Chapter 15
Under Jorts’s supervision, Adam recovered from his concussion without further complications. He wouldn’t have said he made a particularly good patient—he’d bitten his nursemaid’s head off a few times—but Jorts never took it personally.
Even if he did threaten Adam with a pacifier, once.
By the beginning of March, the doctors cleared him to go back to skating with the team.
The Canyons were holding on to their playoff spot by the skin of their teeth, but no one wanted Adam to play before he was ready and set himself back.
Besides, after all the rest he’d had, he needed time to rebuild his stamina and muscle mass.
The first time he stepped back on the ice for a game, the world righted itself that much more. The fans had packed the arena for their home game against Nashville. A win tonight and they’d clinch a spot in the playoffs for the first time in three years.
Before the anthem played, Jorts elbowed Adam in the side. “Good to have you back, Cap.”
“Don’t call me that,” Adam muttered, but he couldn’t stop the smile.
Despite the practice he’d put in, it took him until the middle of the second period to hit his stride. The Canyons were up 1–0 when Picks fumbled the puck at the center line and the opposing forwards took possession.
Their line’s shift should be ending, but Adam still had legs. He dogged the Bandit into his own defensive zone and somehow managed a reach-around move to knock the puck off his stick without being called for hooking. Sometimes, it paid to be tall.
His opponent lost his footing when he tried to keep up with Adam’s one-eighty. Better, Adam had caught the Bandits unawares, and now there was no one between him and the goalie. The long change meant they couldn’t get fresh legs on the ice to catch him.
Adam’s shot went bar-down and the stadium erupted.
Picks hit him first, laughing. “Wow, Cap, maybe I should fuck up more often!”
Jorts came next, breathing hard even as he pressed a loud kiss to the top of Adam’s helmet. “Jesus Christ, have some mercy on an old man.” Then he shoved them both toward the bench.
The Canyons demolished the Bandits 7–1. With two more points, they would make the playoffs even if they lost the rest of their regular-season games.
Adam put up two goals and an assist and got first star of the night, a standing ovation from the home crowd, and the time-honored shaving-cream pie in the face in the locker room afterward.
He should have been ecstatic. In October, a night like this would have put him on top of the world.
Tonight, it felt empty.
“Drinks?” Picks said hopefully.
“Drinks!” Jorts and Smitty chorused.
Adam made himself smile and agree. He might not be in the mood to go out with the team, but he wanted to go home to his empty house even less.
For the first three days of disownment, Mo didn’t have time to make himself sick over Adam.
Mo had belonged to the Phoenix car scene long enough to have connections.
With Oleander’s help, he spent two days meticulously detailing all four cars, while Rose kept them fed.
On day three, all four went to new homes, and Mo and Oleander scoured used-car lots and online ads until they unearthed a surprisingly well-equipped Nissan Rogue that fit his criteria and his budget and was still fun to drive.
On day four, Oleander introduced Mo to Gerry Lawson, an old friend who owned a garage with a vacant loft apartment.
Gerry eyed Mo up and down—he probably shouldn’t have worn his designer jeans for this, but he hadn’t figured out where his coveralls had ended up yet—and then had Mo walk him through a lube, oil, filter, and tire rotation.
Mo figured he had the job when he asked, “Hey, did the owner purchase the extended warranty? Because the manufacturer’s recommended oil underperforms in desert conditions.
I’d go with something rated for higher temperatures—we’re not worried about sub-freezing startups.
Unless they do a lot of winter road trips north? ”
So less than a week after getting kicked to the curb, Mo had a job, a place to live, and all his worldly possessions piled around him in boxes and bags.
He was so exhausted after moving, working, setting up the apartment, opening a new bank account and depositing his funds into it that he barely had any energy at the end of each day to miss Adam.
Barely.
Okay, so he missed him like a lost limb every night. Wished Adam was there to curl up around him and tell him he would survive this because he was stronger than his parents knew.
Five days into his new job, Mo stepped into the front office to grab the next set of keys from the peg board behind the counter, and the client, whom Mo hadn’t spared a glance, said, “Hi, Mo.”
Startled, Mo threw the keys halfway across the room. They skidded under a metal shelf and out the other side.
Mads stood at the counter, snatched as always. She didn’t look the least bit surprised to see him.
Which meant she must’ve come here to find him.
“Uh.” Mo licked his lips and tried to quell the urge to follow the keys under the shelf. “Hi. What are you doing here?”
“Me?” Mads gave him a smile. Mo wouldn’t have called it predatory, but it certainly unsettled him. “I’m here to get my husband’s car serviced. It’s making a weird noise. A friend of mine said you’re the best in the city.”
Mo looked at Gerry, who was watching this exchange with a mild expression, obviously aware of the tension.
Fortunately, Gerry knew when to stay out of a girl’s business.
Mo respected that about him. “Well, looks like you’ve got this in hand.
I haven’t had a moment with my coffee all morning.
I trust you can finish signing in the client’s car.
” He patted Mo’s shoulder on his way to his office, then shut the door behind him.
Great. Now there weren’t any witnesses, but also, there weren’t any witnesses.
Mo swallowed and tried to joke. “Did you hire a private detective or something? Or just bug my phone?”
Mads rolled her eyes. “Please. I have a very persuasive stage actor in my DMs.” She crossed the floor, flicked her keys up with the toe of her high heel, and caught them neatly. “And a mopey papa bear of a husband who tells me everything. Unlike some people. I thought we were friends, Mo.”
Fuck. “We were. We are.” Were they? Could they be? “I loved painting with you, I just—everything got so fucked up—”
“Yeah.” She pressed the keys into his hand. “Kinda like Steve’s car. Think you can figure it out?”
It didn’t take Mo long to diagnose the fan belt issue. He could get a replacement from a warehouse in the city, but they’d already closed for the day, so he’d have to keep the car overnight.
“Great.” Maddison had taken a seat at the bar stool in the garage where Mo did invoices. “So. You work here now.”
Mo wiped his hands on a rag, more for something to do with them than because he’d gotten particularly dirty. “Yeah.”
“Since when?”
He blew out a breath. “Sage didn’t tell you?”
“Maybe I want to hear the truth from you for once.”
“Ouch.” He deserved that, though. Mo rubbed his jaw. “Since a few days ago.”
“I thought your parents didn’t want their son shaming them with such a lowly occupation.”
Ugh, why had he told her that? “They didn’t. But since they’ve cut off the gravy train, they don’t get a say anymore.”
She raised an immaculate eyebrow. “How did that happen?”
“Turns out they don’t like being yelled at about ethically dubious NHL sales.”
“You yelled at them. So you didn’t know about it?”
Mo’s stomach soured. He’d felt bad enough knowing Adam thought he’d been in on it.
He hadn’t stopped to think about all the other perceived betrayals.
“No! God, no, knowing about it would require them to tell me anything about their business. Now Adam thinks I fucked him over and—I mean, I did fuck him over, I should’ve told him how I felt instead of trying to cut things off before I got hurt, but as you may have noticed, I am not good at feelings. ”
Mads caught his wrist, making him aware of the rag he’d been waving around for emphasis, and gently pried it away from him before he could smear grease all over her, himself, and the desk. “So are you going to fix it or what?”
For the first time, he let himself hope. “Do you think I can? I mean, he told me to fuck off and blocked my number.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Mads nodded gravely. “It’s totally hopeless. You should definitely give up on true love because your fake ex-boyfriend has head trauma.”
Mo startled into a sharp laugh, his stomach wobbling at the words true love.
“Okay, uh, I see your point, but it’s hard to ask to talk when my only option is showing up on his doorstep again and yelling at him through the doorbell camera.
If one of his neighbors gets video of that, he might actually die.
So unless someone in his inner circle takes pity on me and agrees to get him a message… ”
“So you can explain he only half made a mistake in trusting you and that if he gives you another shot, you’ll spend the rest of your life content with the fact that your garage—I mean the one at home, not this one—will always smell like hockey funk?”
Mo’s throat tightened. Fuck, why did that sound so good? “Mads.”
“So?”
“If it works—the next, like, twenty years of paint nights are on me.”
Finally, Mads smiled. “Twenty years? You’d better have a pretty good plan.”
Not yet—but he would.
“I’ll make it work.”
Adam had just showered after a morning run on the treadmill when Jorts knocked on the door. He had his smallest—two-year-old Jane—on his hip, a diaper bag over his shoulder, and an envelope in his free hand.
“Good morning. Say hi to Uncle Adam, sweetie!”
Jane babbled and held out her hands, so Adam took her and left Jorts to deal with the door.
“What are you doing here?” he asked once they were settled in the living room, Jane at their feet with toys.
“Janey and I are making a stop on our busy morning of errands.” He blinked innocently, which meant he was up to something.