Page 4 of Game On

“Uh... sure.”

Raindrops clinging to his dark blond pompadour, Coach headed up the paved path to the front door, wheeling Jamie’s carry-on behind him. Jamie grabbed his duffel and followed.

The neighbourhood was nice, with lots of tall trees that would surely make the street look picturesque in summer. Every house was unique, a far cry from Jamie’s cookie-cutter neighbourhood in Charlotte. The street was quiet, though given the mid-afternoon hour, that was probably because everyone was at work. From the few texts Jamie had exchanged with Dorian, he knew this was the West Point Grey neighbourhood. Google had told him it was an affluent neighbourhood, so either Dorian was making bank at his job, had made good investments, or he had a sugar daddy.

Not a sugar mommy, as Jamie was well aware, given Dorian’s first text had been heavy on the take-it-or-leave-it.

Dorian

Hey. This is Dorian Shore. Matt gave me your number. He’s going to pick you up at the airport tomorrow, but I’ll be at the house when you arrive with your house key, alarm code, and everything else you’ll need. I only have two rules.

1) No pets.

2) No homophobes. I’m as gay as a double rainbow, so if that’s going to be a problem, I suggest you find somewhere else to stay.

Jamie, midway through organizing a moving company, had grinned at his phone. God, he loved when people told it like it was. No guesswork, no secrets, just boom! Here’s who I am.

He’d quickly typed out a response.

Jamie

1) My ex absconded with our cat when we split, so I’m pet-free. (Don’t feel sorry for me. He hated my guts.) (The cat, that is, not the ex. Though I’m sure Scott wanted to brain me with my own hockey stick whenever I left my smelly gear in the foyer.)

2) Ditto.

Dorian’s response had been instant.

Dorian

“Absconded” huh? Good word. I think we’ll get along just fine.

His suitcase wheels bumped along the path, jarring him out of his thoughts. Coach Shore lowered the handle with a click, grabbed the suitcase, jogged up the porch steps, and entered the house.

“Okay,” Jamie said, mostly to himself. “Guess we’re walking right in.”

“Dorian’s my cousin,” Coach told him. “I have an open invitation.”

“Yeah, but should I dust or not?” came a voice from the back of the house. What Jamie presumed was the kitchen, given the little bit of counter space he could see from the foyer.

“I don’t know, Dori.” That voice came from a phone on speaker, and it was tinged with exasperation. “When was the last time you dusted?”

“I don’t know. Christmas?”

“Two months ago, then. It’s probably time.”

“But what if I dust and he thinks I’m some sort of neat freak? Then I have to keep up the act for as long as he’s here. But on the flip side, what if I don’t dust and he thinks I’m a slob?”

Jamie snorted a laugh. Coach shook his head, as though he was embarrassed on Dorian’s behalf.

Someone—Dorian, Jamie guessed—popped out of the kitchen wearing harem pants in eye-popping aqua and a white crop top that ended above his belly button. “They’re here, Charlie. I gotta go.” He hit a button on the phone in his hand, then placed it somewhere out of sight. “Hey, guys.”

“Dorian, this is Jamie Jamieson.” Coach left the suitcase next to the stairs that went up to the second floor. “Jamieson, this is my cousin and your new roommate, Dorian Shore.”

“Hey.” Jamie smiled and held out a hand as Dorian approached, long strides eating up the distance between them. “Good to meet you in person. And you definitely don’t have to dust for me.”

Dorian’s smile lit up his face. “Good. Because I was leaning towards not doing it. I did your room, though. I’m not a total heathen.” He took Jamie’s hand, his grip firm and warm, and a zing of awareness travelled up Jamie’s arm.

Crap.

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