Chapter 13 #2
The Summit played a tight game. Every time the Canyons got an edge, they found a way to counter it.
They were 2–2 by the third, and on-ice tension was mounting.
Adam hated when this happened—when his teammates grew frustrated and started to make stupid mistakes, ratcheting the tension up further.
Adam had always felt the weight of trying to get them to calm down, get their heads back in the game.
The pressure to rein in his boys now that he was captain was stronger still.
But tonight, he couldn’t do it.
Not three minutes into the third, the play was chippy, the insults flew fast, and Adam was starting to just hope for a bloodless end to the game.
Jorts stole the puck right off their captain’s stick, and the Canyons flew into the offensive zone, the Summit forwards hot on their heels.
Jorts passed to Adam, who took the shot.
It ricocheted off the goalie’s pads. Then it was a mad scramble in front of the net between Adam, Jorts, and the goalie.
A body collided with Adam, pushing him into the goalie, who pushed back. Then his feet went right, his head went left. Bodies were everywhere. The oppressive scent of well-used hockey gear. Cursing. Everything went sideways.
“—rph! Adam, can you hear me? Look at me?”
Adam wanted to obey. His ears were swimming and the lights were too bright.
“Good job, kid.” Not the right voice. And not the right words. Adam was a good boy, not a kid.
He was on his hands and knees—how did he get there?—and Jorts had an arm around his waist. “Can you get on your feet?” His voice was soft, gentle.
Adam tried to get his blades on the ice but couldn’t get purchase. Then another body skated into view—Smitty, who braced him on the other side until they got Adam standing.
“Focus on keeping your feet under you. Smitty and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Adam liked Jorts. He could follow his directions.
Time went funny, wobbly. Seconds lasted years and hours lasted minutes. First, he was with the doctors answering questions; then Jorts was talking about taking him home. Suddenly, his gear was off and Jorts wanted to know about showering. Together?
“No, I don’t want to shower with you, Murph.”
“Why did you ask, then?”
“You know, this would be funny if I wasn’t worried about your scrambled brains.”
“Me too.” Adam might be confused, but he knew this was bad.
Then they were in Jorts’s car. “I already told Maddison I’m taking you home and staying with you.”
“But you have babies.”
“And you are one of them. I’m not leaving you alone.”
“But… you have to go home to your wife and kids. You always want to go home to them!” Jorts’s favorite thing was to go home to his wife and kids.
“Well, I’m not leaving you alone and you won’t let me call your boyfriend, so…”
Boyfriend? That didn’t sound right. “Boyfriend?”
“Mo? The guy you’re nuts about?”
“Oh, Mo.” Mo was nice. Adam liked Mo; he was pretty. Wait… why were they talking about him? “You can’t call Mo!”
“Yes, so you have said, several times. What I don’t understand is why I’m not allowed to call him. Guy has been blowing up your phone.”
Adam closed his eyes—his head hurt too much to look and listen at the same time—and tried to stay focused. “Phone is blown up?”
“Jesus. Mo, your boyfriend, keeps texting and calling you. Obviously, he saw the game. He wants to know you’re okay.”
That didn’t make any sense. Why would Mo care if he was okay? Other than for PR.
“I’m pretty sure your boyfriend cares about you beyond good PR,” Jorts said dryly. “Now unbuckle. We’re home.”
Jorts got Adam into the house and deposited him on the sectional couch. Adam loved this thing. It was huge and cozy, and he’d spent more than one night stretched out on it.
It was also good for fucking. Mo had ridden him once, right here, pressed him into the seat and fucked himself on Adam’s cock until Adam’s eyes crossed. He missed Mo.
“If you miss him so much, why won’t you let him come over?” Jorts demanded.
Adam blinked at Jorts’s swimmy face. “He doesn’t want me.”
That threw him. “What?”
“He never wanted me.”
“What are you talking about? The two of you are, like, embarrassingly into each other.”
Unable to bear the sight of Jorts’s confused face—or maybe it was just the sight of anything—Adam put a hand over his wet eyes. “I think I might love him.”
“Okay… and Mo?”
“Never even wanted to date me. I was the better of two bad lots.”
“What does that even mean?”
Mortifyingly, the story came tumbling out of him. He wasn’t sure how coherent he was and he pretended he couldn’t feel tears on palm, clinging to his eyelashes, as he told Jorts about the mess he’d gotten into.
“It wasn’t supposed to be real. But then it was, and now he wants to break up.”
“Oh, kid. Only you.”
Only you… could be that stupid? Only you could be so naive? Could cause me so much trouble?
“Time for you to get some sleep.” There were blankets, one for each of them, as they stretched out on the couch, Jorts’s head at Adam’s feet. “See you in an hour.”
Adam groaned, already dreading being woken up to check that his head hadn’t scrambled itself worse, but he couldn’t resist the pull of darkness and drifted off.
For the second time in his life, Mo wished he ate breakfast.
He hadn’t meant to watch last night’s game. He should’ve gone out, or booked himself a flight to London to see Sage, or thrown a party. But nothing appealed, and in the end, he found himself in front of his television with a handful of snack mix.
He hadn’t watched TV since before New Brunswick, the last time Adam had come over to do more than have sex. Now their booty calls were more booty, less hanging out on the couch. Which explained why the hockey game had come on right away.
So Mo ended up watching.
And then a slew-footed defensemen took Adam out at the knees, his head snapped back as it hit the net, and he rag-dolled on the ice in a way that made Mo’s stomach claw at the back of his throat. No question he’d lost consciousness.
Even once he’d gotten up—not under his own power, but not on a stretcher either—Mo couldn’t quell his roiling stomach. He needed to hear Adam was okay from Adam himself.
But no matter how many times he called or texted, no one answered.
Finally, forty-five excruciating minutes after the game, a text came in from an unfamiliar number.
Hey, it’s Steve. Adam hit his head pretty good but he’s okay. I’m taking him home but he’s not supposed to look at screens. Text you in the morning.
Mo stared at his phone for two minutes before he remembered Steve was what Maddison called Jorts.
Thanks for the update.
After that, he tried to get some sleep. He woke up too early and drank too much coffee while he willed his phone to chirp again. When eight o’clock came and went, he figured enough was enough, pocketed his keys, and got in the car.
Ten minutes later, he pulled up in Adam’s driveway and parked next to a vintage gold Pontiac Firebird.
Why couldn’t Adam have his friend’s taste in cars?
Mo thought, even as he shuddered at the idea of how much gas that thing probably needed.
And again at its lack of safety features.
Although at least the thing was old enough to be made of solid metal rather than fiberglass.
Still. Adam’s brains had been scrambled enough. Who put him in a car with no airbags?
He was still spinning his wheels about that when Jorts answered the door, unshaven and with dark circles under his eyes.
Mo refrained from offering beauty-product recommendations. “How is he?”
In the doorway, Jorts crossed his arms. “What do you care?”
After a moment of undignified gaping, Mo closed his mouth. “I’m sorry?”
“About Adam. What do you care?”
Oh fuck. Mo’s heart sank. “He told you we broke up.”
“He told me you faked the whole thing for your parents. Except the sex. I know way more details about the sex than I ever wanted. I can never unknow these things.” He leaned down closer to Mo. “And you can never come in.”
“Wait, never?” Mo squawked. “We’re still friends!”
“I’m pretty sure friends don’t use each other for sex and good publicity.”
Maybe not straight friends. “Any using was mutually beneficial. You even said ‘each other’.”
It sounded feeble to Mo too.
“Uh-huh. Well, you’re not going to be any use to Adam—and he’s certainly not going to be used by you—until the doctors clear him to do more than lie in a dark room. So.”
“Wha—you don’t think I’m here for sex,” Mo protested.
“First of all, getting yacked on while furthering someone’s brain damage is a major turn-off.
But also”—he spread his arms wide and gestured—“does this outfit say ‘seduction’ to you?” He’d thrown on the first clothes he found: a pair of Adam’s basketball shorts that never made it home from Mo’s place and the sweatshirt Duncan and Katie got him for Christmas, which was pastel green and depicted Rudolph in red glitter.
For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw Jorts’s lip twitch. “Unfortunately, I know the two of you are freaks, but yeah, that’s probably taking it too far even for you.”
Mo searched for an appropriately biting rebuttal but only managed, “Thank you.” What the hell did Adam tell him? Or did straight people just have really boring sex? He’d never gotten that impression from Mads—
Oh fuck.
Mads.
There was no way Jorts wouldn’t tell her. There went the only real friend Mo had outside of Sage.
He couldn’t even make himself believe he didn’t deserve it.
Jorts pushed himself upright and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, now’s not a great time anyway. He’s got another five minutes before I wake him up and then I’ve got to take him to the doctor to get his head examined. But I’ll pass on a message, if you want.”
What were they, third graders? But Mo figured he couldn’t hope for a better deal from someone who—well, who seemed to have appointed himself as the man keeping Adam safe.
Too bad he hadn’t done his job on the ice.