Page 17 of Game On

“Blair has extra shirts in my closet if you want to borrow one.”

Putting on an air of prim insult, Dorian rose. “Just for that, I’m not going to stay and help you bake.”

Charlie snorted a laugh. “We both know you weren’t going to anyway. You don’t know the difference between a chork and a couche.”

“Lies.”

Stepping out of the apartment, he closed the door on Charlie’s laughter.

In his car, he googled a couche. It was some kind of linen used to prove bread dough.

And a chork was...

“Dear god, why?”

It was like a spork, but instead of a mashed-up fork and spoon, it was a fork and chopsticks.

“People pay money for this?”

He could’ve made millions on a chork. Instead, he’d invested months inventing a viable app.

“The world is a cruel, cruel place.”

It was almost noon by the time he walked into the office. He probably would’ve gotten a talking-to at any other corporate job. Not here. Tomorrow was game day, and Dorian would be expected at both the Orcas’ practice and game, with his hours between creating engaging social media content. And whenever someone pulled a full day like that, Mark allowed them a half day the day before or after.

And since Dorian had been up until almost four thirty working on the website for his subscription box, he’d opted to work his half day in the afternoon.

Dorian passed glass-windowed executive offices as he scoped out the desk situation. All the window seats were taken—they were always the first to go—so that left him a spot by the printer/photocopier (hard pass), one next to an intern slurpily sipping on coffee (nope), and one next to the access door that led to the washrooms and squeaked as it opened.

Access door it was since?—

Wait.

He stopped in his tracks. Took a few steps backwards. There, in Mark’s office, was what had caught Dorian’s attention.

It wasn’t Matt’s placid expression, or Mark’s gesticulating arms as he talked, or the GM’s nods.

It was Jamie Jamieson, smiling at them all like he’d smiled at Dorian last night while picking at his samples and eating mushy popcorn.

And Dorian felt inexplicably jealous. As though that smile was supposed to be just for him.

Stupid.

“Don’t gawp at the talent,” came a snide voice. Stink Eye Stanley brushed past him with a foot-long from the nearby deli.

“What are you, the ogle police?” Dorian said, because apparently he was a nine-year-old boy on the inside.

Stanley rolled his eyes. “Real mature.” He dropped into a seat and woke his laptop...

At the table next to the access door.

Ugh.

Dorian claimed the chair across from Stanley. “What’s your problem with me?” he asked, even though he’d told himself he wouldn’t just yesterday. He still didn’t care, but he was curious.

“My problem,” Stanley said over the crinkle of wax paper as he unwrapped his sandwich, “is that you bribed your way into this job when there are plenty of other qualified people who could’ve done it better.”

Dorian opened his mouth to respond, then snapped it shut with a clack of his molars. He didn’t owe Stanley anything, least of all an explanation.

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