adam deadpanned. “Hockey players don’t do that.”
Mo was going to strangle him. “Just—put the fucking shirt on already, you exhibitionist.”
Mercifully, Adam did. “I don’t know why you had to pick this one,” he grumbled. Out of everything in his closet, this shirt was the flashiest—not that that said much. It was also the only one with the tag still on it. “I’ve never even worn it.”
Mo could tell why the second he had the first button done up.
The shirt clung in a way Mo could only describe as provocative.
The fabric had a chambray shimmer, forest green interwoven with a dark steel gray; the variegated effect was subtle enough that Mo’s parents wouldn’t comment but eye-catching enough to turn heads, especially in the right lighting.
And the dark colors set off against the paleness of his skin and his auburn hair, and brought out the bright green of his eyes.
Whoever had bought it had known what they were doing.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Mo said cheerily.
Adam gave a slight scowl. “You don’t think it’s too flashy?”