Chapter 7 #2
“I should text him back.” Nate changed the subject instead, because that was a hell of a lot safer.
Nate stared at his phone screen, unsure what he should say.
He never knew what to say to Jordan, and they didn’t understand each other at all.
Nate had come into the NFL determined to do anything and everything he needed to be successful.
He’d never have dreamed of fucking around the way Jordan was doing.
And if he had, Deacon would’ve smacked him upside the head, told him to stop being so fucking stupid, and in thrall of the guy and all his accomplishments, Nate would’ve done it immediately.
But that wasn’t what Jordan was doing.
A second later, he felt the warm press of a body next to his, and he looked over in surprise to see that Ramsey had slid right next to him.
“What are you gonna say?” Ramsey asked, casually, like it wasn’t a big deal that they were pressed together, hip to shoulder.
It was a big deal to Nate. He was lightheaded with the feel of having Ramsey this close, again.
“I don’t know,” Nate confessed. If he’d known before Ramsey entered into his bubble, he definitely fucking didn’t know now.
“Hm.” Ramsey hesitated. “You could tell him to have a good time—”
“But what if he does?” Nate asked with a grimace. “He probably fucking will, and then I’ll have to go bail his ass out, and I don’t want to do that.”
“And fuck up our date? Hell no. We have sushi coming, and you’re going to pretend to try to hold my hand on the couch later,” Ramsey said.
Nate swallowed hard. “I am?”
“Well, why wouldn’t you?” Ramsey’s glance over was arch. “Do you not want to hold my hand?”
Nate wasn’t going to answer that question. Not for real. “You ever done that before? Maybe you’re going to be shitty at it.”
Ramsey rolled his eyes. “It’s hand holding. I think I can rock it.”
“Might have to practice,” Nate suggested.
“No advantages for you there,” Ramsey retorted fondly, his smile deepening into something real.
“None whatsoever,” Nate lied, returning the smile.
“We’ll have to do it until we get it right. Have to be convincing to everyone else, right?” Ramsey said.
“That’s the idea.” Nate had to look away. It would be too easy—so easy—to get lost in Ramsey’s eyes, in the way his body felt pressed against his own.
“So, you can’t tell him to have too much fun,” Ramsey said, like he knew he’d pushed Nate as far as he could. “You could warn him.”
“Ugh, and be accused of being boring and stuffy again? No thanks.”
Ramsey nudged him with his hip. “You aren’t boring and you aren’t stuffy.”
“Tell him that,” Nate complained. Not secretly glad at all that Ramsey had said it.
“Next time,” Ramsey promised, then hesitated. “Though the examples I’d probably supply wouldn’t be teammate approved.”
Nate’s skin flushed hot. “Probably not.”
“At least the first—and best—one,” Ramsey added, shooting Nate a look that was vaguely apologetic.
“Right,” Nate said. Like yes, they’d already had sex. He didn’t need the reminder. He thought about it all the time. He’d thought about it all the time even when he’d been trying to resent Ramsey’s presence. Now? It was virtually impossible not to fixate on it constantly.
“You could threaten him,” Ramsey suggested slyly. “Tell him you’re gonna destroy his ass in practice this week if he fucks this up for you.”
“I don’t know if he’d even believe that.”
Ramsey looked surprised for the first time since Jordan had come up. “Oh, come on. Yeah, he would.”
“You saying I’m scary?”
“Terrifying,” Ramsey declared dryly. He didn’t hesitate in plucking the phone out of his hands though, fingers flying over the screen as he typed out a message. When he returned it to Nate, he hadn’t sent the message. It was still sitting there in drafts, cursor blinking.
Have fun but not too much. I have a hot date tonight and trust me, you don’t want to interrupt it.
“Hot date, huh?” Nate asked.
Ramsey’s expression didn’t even waver. “How would you describe it?”
For a moment, Nate considered telling him that sushi delivery and holding hands on the couch probably didn’t crack his top ten, but then he’d never done those things with Ramsey either.
Hadn’t even let himself dream about it.
“Fair,” Nate finally agreed. He pressed Send and then set the phone screen-down on the counter. “Come on,” he said. “The food won’t be here for another half an hour or so. I think that’s plenty of time for hand holding practice.”
He held his hand out, not sure if he was calling Ramsey’s bluff or his own.
Ramsey looked at his hand, looking as unsure as Nate had ever seen him, but then that look wiped clean, like it had never existed. “You’re sure I’m capable of it on an empty stomach?” he teased lightly.
“Let’s just give it a try, anyway.”
Ramsey’s gaze flicked to Nate’s eyes, and then back to his hand. He exhaled softly. “Alright,” he said and fit his hand into Nate’s.
Nate had big hands, and Ramsey’s weren’t small either, but they still fit flawlessly together. Their callouses sliding together, Nate’s from the weight room and Ramsey’s from so many years of stickhandling. Different, maybe, but still complementary.
“See?” Nate said, squeezing Ramsey’s hand as he led them to the couch in the living room. “Not terrible.”
Ramsey’s chuckle was a little unsteady, and when they sat, Nate didn’t miss the few inches that he left between them, or the way he didn’t let go of his hand.
“You want to watch something?” Nate asked. “A movie? TV show?”
Nate should’ve known that Ramsey wouldn’t take the hand holding crack lying down. “Oh,” Ramsey said, “I know there’s an early game on. Minnesota versus Vancouver.”
“Vancouver doesn’t have a football team,” Nate said, pretending ignorance just to experience the cat-stole-the-cream smile that Ramsey gave him.
“No, they don’t,” Ramsey agreed. He turned towards Nate. “Do you know how much fuck ass football Wes has made me watch in the last three months?”
“No?” But Nate could imagine.
“You owe me this, Nathaniel.”
“I kinda think Wes owes you this,” Nate argued, even though he knew exactly what he was going to end up turning on the TV: Minnesota versus Vancouver.
Hockey, and not football. And he was probably going to pretend not to like it, all the while secretly enjoying every moment.
Not because he liked hockey particularly but because he’d like watching Ramsey watching it.
He’d hoard every moment Ramsey let down his guard, to lean in and explain some particularly confusing penalty to Nate.
“But Wes isn’t even here,” Ramsey said, with a wide-eyed innocence that was so goddamn good Nate might’ve believed it was true and real, even if he hadn’t personally experienced just how innocent Ramsey wasn’t.
Nate groaned, at least ninety percent of it fake as hell, and picked up the remote. “What channel? The fuck ass Canadian channel?”
Ramsey elbowed him. “We’re in Canada, you idiot,” he said.
That was fair. He navigated through the ESPN app until he found the game.
The first period was just starting, and Nate was rewarded by Ramsey settling in more comfortably next to him. Relaxing, not all the way, but more. Enough. At least for now.
Ramsey’s hand was warm and a little damp in his as they watched the Canucks play the Wild.
“What’s particularly special about this matchup?
” Nate finally asked, during a break in the action.
He didn’t want to confess that after meeting Ramsey for the second time, he’d started watching more hockey.
First out of a perverse need to prove it was stupid, much stupider than football, and then second because it was the only way he could figure out how to be close to Ramsey when he’d never felt further away.
“The Canucks versus the Wild? Nothing particular. It’s just on. And the Wolves are playing the Canucks next week.” Ramsey paused. “Part of their Canadian trip.”
“Ah.” Nate wanted to ask why he was bothering watching this game if he wasn’t going to be playing in the game next week, or even going on the road trip.
But that was something that he’d realized over the last few months—Ramsey would share, fairly easily, that he was a hockey player and that he was on long-term injured reserve, but anytime anyone asked anything specific, or wanted him to talk about it, he’d perform evasive maneuvers.
Nate couldn’t blame him. If he was stuck, injured, away from football, with no end in sight and not any clear idea when that would change, he’d be going crazy.
He definitely would not want to discuss it.
“You can ask, you know,” Ramsey said, making a face, his voice much edgier than usual. “I can tell you want to.”
“I didn’t think you wanted to talk about it.”
Ramsey didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “I don’t,” he said flatly.
“Then why would you tell me I can ask about it?” Just when Nate thought he understood everything about Ramsey’s prickliness, something new cropped up and surprised him.
“You want to, I can feel it, and it just sucks waiting for it. Wondering when you’re gonna ask. Trying to figure out what I’m going to say.”
“You figure it out yet?”
Ramsey looked over at him, and now he looked surprised. A hint of an unexpected smile on his face. “Not really.”
“Then I’m good. How about this? When you figure it out, you come tell me, okay?”
“You’re weird.” Ramsey was chuckling now, though, and that black cloud that had threatened to descend was already clearing up. Nate patted himself on the back.
“And you’re normal?”
Ramsey squawked. “I put up a very good front, fuck you very much.”
“Yeah, sure, for everyone else.”
Sighing, Ramsey relaxed back onto the couch, his shoulder actually brushing Nate’s now.
Another few minutes ticked off the clock, and they sat in silence, watching the game. Still holding hands. The longer it went on, the more comfortable it felt. The more familiar.
The more Nate wasn’t sure he could learn to live without it when this whole charade finally ended.
Then Ramsey said, “You were surprised I suggested this.”