Chapter 9
To Mo, it seemed like one minute, he was bent in half with his feet behind his ears, praising Adam, his muscles, his sense of rhythm, and whatever deity made him, and the next minute, Christmas was almost upon them and so was the countdown to their flight.
Well, flights, plural, because no airline flew Phoenix to Fredericton.
Adam had muttered so darkly about the need to change planes in Toronto that even Mo didn’t have the guts to ask follow-up questions about their itinerary.
Now, with their departure only three days away, the imminent arrival of Christmas and Mo’s very empty suitcase were all too real.
“Let me get this straight,” Sage said slowly, ignoring the “wah-wah” noise Mo instinctively made at the word straight. “You—you—are freaking out because you don’t have presents for your fake boyfriend’s family.”
“Yes!” Mo wanted to deny the term “freaking out,” but now was not the time for semantics.
“Why are you buying presents for your fake boyfriend’s family, exactly?”
“They don’t know it’s fake! They think it’s real, and if I show up without presents, they’re going to think I’m a bad boyfriend and then the visit will be awkward and they’ll probably tell Adam he should dump me!”
“Fake dump you.”
“Again, they don’t know it’s fake.”
“Right. Because that matters.”
Mo huffed. “Are you going to help me or not?”
Sage shrugged. “Why not just put your name on Adam’s gifts?”
“And have them think I’m a cheapskate?” Mo’s gasp of outrage was only slightly exaggerated.
Sage gave a loud sigh. “Then ask Adam what to buy them.”
“Isn’t that cheating?” Was ordering something on demand just as bad as putting his name on Adam’s cards? That didn’t exactly show thoughtfulness.
“Mo, I’m not saying that you need to get a wish list with links, just get advice. I’m sure he can give you a list like, I don’t know, murder mystery or wool sweaters with foxes on them. Something to narrow it down.”
“Oh, right. That makes sense.”
“You’re so ridiculous,” Sage muttered and hung up on him.
He probably deserved that. He still sent them a gif of a wide-eyed wounded puppy, though. Then he texted Adam to ask what the hell he should buy his family.
The remaining hours up the flight passed in a blur of shopping, sex, the Canyons family Christmas party (a fun event with too much food, too many kids, and not enough gossip, though Mads and company had at least insulated him somewhat from Adam’s teammates), sex, packing, and sex.
It was almost enough to make Mo regret that he’d dragged himself out of Adam’s bed after midnight the day before their flight—which in turn meant he almost didn’t make it back in time to keep up the charade for Jorts, who was driving them to the airport.
“Sorry, sorry!” Mo apologized as he dragged his overfull suitcase up Adam’s steps. Behind him, his Lyft driver sped off. “My first car never showed up.”
Adam ushered him in the door, wild-eyed. “You could’ve driven!”
Mo dropped the suitcase and gave him an incredulous look. “And leave one of my children in your driveway?”
“You’re right,” Adam said dryly. “That would be silly.” He shut the door on the mild December sunshine. “This is why you should’ve just stayed over.”
It wasn’t the first time Adam had said those words. “I can’t have you thinking you have access to my body twenty-four seven.”
Adam rolled his eyes. “Who texts who after ten at night for a booty call?”
“I didn’t hear you complaining when your dick was in my mouth.”
They didn’t make it to the next part of their rote argument—Adam’s endorsement of sleepy morning sex almost had Mo convinced—because Jorts pulled into the driveway in a Mercedes G-class.
“Now that’s a car,” Mo said happily.
“You complained that the Land Rover was ‘a box with no style’!”
“And this is proof that boxes can have style, Adam—”
The door opened without a knock, because hockey players had no boundaries. Jorts stuck his head in. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No,” Adam said, just as Mo answered, “Yes, my explanation of why the G-class is better than a Land Rover.”
Jorts gave a half-smile and shoved his keys at Adam. “Go save yourself by loading up your luggage. The children had a mishap with the coffee pot this morning. I’m helping myself to your Nespresso.”
“Yes, more coffee,” Mo said enthusiastically. He followed Jorts to the kitchen and didn’t even see the trap until the first travel mug started filling.
Jorts turned around and suddenly, Mo was a bug under glass.
God damn it. He’d been doing so well avoiding this.
“So listen,” Jorts began. “Adam says you have hockey-player trauma and that’s why you prefer hanging out with our wives.”
Oh. Maybe this wouldn’t be so terrible.
“Also they smell better,” Mo offered.
“They do smell better.” Jorts pulled the mug out of the machine and passed it to Mo before shoving a second one in. “I just wanted to say—none of the guys are going to give you a hard time. Except in the way we give everyone we like a hard time.”
Nope—Mo was wrong. It was worse.
His stupid mouth said, “You like me?” It sounded like he didn’t believe it, and also like he cared. Horrible.
Jorts gave him a wry look. “You’re good for Adam. You’ve done a better job getting him to stop worrying about being perfect in two months than I have in almost a decade. Don’t tell me how you’re doing it. Just keep it up.”
Way, way worse.
“Um,” Mo said. “Thanks.”
Jorts clapped him on the shoulder. “Now—your chariot awaits.”
The chaos of the morning meant Mo didn’t have time to think about the reality of meeting Adam’s family until they checked the extra suitcase (presents only), braved airport security, and found their gate.
Two minutes after they sat down, Mo’s leg started to bounce.
Without looking up from his phone, Adam put his hand on Mo’s knee. The other started bouncing instead.
“Okay. What’s wrong?” Adam turned to catch Mo’s eyes.
I am furiously sublimating tacit approval from your hockey dad while simultaneously dreading meeting the real one? “Oh, you know, just thinking about how much fun it’s going to be to meet the family for the first time.”
Something in Adam’s gaze softened. “Hey, don’t worry about it. They want to like you.” Pink bloomed over his cheeks and spread to his ears—Mo loved his tell-all skin—and he admitted quietly, “I’ve never brought anyone home before. They’re… excited.”
“Excited,” Mo said slowly.
“Honestly, you should probably be more worried about getting, like, smothered by affection.”
“Oh.” On the one hand, not having to worry about being disliked on principle was a relief, but on the other, knowing Adam’s family was excited…
Now Mo could fail at meeting them. “I thought worrying about impressing a family that didn’t want to like me would be bad, but worrying about living up to expectations is definitely worse. ” Jorts trauma times two.
“Okay, no.” Adam turned to face him more fully. “They don’t have expectations or a bar for you to meet.”
As if. Everyone had expectations, and Mo had never been very good at meeting them. Not outside of a club scene, anyway. Mo was very good about matching those standards.
“I’m serious,” Adam said with such earnestness that Mo didn’t doubt his honesty, just his perception of reality.
“Promise you’ll protect me if they hate me,” Mo said instead of any of the other things he could say.
Adam opened his mouth, closed it, then asked, “What are fake boyfriends for?”
Mo fluttered his lashes. “I make a wonderful damsel in distress.”
“That I don’t doubt. I’m sure you look very good sprawled on a fainting couch.”
“You have no idea,” Mo purred with lowered lashes, and Adam’s pupils went wide.
“Oh, I think I have some idea.”
Damn. If only they weren’t in an airport. “Too bad we can’t relieve stress in the best way.”
Adam snorted, threw his arm around Mo’s shoulder, and pulled out his phone.
When they deplaned, Mo learned why Toronto Pearson Airport had put such a dark look on Adam’s face.
Mo had never felt more in solidarity with Adam than he did in wishing severe bodily harm on whoever designed the place.
Still, they managed to catch their connecting flight.
At least they avoided a second agonizing gate-side wait.
Mo hadn’t thought about how they’d get from the airport in Fredericton to Adam’s parents’ place, but had vague notions of a car rental or a cab.
He never expected a woman in her thirties holding a sign that read Mo + Guest—he would’ve walked right past her if Adam hadn’t grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt.
“That’s you, babe.”
Mo stopped short before he could choke himself—not because of Adam’s grip but at the word babe falling so casually from his lips.
“Wow, he’s trying to get away from us already,” the woman said. “Great sign, little brother.”
“Great sign yourself,” Adam shot back. “You get Chuckie’s help with that?”
“What, and have to tell her you were coming early? Please. I didn’t want to ruin her Christmas.”
Then they hugged and the woman wiped her eyes.
Who the fuck were these people?
He didn’t have to wait long to find out, because she turned to him next and extended her hand with a smile. “Hi, I’m Chelsea. You must be Mo. I’m so glad to finally meet you.”
Mo must be in the twilight zone. “Hi,” he said belatedly, shaking on autopilot. “Nice to meet you too.”
Adam and Chelsea bantered nonstop from the airport to their parents’ house. Mo had played high-level hockey, so he knew what chirping sounded like, and he’d never been shy to join in. He and Sage had their own snark-based love language.
But this particular version involved specialized vocab and an unfamiliar accent—Adam always spoke with a bit of a melodic lilt, but this was on another level—and Mo quickly found himself out of his depth.
Rather than participate, he leaned his head against the window and watched the scenery roll by.