Page 35 of Playing His Game

A rumble of interest went through the crowd—generally neutral, though Mo picked out a few boos and cheers.

On the ice, Jorts nudged Adam.

Adam looked up.

For a second, Mo couldn’t read his expression. Surprise, maybe, to seeboyfriend offollowed by his own name in a sports arena. Mo almost thought he was going to blow their cover.

But then he grinned—he was chewing on his mouthguard, and he pushed it to one side of his mouth, which wasgross, Moknewit was gross, Mo had done the same thing with his mouthguard every time he’d used one. You couldn’t give an adolescent boy something to put in his mouth and expect him not to develop a habit of chewing on it.

The thing was, though, Mo was only a man, and confidence and competence both turned him on. A cocky grin on calm, collected Adam, who had punched opposing players without emoting? Of course that turned Mo’s head. He had an ego.

As if he were reading Mo’s thoughts, Adam raised his eyes from the Jumbotron to the press box. Mo doubted he could see much, but he tilted his head up anyway before he skated back to the bench to confer with the coach.

When the game restarted, Adam skated to the face-off dot and leaned in. His wide frame and firm stance highlighted his barely repressed strength. He looked like a cat, muscles on a spring and ready to strike.

The puck dropped and Adam flicked it back to Jorts, who banked left and carried it up the ice, Adam and his second winger, 98, hot on his tail.

Jorts passed to Adam, who deked right around d-man before lobbing the puck to 98, who shot it back to Jorts in front of the net. Jorts took the shot.

The puck rebounded off the goalie’s blocker, but Adam picked up the trash. He caught the puck, flicked his wrist, and sent it sailing over the goalie’s pads, past his hip, and straight to the back of the net.

Fuck. That was hot. The confidence, the speed, the accuracy.

Oh God, Mo had the hots for his fake boyfriend’s real hockey skills. This was a horrible development.

On the ice, Adam and Jorts were in the middle of a goal celebration. Then they detangled to skate past the bench for high fives.

“Damn, Du Pont, most people dream of inspiring hockey that pretty.”

Mo tried to shrug off the suggestion. He would not linger on the idea that the sexy hockey was for him, to impress him, otherwise he might start to question whether Adam wanted Mo to be impressed. Adam was not trying to get a rise out of Mo’s dick—maybe from his sense of humor or outrage, but nothing else.

“Nah, Adam always plays that pretty.”

On the bench, Jorts was saying something to Adam; his smirk was visible even at a distance. He gestured towards the box again. Adam thunked the top of his helmet, clearly refuting a smartass comment.

Buoyed by the goal, the Canyons followed their captain’s example and lit up the ice. Of course, no one burned hotter than Adam. He was scorching, racking up shots on net and assists to them so fast, it was shocking that he left the game with only two points.

The game ended with the Canyons up by two, and Mo sent a silent thank-you to the universe that he wasn’tupas well. Fourteen-year-old Mo would have been chained to his seat for the foreseeable future if he’d had to watch a guy play hockey that smoldering while everyone thought it was for him.

Did playing get Adam going? Maybe he’d be so horny, he’d be willing to let Mo suck his dick.

Maybe Mo should get a hold of himself and figure out how to get to the locker room.

“Well, if that doesn’t deserve a postgame celebration, I don’t know what does.” Maddison stood and jerked her head toward the back of the box. “Shall we go find your man?”

“Oh please. I have a sudden and desperate need to see him right now,” Mo drawled with a leer.

“I bet you do.”

Maddison took him the back way down to the locker room, which took forever but at least avoided the crowds. Finally, she led him into a quiet hallway. “We can wait here.”

“The thing is,” Mo began, “I want to make a locker room appearance.”

Maddison lifted an eyebrow. “To the private or public one?”

“Public.” Mo had no desire to go into an actual locker room with men who’d just played an hour of hockey. Besides, he was looking for Adam’s postgame interview. “Adam’s about to face down the press and shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Maddison gave him a searching look before she nodded, peered into the bustling hallway, and then grinned. “Elsie, just the woman we need.”