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Morgan takes his time in the handshake line with the Lightning, sparing a word for every face that he knows.
The ridiculous length of his farewells makes some members of the Leafs’ administration regard him with suspicion, but they can’t outright ask why he’s driving his blades into the ice. They can, however, hold tension in their faces until they begin turning blue. Even as he’s acting in defiance, Mo understands why it’s such a big deal to them; he has no good reason to hang around the visiting team after saluting the crowd one last time, a crowd that is quickly funnelling through the concourse tunnels to escape the embarrassment of witnessing this massacre in person. It must come across as a betrayal for him to be so friendly with the men who minutes earlier had caused another first-round exit for the Leafs, but Mo would rather endure the insults they’re throwing over the plexiglass than return to what awaits him in the locker room.
Once again, Tavares didn’t get his dream of hoisting the cup. Something is going to give if they don’t make it happen soon. Left unchecked, Toronto is a cannibal of a city. It chews up and spits out new faces, grinding their bones into dust. Several good men are about to become targets of the assault, with Kerfoot already on the receiving end of some harsh words for his part in Game Six’s defeat. Maybe this will be the summer they take Mo out back and tell him they’re going in a new direction. He can’t say he likes the thought of it, but it’s come to a point where he doesn’t know what else they can do to move forward. Dubas gave them good bones to work with and it still wasn’t enough. Whatever problem they have, it goes deeper than the foundations. Mo doesn’t have a solution for that.
While the Leafs languish under the weight of the franchise’s high expectations for them, other teams advance. One of them will be Carolina. He overheard the broadcasters talking about their win over Boston during the brief warmup foregoing the second period. Mo skated by them a second time to confirm his findings, gripping his stick tighter once he had full confidence about the outcome of the series. Before they’d circled the faceoff dot, he let his momentum take him around the perimeter of the ice, smoothed by the Zamboni. Away from his teammates, he let the mask of confidence drop.
He hasn’t heard from Jake in a while, and some of that is because he’s in the late stages of his recovery from the back and hip surgeries. The other part, which Jake has neglected to tell him much about, must come from having new teammates to spend time with. A lot of Mo’s outgoing calls are met with voicemail recordings these days, and some of them are never returned even when their contents are time-sensitive. Despite that, he keeps trying, because he needs to know Jake is there. He needs to know there’s someone left who will hear him out in what’s increasingly becoming a very surveilled existence as an alternate in Toronto.
It’s selfish reasoning, and he’s not exempt from feeling guilty because of it. Part of him is still holding onto the days when the team rallied behind him, with Jake at the helm. Had the capital C ever been stitched onto his jersey, he would have rewarded that loyalty by prolonging Jake’s position on the team, if only by a single season. At least then he would know the expiration date. They were always living on borrowed time, needing to be in each other’s company during the last hours of every trade deadline because they understood it was a very real possibility that they would be separated.
Once John Tavares came into the picture, that became a certainty.
John and Jake had a tumultuous relationship with each other during the 2018/19 season, and some of that can be attributed to the fact that John had an idea of what team he would be leading, the likes of which did not include Jake on the roster. Not that there was ever a bad interaction between the two to establish that fact; John would never let anyone outside of the inner circle believe for a minute that he would ever entertain the thought of replacing someone on his team so soon. When prompted, he always had words of encouragement for the defensive operation, even when they weren’t deserving of it. Jake was endured during their team’s media days and John did it all in perfect uniform, always neutral in the face.
Mo knows the truth. He’s felt the long looks aimed at his back when no one else is there. He knows of the vehemence they acquire when they travel to a player like Jake, whom John has no use for. In hindsight, it should have been taken more seriously. He assumed that the popular belief surrounding John’s apathy would hold true, even when it contradicted his experiences. By the time he realized that John was a progenitor of the team’s eventual transformation, it was already too late.
The first to go was Babcock, but that wasn’t a controversial decision. Most people were already in agreement that a coaching change was necessary, Mo included. He’d helped John with arguing his case to management, unaware that an intended side effect of the replacement was to authenticate John’s place as a leader in the locker room. For every valid criticism of Babcock, one thing he’d always done was uphold Mo’s authority, which meant that he’d need to be fired to negate any locker room presence that would contradict the incoming one. Once Sheldon Keefe was instated, there was a noticeable change in the delegation of power and responsibility, of which Mo was refused ownership of. John took his place with no hesitation, never acknowledging that it had been stolen.
As early as March 2020, Jake was placed on waivers, heading into the unknown of free agency with no chance of being re-signed by the team he’d played with for over eight years. He was one of many: a deal with the Senators took out most of their fourth line, the defencemen Mo had grown accustomed to playing beside were replaced with cheaper contracts from the Marlies, and finally, they lost Zach Hyman to the Oilers and Andersen to Carolina. By the end of the season, the remains of the team that Mo had come into were all in other parts of the world.
Mo was sorting through his clothes, preparing for the Leafs’ upcoming training camp, when Jake paid him a final visit, by then having come to a consensus about what deal he would be taking. One look at Jake standing under the frame of his front door, hands clasped in front of him, and he knew. Twenty minutes before the decision was announced to the press, Mo had come to the realization they had played together for the last time.
“Are you going to be okay?” Jake had asked, voice breaking because of how choked up he was. For once, he was the one undertaking the responsibility of comforting him, rubbing small circles into Mo’s back until he caught his breath.
“Yeah,” he said shakily. “You need to worry about yourself.”
“But Tavares.” Jake said it as a whisper, as though John was the boogeyman that would emerge from the walk-in closet at the sound of his name.
Mo didn’t let his anxiety show, forcing a tight smile. “I can handle him. The guys will make sure he doesn’t push me around too much.”
Slowly, Jake pushed Mo’s hair back, something he’d long grown accustomed to doing. “Don’t give in, okay? It’s not worth it."
Mo nodded, touching their foreheads together. It was late, and while neither of them was able to sleep that night they at least feigned it to have an excuse for why they curled up in each other’s arms, matching their breathing. Both of them knew it would be the last time for a while.
John had called him bright and early the next day. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Mo almost accidentally accepted the call groping blindly for his phone, hand tangling in the charging cord that was plugged in. John made it clear he would not be ignored, and tried again.
Mo swallowed the bile in his throat and forced himself to pick it up, slipping out from under the blankets and into the ensuite.
“Are you going to be okay?” John asked. Mo would always remember that: the callous disregard for a trade that he’s been dreading since the rebuild. It was the worst time John could have picked to coach him through his grief but despite Mo’s obvious disinterest he held on.
“We’ll keep building,” John had said, following what had been the bare minimum of what could be considered a conversation. “Don’t forget: I’m with you. You can come to me if you need anything.”
He didn’t sound apologetic; he sounded opportunistic.
Mo, who would rather take a skate blade to the face than think about a future without Jake, forced himself to agree.
He’s not naïve enough to think that his playmaking is what saved him from a similar fate, despite what his synergy with John on the ice would have others believe. Those odd moments of collaboration, when they connect on their passes, finding each other amid eight other pairs of legs, are not enough justification for why Mo receives special treatment. The real answer is much more insidious than a statistic for analysts to pick apart.
By that point, nearly every person on the team had gone home with John at some point. For what, it’s never made clear; Mo never felt it appropriate to ask. He knows Mitch and Auston are particularly enamoured with him. John hasn’t tried anything with him, probably because he knows Mo’s heart is in Carolina, but there has been the occasional time when John’s hand drops to his shoulder or drapes over the back of the booth they’re seated in as the team celebrates the win around them. He’s heard John whisper into his hair when they intersect on their way from the training rink but never been able to decipher the words over the blood rushing through his ears. It’s disturbingly similar to what he’s used to receiving in alcoves, where he and Jake would tuck themselves away to have privacy from the rest of the team. For John to use the same tactics on him, not at all transparent about his intentions, is one of the things that worries Mo the worst. With each inappropriate touch, he’s reminded that John’s feud with Jake was personal. It was well-concealed too; no one would believe Mo if he tried to convince them that their captain was a green-eyed creature.
Mo’s response was to sever himself from any scenario that would put them in close proximity, never attending events sanctioned by John unless he had no choice. While John took to the cameras and the press, Mo stood alone. It drew criticism from other players and graduates of the league, who know more than the average person about how they play down there. To them and their predisposed beliefs about the captaincy, Mo should be a fixture at John’s side and do so without complaint. It’s an opinion that’s shared by Leafs Management, who take every opportunity to pose them together for photographs, forcing something that isn’t there.
Unfortunately, someone needs to look out for the good of the team. Mo puts himself aside for their sake, as hard as it is. On nights like these, it’s thankless work.
At the end of the tunnel, an equipment manager—Brian—takes his stick from him, during which he can see some of his teammates’ equipment looks worse for wear. There’s at least one snapped shaft precariously balancing against the wall. The splints of wood stick out like stray hairs. Mo continues on his way to the dressing room, backlit by the various shades of blue descending from above. The fluorescents make him squint, narrowing his vision into two thin strips. The heat exuding from the room fans him in the face before he’s completely entered. Wordless, players move about, using more force than necessary to hang their jerseys and throw gloves and helmets onto the shelves above their heads. None of them pay him any heed as he squeezes into his spot, beginning the tedious process of stripping his sock tape and discarding it to the side so he can work on his skates and shin pads.
The other players are justifiable upset too, taking a second to themselves to release one or two frustrated tears as Keefe unloads his criticisms on them. It’s been six years of this repeated outcome, which is arguably worse than never having clinched a spot in the first series to begin with. Eight years of skating with the emblem over his chest have taught Mo how to numb those emotions. The disappointment is there but it’s chronic, and his tolerance is higher than those who are signed to entry-level contracts. Even Mitch and Auston can’t say they’ve represented the team during the darkest times in the franchise's history, when Leafs memorabilia was synonymous with paper bags over the head.
Mo is down to his heatgear when the media relations team poke their heads in and ask if he’s available for a comment. Every other player with a letter to their name is already accounted for, making him the final contributor to tonight’s autopsy. It’s an expectation of the position, one that’s not put down in writing on any contract. He’s all too familiar with it, having stood in this exact spot for the last several years. He’s used to seeing the disappointed faces of the reporters hoping to make up for the weeks of post-interview content they now won’t get because the Leafs had to go and get knocked out early.
The media awaits him by the door, pointer fingers resting on their shutter triggers. The second he’s in eyeshot, the photographers waste no time snapping a picture of him looking dishevelled. As he walks to the microphone, he tugs on the strings of his hoodie. It tightens the elastic, a strangling hold now closing around his esophagus.
They ask about the series, if the team had ever believed that it would be different, and he tries to be honest. It was never their playmaking he doubted. They have good players, more than the average team. What they’re missing is much more subjective. Contrary to what Dubas, Shanahan, or John may think, it’s not something that can be bought or traded.
A baritone voice sounds from the crowd, surging up from underneath the tripod legs and the cameras mounted to them. “Do you believe in your ability to lead this team?”
He stares blankly ahead for a second. This question feels personal, even if it’s likely been repurposed from the other interviews.
“Yeah, of course. I mean, I’ve been here for so long. I know the guys, I know the city. I like being a Toronto Maple Leaf, and it’s important to me that I’m here to support my team, regardless of the outcome.” He can’t locate the man in the crowd. If he could, he would lock eyes with him to make sure he understands the strength of his conviction.
Spoken like a true captain, some would say. Mo doesn’t let himself get swept up in those generous compliments. There’s only one captain, and it’s never going to be him.
Once the reporters have their soundbites, Mo is released back into the custody of the locker room. His relief is short-lived, however, because he doesn’t get five feet out from the press room before someone’s calling his name from down the hall. He lifts his chin, checking over his shoulder. He recognizes the sound. Keefe turns the corner then, in the midst of correcting his crooked tie so that it lies flat.
“Mo,” he calls out, his voice hoarse from overuse, “glad I caught you. I need a word.”
Not knowing what to anticipate, Mo shoves his hands into the hoodie pouch, head bowed. He respects his coach, but that doesn’t mean he wants to be chewed out right now.
Keefe takes his silence as a sign to continue. “If you’re headed back in, can you stop by Johnny? Kyle said there was something he wanted you two to discuss.”
Mo blinks at him. “Us?” he asks, before his brain catches up. “Was there something we’re supposed to be talking about?”
He shrugs. “I wish I could tell you. John might know if you ask him.”
“Is it related to the game, or…?”
Keefe shakes his head. “No, no. Tonight wasn’t your fault,” he says quietly. “It’s more on the management side of things. You know what I mean. I think he just wants his captain and alternates to be on the same page right now.”
If Dubas is reaching out about it, then he hasn’t got much say in the matter. Even if it hasn’t been explicitly stated, clearly some blame for tonight’s outcome falls on him, and that needs to be corrected. They just want to give him a chance to deal with it now, before it escalates to a conversation they have to have in an office, which will be a lot less forgiving.
He thanks Keefe, before taking his leave. He needs his phone, his keys. His car is probably going to stay in the parking garage overnight. He needs to flag down one of the arena’s attendants and let them know not to ticket or tow him. He tries focusing on that, instead of how his whole body is trembling so much that he can’t walk in a straight line.
Most of the team has cleared out by the time he returns, either to scrub away the grime on their bodies in the communal showers or take an early leave to go lick their wounds at home. Of the remaining few, John stands out. He’s statuesque when he’s sat like he is, spine straightened into a near-perfect right angle with his legs. Mo can’t determine what he’s looking at, but maybe the point is that it’s nothing. He’s trying to find something that isn’t there.
Against every instinct in his body, Mo approaches him. His steps are small, apprehensive. He doesn’t know what he’s up against or what reaction he’s going to get.
From the corner of his eye, John looks up at him. The creases on his forehead smooth out.
“How are you feeling?” Mo asks, already knowing the answer.
“Like shit,” John replies. “I don’t enjoy letting people down. God knows I’ve done it enough for this life.” Retrieving his bag out from under his seat, he shoves a nondescript article of clothing into it. A towel, maybe.
“Bad luck,” Mo says halfheartedly, too fatigued from comforting others to spare much pity for him.
John pretends to consider it. “Maybe. I know we have a capable group, but we can never seem to pull through when we need to.” A perfectly canned response. He must anticipate that reporters are crawling around in the walls, as per the usual.
“Next time, then.”
“If there is a next time, that’s the idea.”
He’s running out of things to say, circling around the actual reason why he would bother pretending to be his acolyte. Beside that expectation to give himself over to the media, there’s something else penned beside the title of alternate, something he’s been neglecting. It wasn’t as big an issue when they were winning, but now someone has to answer for their failure. Front office won’t care that Mo’s goal counted when John’s did not; they want Mo to be obedient.
Sucking in a deep breath, he acts on the courage while he still has it.
“Should I go home with you?” It’s phrased as a question, but they’re both acutely aware that it should be a statement of fact.
John looks up at him, the years catching up to him. He’s lost his youth to this game and it’s sharpened the look behind his eyes. Mo’s proposition comes as a surprise, but he doesn’t show it for long.
“Sure,” he says, barely audible. Mo doesn’t mistake it to mean he’s weakened; John doesn’t show it, but this is his first victory of the night. “Finished getting dressed. I’ll meet you outside.”
Without saying another word, Mo obeys.
John is a cautious driver and it adds a few minutes to the trip, but he’d prefer that to blowing through stop signs. John has nothing to say to him, probably replaying moments from the game in his head. It requires careful concentration that even a radio station is not allowed to interrupt. Not that Mo would want to listen to the incoherent thoughts of the broadcasters; he’s sure the hosts on every available frequency will be covering the outcome of the game for the amusement of their listeners. Closer to Scotiabank Arena, he saw many of the pedestrians wearing Leafs jerseys. Their walk of shame is characterized by many heads hanging low, shoulders tucked in as if to hide the numbers they’re brandishing on either arm. Compared to that, the sound of John’s breathing is tolerable, at least for as long as the ride takes to deposit them in front of his house, which is as dark and foreboding as the man himself.
Inside, the only light sources are the extension cords, display screens for the microwave and oven, and the various timers telling them it’s nearing eleven in the evening. Mo has been here before, but always with three or more people accompanying them. He never overstayed his welcome or drew unnecessary attention to himself, answering questions when prompted but otherwise being a quiet guest. Alone, he doesn’t know how to hold himself, if he should be on high alert, expecting a threat to come from behind him.
John abandons him at the front entrance once he’s removed his shoes, walking into the open floor plan toward the kitchen. Uncertain, Mo waits at the boundary drawn by the entryway mat, jacket draped over his arm. It’s barely warmer than ten degrees outside but the air conditioning is blasting through the vents, making the skin on his arms break out into goosebumps.
The fridge’s filtration unit churns to life. He hears the sound of water unspooling into a glass. Then, a brief second or two of silence and it begins again. Reflexively, Mo swallows. His tongue sticks to the roof of his dried mouth. He’s sweat out of the water he forced down his throat during the game. Between the media conference and the last-minute decision to change his plans, he hasn’t had much time to replace it. At that opportune moment, John reappears, a glass of water in each hand. He uses his head to gesture, directing Mo to step deeper into the living space.
“You look like you’re about to run away,” he comments as he hands Mo a glass, bubbles rising to the surface. Mo accepts, careful to retract his fingers so they don’t touch. For a drink casually offered to a visitor, John has filled it very high.
“I didn’t want to just barge in,” Mo explains, careful to place his socked feet so that he doesn’t slide over the hardwood. Having a delicate object in hand doesn’t help him feel more comfortable in his new environment.
John briefly glances at him, a reprimand. They both know Mo wouldn’t hesitate to lie back and relax if he was invited to shoot the shit with any other player. These circumstances differ; the false pretence that this is a casual visit is not going to deceive him. Mo’s treating this like he would any business negotiation.
Bringing his glass up to his lips, John takes a demure sip. “So what made you change your mind?”
“What?”
“You came over. You never come over.”
“Well, it’s in the job description.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Usually you’re so good at avoiding.”
Mo rhythmically taps his nails against the side of the glass. “I’m a busy guy.”
John hums disbelievingly. “Not too busy for the rookies, but I get it; you’re spread thin. I can’t say I know what it’s like to rally the defencemen around me. You take on a lot.”
“I could say the same for you. Keefe said you looked pretty shaken up after tonight.”
Emotion passes over John’s face, much too quickly for Mo to put a name to. “Ah, so it was Keefe.”
“Hm?”
“Nothing, that just answers one of my questions. Please, sit down.” He uses the hand holding the glass to gesture at one of the couches.
Appearance-wise, nothing about the room’s furniture or decoration makes the place unpleasant to be in. An interior decorator was consulted to decide on whether the couch’s throw pillows should accentuate the design on the television stand. It’s so inoffensive that Mo can’t formulate an opinion on it that’s more complex than a single-word answer. He makes himself comfortable on the three-seater, placing his drink on one of the wooden coasters strewn out on the coffee table. A drop of water slides down the column, showing Mo his distorted reflection.
John seats himself on the adjacent couch, reaching over to turn on an end table lamp. He receives a faint glow because of the positioning, which silhouettes the shape of his body. He’s favouring his right side, where most of his weight is disproportionately placed. Leaning on the armrest with his elbow, one leg crossed over the other, he’s the most relaxed he’s been all evening. It’s as if he hasn’t registered the tragedy that happened hours prior, which would have any other player lost in their head.
Mo stares at him straight on, daring him to speak first. John obliges.
“You’re loyal to me, right?” He finishes his water, placing the empty glass perpendicular to Mo’s.
Mo’s glad he stopped drinking. In everything but conversation points, John has mastered the art of subtly.
“Of course; what kind of question is that?” It’s not like there’s anyone else he could go to. Publicly, that is.
John stares deep into his eyes, hoping to produce the truth. “You’re not just saying that, I hope.”
“You’re our captain. We all look up to you.”
“But you specifically, how do you feel? You don’t seem to like me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Don’t lie.” He doesn’t apply enough pressure to his words to make them sound serious, but Mo knows that he’s being disciplined even without John needing to raise his voice.
“I always thought you were a great player and that you’d make a great addition to the team. I guess I didn’t know how to feel about having a guy I didn’t know too well being made captain.”
“Would you have preferred Auston instead?”
Mo pauses, taking the time to assess the situation. If he says Auston, then John will take it to mean he wants to overthrow him. If he says John, then he’s lying again.
His media training kicks in, exercising the third option. “I think the role belongs to you.” At least if he tells it as is, he can claim impartiality.
John’s thumb rubs the stubble underneath his chin. Pensive, like he too needs a second to think about how he’s going to proceed.
“I’m not ready to give up on this team yet, but I’m not going to keep going if you’re not all in,” says John.
“Well, I don’t plan on going anywhere.”
John seems satisfied with that. His hand drops to his lap, fingers curled around his knee. His knuckles are striped with cuts and scabs. “I like having you around. You’re capable.”
“You too.” He can’t hold his eye as he says it.
“You say that, but you’ve fought me for so long. You still fight; I know you wouldn’t have come here if someone else hadn’t asked you first.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say. Are you expecting an apology?”
John shrugs, nonchalant. “Just curious. We don’t talk much off the ice, so I don’t know the truth.”
“Because every time we do you have some ulterior motive.”
“Ulterior motive?” He makes his confusion known with a hitched eyebrow.
“Yeah,” he says, refusing to elaborate. If he does, John’s going to get that look in his eyes and tell him he’s got it all wrong. Mo refuses to be made out like he’s crazy.
“I’m sorry if it came across that way. I’ve been very excited to lead this team with you.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know if I would call it leading.”
“Then what would you call it?”
“I don’t know,” he says, afraid to tell him the truth. “I don’t feel like I’m a part of this with you.”
John’s face drops, the first sign of frustration. “Not for lack of trying. I don’t know what else you expect me to do. I’m not going to grab you by the wrist and drag you around. You have to take some accountability here.”
“Even if I told you what I wanted, you wouldn’t listen.” He pretends to rub his hands together to conceal the fact that he’s massaging the arteries tightening in his wrists.
“Says who?”
“Says—it’s just obvious. You and Kyle have something going on. It’s none of my business, but I wish you’d stop acting like my opinion is important to you. It’s your team. You’re the captain. You just need me to sit back and agree with you so we look like a united front.”
He’s had an open wound inside of him for years, which became inflamed with every measure taken to undermine him. Now that it’s exposed to the open, he fears it’s going to become infected. There’s no relief from having it be outsider knowledge. It’s just another thing to use against him, a weakness to be taken advantage of.
John leans back into the cushions, face disturbingly empty considering the truth that’s been unearthed. “It’s sad if you think that. I care about what you think. I asked for you to be one of my alternates for a reason.”
“Well, what would everyone say if you didn’t? Obviously you had to keep me around. You couldn’t just get me traded.” He laughs humourlessly.
“I think that’s a little off-base.”
“Because I’m right? How much of this is because you actually want me around?”
“You think I would put up with someone if I didn’t want to? I want to get to know you. I want you to come over after practice and tell me your ideas. You’re not just around for decoration.”
Lie. That’s all Mo is supposed to be: a figure for the promotional advertisements. He’s there to stand behind him like one of his devoted followers, to prove that even a strong will can be broken.
Mo shifts his weight. “You don’t have to lie to me to make me feel better.”
“What’s there to lie about? I trust your judgement. Maybe if I had it earlier, we wouldn’t be where we are right now.”
“Knocked out of the playoffs?”
“That, but also where you and I stand. We should be working together, not at odds with each other.”
“I get that, but you already have Auston and Mitch. You don’t need my approval.”
“Of course I do. I want you at my side. Lots of people would love your spot Morgan, but I chose you.”
“Okay, but I didn’t ask you to do that. I’m just here to play hockey, not,” he loosely gestures at nothing in particular, “whatever this is.”
“This is hockey. This is about your team. Our team. How are they expected to trust us if you refuse to work with me?”
Mo points down at the couch. “But you’re not asking to work with me, you just want me to be like everyone else. My problem is that you’ve somehow made yourself this figure that they should be loyal to all the time, no questions asked. The guys need to have someone else to go to when they can’t talk to you—and don’t say that they have Auston and Mitch. You know as well as I do that anything that’s said to them is brought right back to you. Everyone on the team knows it. That’s why no one ever challenges you. You’ve created this culture where they can’t, and if they do you get rid of them. I’m not going to support you on that.”
The muscles around John’s mouth tighten. “So you think it’s your job to always be critical of me? You’re saying it would be unrealistic for us to have any kind of relationship?”
It sounds ridiculous when John phrases it like that. Mo takes his hand back. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
John doesn’t wait to hear his explanation. “Ask any other team and they’ll tell you that the alternates and the captain are its closest members. They need to be if they’re going to win. I don’t think I’m asking too much to want that for us too.”
“It’s not about the team. It’s about you.” He’s aware he’s directly contradicting what he said earlier, but he can’t keep track of his half-truths. It’s easier to speak his mind and deal with the consequences later.
John is silent for a moment, head slightly tilted to the side.
“Is all of this because they didn’t make you captain?”
Mo’s jaw drops. “What? No!”
“Because it’s fine if that’s what’s bothering you. I get it. I know you’re in an awkward position.”
He can handle a lot of things, but to insinuate that he’s motivated by jealousy is the worst insult John has used so far. “I’m not upset about the decision, even if I question it at times.” Mo tries speaking carefully to conceal his anger, but isn’t entirely successful. “I just don’t agree with your methods. You can’t change my mind about that.”
Knowing he’s hit a sore spot, the corner of John’s lip twitches. “Well, we have to find common ground. If you disagree with me or my methods—fine. But I can’t have you running around undermining my authority. Either you’re with me, or you’re not.”
The air conditioning unit pauses. The room lapses into quiet.
Mo has been with this team the longest, but that doesn’t give him immunity if, conveniently, a deal more beneficial to their cap space comes knocking. At John’s discretion, he could be sent down over the border in two weeks. The threat is always there, even if John hasn’t made mention of it until now. He doesn’t need to say something that could be used against him if it’s already obvious.
John stands up, holding a hand out. “Come on, Mo,” he says. The momentum from their previous conversation has been lost to the abrupt change of pace. “I’m tired of this, and I’m sure you are too.”
Mo harshly blows air out of his nose. “I’ll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine. It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that.”
He can’t say he’s expecting John to shake his head, especially when he’d been so willing to compromise on their last disagreement. “No. It’s been long enough.” His pointer and middle fingers curl in, beckoning him. “I’m asking you to come here now.”
Staring up at him, Mo’s gut clenches so hard that he almost has to double over. Reluctantly, he takes the outstretched hand, his molars pinching the inside of his cheek. Part of him knows this was always going to be the outcome. That isn’t to say he’s accepted the notion that he should be at John’s beck and call. He’s still coming to terms with it, even now. However, Dubas will hear of this if he doesn’t do as he’s told, and the comeuppance will be worse. There’s a chance they don’t trade him, but force him to lie in the bed they’ve made. The only thing worse than giving himself over is the act of being gifted, like he’s some prize to be won.
He startles when a roughened palm closes around each cheek, forcing him to hold his head at an unnatural angle. The only option is to stare straight ahead, level with John’s eyes. They’re so dark that he has trouble distinguishing the pupils from the irises. He sees determination looking back at him, not at all deterred by the series of losses behind them.
“I’m here for you,” John says. “Don’t get so caught up in thinking that you need to be what everyone else wants. No wonder you’re so tired all the time.”
“I’m not tired,” he says under his breath. He’s unable to maintain direct eye contact, opting to stare down at their bodies instead. There’s no use arguing with him anymore. No one listens to him.
“‘Course you are. You do a lot for the team, and for some reason you’ve convinced yourself that it has to be done alone.”
He doesn’t have an answer for that. He won’t bother.
John is so close that his swallow is audible. “I’m here to help you, but if we’re going to lift a Cup together, you need to help me too. I need you by my side.”
Mo doesn’t know where to put his arms, which dangle at his sides. Two fists are formed on either end of them. Every instinct of his wants to put John away, to reinstate his personal space. A Cup is meaningless if he has to make such a personal sacrifice to get it. He’s pressed into John’s chest, chin hooked over his shoulder, and forced to remain. An invading hand snakes up from his nape, grabbing a fistful of hair from the back of Mo’s head. He can’t risk stepping away without it yanking the strands out from his scalp.
So he stays. John hasn’t given him much choice. Mo lets John pretend he’s in his possession, closing his eyes and wondering if Jake is thinking about him, if Jake would forgive him. It’s been so long since he’s been held; it’s been so long since someone has wanted him.
Come morning, he’ll emerge from the guest bedroom wearing clothes that aren’t his. John will greet him like everything is normal, smiling as he asks how he likes his eggs, and Morgan will wonder if it was ever worth fighting to begin with.