Chapter 2 #2
Lane hit on everything that moved; it was inevitable he’d end up sleeping with Ramsey. Nate just hoped that he wouldn’t have to witness it, because he liked Lane a lot. And he didn’t want Ramsey to poison their friendship.
“Next time we’ll try that one out,” Ramsey said, winking.
It felt like a performance. Pitched perfectly to the group he was with. But then of course he knew how to deal with professional athletes—he was one.
Just another one of those truths he’d cloaked in lies.
Nate stepped up to the bar, not even glancing at the menu, thick midnight blue paper embossed with gold lettering.
It was fancy, a reflection of the surroundings they were in, but Nate didn’t need any of that classy shit.
He just needed a drink, a useless attempt to forget the way Ramsey had tasted.
The bartender looked at him, and he just tapped the shiny wood finish of the bar. “Rum,” he said. “And keep it coming.”
He took one shot and then another, but the ugly knot in his stomach refused to loosen.
Lane leaned against the bar next to him. “He’s damn hot, isn’t he?” he murmured under his breath.
Nate didn’t have to ask who Lane was talking about.
“I don’t know,” he said, because that was safer than either being honest—he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, and that’s not even why I want him so bad—or lying and claiming that he wasn’t.
Lane would tell him he was blind, and then despite his own stupidity, probably guess why Nate refused to admit what was so fucking obvious.
“Oh come on, dude, he’s hot. And interested. He keeps looking over here. Maybe time to break your dry streak?”
Nate didn’t know which was worse: that Lane had decided that Ramsey was interested in him or that he wasn’t aware that Ramsey was entirely, one-hundred-percent, to blame for kicking off Nate’s spell in the first place.
“Nah,” Nate said, picking up the beer he’d asked the bartender for. If he took as many shots as he wanted, he’d probably end up saying, or doing, something he shouldn’t.
“Why not? You don’t like blonds?” Lane wondered.
Nate told himself he was not going to be a dick. He was not going to ask Lane if he liked blonds. Specifically sandy blonds like Trevor.
It would be an excellent change of subject because nobody ever got Lane worked up like Trevor did.
“Just not in the mood,” Nate said. “It was a long week of practice.”
Lane nodded in agreement. “Well, if you’re not going to, would you mind if I . . .” He gestured in the direction of Ramsey, who appeared to be giving drink recommendations to Cam, Dawson, and Trevor.
Nate felt hot and cold all over. “Uh.” How could he say no? And how could he stand by and say nothing while Lane went over there and hit on him?
“I’ll let you think about it,” Lane said, picking up his drink and patting Nate on the shoulder. “’Cause I can just imagine you’re gonna stare at him a few more minutes and change your mind.”
Nate wanted to tell Lane that he wasn’t fucking staring, but before he could get the words out, Lane was gone.
Before he could decide what he was now going to say to Lane later—because he sure as fuck wasn’t going to change his mind, and he couldn’t imagine Ramsey wanting a repeat—Ramsey suggested they head to their private room.
Nate couldn’t come up with a good reason to stay out here, so he followed, reluctantly.
“This is a pretty sweet setup,” Levi said, and Nate had to agree. He took a spot near the back of the room, a chair closest to the door, and tried to look anywhere but at Ramsey. For Lane, so he wouldn’t be encouraged, but if he was being really honest, for himself, too.
“Told you,” Wes said, smiling. “Ramsey’s the best at finding places like this.”
“And you’re not even from Toronto,” Aidan pointed out.
Ramsey just shrugged, even as Nate tried not to remember how their first conversation had begun. “No, but Buffalo’s close. And Wes is here, so we’ve met up a bunch. Especially during the last year.”
For a single ugly moment, Nate wondered if that was because Ramsey was sleeping with Wes. That would explain the way he’d reacted so negatively to the revelation of Nate’s identity. He could be caught cheating.
But then Wes made a face, pain flashing in his eyes. “Don’t,” he said, and then Nate remembered that Wes had had a bad breakup.
“Chill, I wasn’t going to mention Marcus,” Ramsey said easily.
“Wes said you were on injured reserve,” Levi said.
For the second time since he’d walked into this bar, Nate froze. This time with his beer halfway up to his lips.
Injured reserve? Nate’s insides curdled as his brain combed through every single second of their hookup in June.
Ramsey had seemed fine. He couldn’t remember seeing him ever limp or pull back.
He’d given himself physically one hundred percent.
Nate was sure of it, because Nate would’ve noticed, even if he hadn’t thought at that point that Ramsey was a professional athlete.
He’d still been looking at him through a professional athlete’s eyes.
“Yeah. Concussion syndrome,” Ramsey said.
Oh, God. The rum in Nate’s system soured even further.
“Had a bad one last year, right after I signed my extension. But I’d had a few before, in college, and this one lingered.”
Nate recognized the tone of voice Ramsey used. He’d used it, too, his last year with the Condors, when he’d struggled with a hamstring injury that he could never seem to shake.
Awareness made him want to be nice—well, nicer—but then Nate thought about it. Thought about how he’d clearly been going through it in June, but he’d not said a word. Pretended. Lied.
He had a glass in his hand tonight. Same as he’d had a glass in his hand on that night.
“Didn’t know you could drink with concussion syndrome,” Nate said, speaking up for the first time since they’d headed to the private room.
Ramsey’s gaze swiveled in his direction. Eyes that pale a blue shouldn’t burn that bright, but Ramsey’s did. They scorched Nate, deep down, and he knew Ramsey was thinking, too, of the night they’d met.
“This? This isn’t vodka. It’s just sparkling water, dude.”
Sometimes Nate wondered if he’d ever seen Ramsey at all, or he’d just fallen for the myriad and shifting performances Ramsey employed.
“Ah,” Nate said coldly.
“Hey, who’s up for a game?” Dawson said, changing the subject as he grabbed a pool cue from the rack, rolling it between his palms.
“I’ll play,” Cam said immediately. Not surprising. The rook had a huge crush, visible from space, on their veteran kicker.
“Count me in too,” Lane said, and, even more unsurprisingly, Trevor followed suit.
Next time, Nate wasn’t going to hold back. When Lane needled him about his dry spell, he was going to needle Lane right back, and about Trevor, specifically.
“Flynn? Banks?” Dawson asked them, but they shook their heads, seemingly pretty comfortable on the couch together. Nate had been pretty sure their QB1 was falling for the Thunders’ new offensive lineman, and this didn’t do anything to dispel his suspicions.
“My balance isn’t what it used to be. I can usually make do with darts, but not pool,” Ramsey said wryly.
Nate kept telling himself he’d be fine, he could be chill, even, but every fucking time Ramsey opened his mouth, it was like getting hit with the news all over again. No time to adjust. No time to think any of this through.
“Dude, that sucks,” Levi said sympathetically. “So what’s it like, long-term injured reserve? Know what it’s like in football but not hockey.”
Nate was tempted to lean over and smack his hand right over Levi’s mouth so he wouldn’t ask any more sympathetic questions. He didn’t need to hear any more. He didn’t want to hear any more.
“Get paid. Do nothing. Try to recover so I can play again. That’s what it’s like.” Ramsey sighed. “Hardest part is staying busy. Which is why I’m up here. Wes was tired of me whining about being alone in Buffalo.”
Nate remembered, despite not wanting to, exactly what Ramsey had said back in June. Kind of at a loose end at the moment, he’d said.
That hadn’t been a lie either.
Hard to say what Nate was more pissed about: that Ramsey had lied or that he’d been honest in his own way.
“He was so depressing,” Wes said earnestly.
It was becoming very clear to Nate just how close he and Ramsey were.
Maybe he’d been wrong about the sex. But no.
Nate knew what Ramsey looked like when he was flirting.
He’d witnessed it. Fuck, he’d had all that charisma turned on him.
And it was never like that when Ramsey looked over at Wes. Like he did right now.
“And we’re there for each other,” Wes added.
It was stupid to be jealous. Stupid to hate Lane and Levi and Aidan and even stupider to hate Wes, for getting bits of Ramsey—the real bits of Ramsey that Nate never had—but stupidity had never stopped anyone with a dick before.
“Adorable,” he said dryly.
“We’ve known each other a long time,” Ramsey said firmly.
Nate wondered if Ramsey knew all about the seething brew of emotions in his stomach. But this was Ramsey so of course he did.
“Yeah?” Aidan asked, clearly trying to defuse the situation in the most Aidan-like way.
“We went to Portland U together,” Wes said.
“Hockey player and football player becoming friends? That’s unusual,” Dawson inserted.
“Not that unusual,” Ramsey said. Nate swore he looked over at him, then.
But then he kept talking like he’d never done it.
“We’ve got friends who ended up together.
Dean plays football for the Riptide and Brody could’ve gone pro as a hockey player.
Was drafted and everything, but he decided to go to med school, like the fucking overachiever he is. ”
“You’re still torn up about that. Brody picking science over hockey,” Wes teased fondly.
“Well, yeah,” Ramsey retorted.