Chapter 8 #2
Nate didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t tell Ramsey in front of Jordan that he had no intention of spending any longer here than he had to, and he also didn’t want to tell Jordan that Ramsey wasn’t drinking. That was always Ramsey’s secret to share.
“Alright,” Nate said, giving in. “I’ll go grab us something to drink.” He didn’t really want to leave Ramsey alone with Jordan—though he wasn’t entirely sure which one he was most worried about—but he’d go himself to get the drinks, so Ramsey wasn’t forced to talk about his injured reserve status.
“Put it on my tab,” Jordan suggested, grinning. He patted the chair next to him. “What did you say your name was again?”
“I didn’t,” Ramsey said smoothly, “but I’m Ramsey Andresen.”
“Jordan Atkinson,” Jordan said. He was still staring at Ramsey like he was an object he didn’t quite know how to quantify. And dude, the guy had no idea.
Ramsey looked up at Nate after he sat, and gave Nate a slight nod, telling him that he was okay.
And of course he was okay. Ramsey was endlessly adaptable, always at home everywhere, charming and at-ease, even at a strip club when he had no interest in the women parading in front of them.
Nate turned to go to the bar and realized after he’d given the order to the bartender—a beer and a sparkling water with lime—that the ultra-confident Ramsey was the act.
Was he really okay underneath it? Nate didn’t know.
He’d begun to get tiny glimpses of the real insecurities and fears that lay beneath the front, and instead of scaring him away or turning him off, Nate only wanted to know more.
But God only knew what Jordan might say while he was gone, so he grabbed the drinks as quickly as they were set on the bar and headed back.
“Your boy’s a hockey player?” Jordan said as he handed Ramsey his glass. “Seriously, man?”
“Seriously,” Nate said.
Ramsey chuckled under his breath. “You sure this kid’s straight, Nathaniel?”
“Fuck you, I love pussy,” Jordan said, full of righteous energy.
“Nobody’s doubting that,” Nate said dryly.
“You’re just . . .like really fucking pretty,” Jordan said, eyeing Ramsey up and down.
Ramsey barely glanced back, almost bored with the amazement in Jordan’s voice. And maybe he was. Maybe this shit happened to him every single day, and having people pant after him was beyond even routine, just totally boring.
“Doesn’t mean I couldn’t kick your ass,” Ramsey said easily.
And Nate, that night back in June, had seen his naked body.
Had seen the strength of it. Jordan was strong, too.
Nate knew it, because he shared a weight room with the guy, but Ramsey’s body was a weapon designed for one purpose.
He hadn’t seen it back in June, because he hadn’t ever watched more than a few minutes of hockey before.
But now that he had, Nate understood the specifics.
“Oooooh, I like him,” Jordan said. He nudged Ramsey. “Maybe you should be worried, Big Dog.”
Ramsey raised an eyebrow. “Big Dog?”
Nate flushed. “An old nickname.”
“Dude, no, he’s been Big Dog since he was in college.”
“Thought I could leave it there,” Nate grumbled. He had, but then Jordan had showed up. He hadn’t gone to Wisconsin, but Indiana, which was in the same conference, and Nate had been a legend in some of those locker rooms.
Jordan had cut his collegiate football teeth on stories about Big Dog, and so when he’d showed up here in Toronto, that was how he thought of Nate. And of course, that meant the nickname came back in force.
“Oh, it’s adorable,” Ramsey said, shooting him a sly smile. “Gonna call you that from now on instead of Nathaniel.”
“Sick, dude,” Jordan said.
“I take it back. Actually, I don’t hate Nathaniel at all,” Nate said.
“He’s kind of a whiner, isn’t he? Is he actually . . .you know . . .fun?” Jordan asked Ramsey.
This was outrageous but not really all that wrong. Nate was boring. Boring made for a damn good football player, which mattered more than being the entertainment for some rookie. But he wasn’t sure what Ramsey would say.
“Oh, he’s plenty fun,” Ramsey said coyly, shooting Nate a hot look from under his lashes. The kind of look that meant, we’ve fucked and we’re gonna fuck again later.
God, Nate wished the second part of that was actually true.
But if he took Ramsey to bed, every line would blur, even fuzzier than they already were.
“Oooooh,” Jordan said, punctuated by a loud cackle. “So it’s like that, huh?”
Nate couldn’t exactly give Ramsey a nudge and let him know that Jordan was the second biggest gossip in the locker room—second only to Aidan—and tomorrow, at practice, Jordan was going to be opening his big mouth, telling everyone about Big Dog’s date with the hot hockey player.
“It’s like that,” Ramsey agreed, with a sharp nod. He drained the rest of his glass. “We’d better let you get back to your ladies,” he said, standing.
Nate was only halfway done with his beer, but he followed suit, unsure what was going on, but willing to follow Ramsey’s lead.
Ramsey reached down and took Nate’s hand. “See you around, Little Dog,” he said to Jordan with a wink, and then he was leading slash towing Nate out of the club.
“What was that about?” Nate managed to hold his question in until they were outside, Ramsey calling them another Uber.
Ramsey glanced up from his phone. “What was what about?”
“We didn’t need to stay.”
Ramsey didn’t say anything, so Nate plowed ahead. “And we didn’t need to lay it on that thick for him either. He’s the second biggest gossip in the locker room and—”
Ramsey looked up again. His bluish-silver eyes were gleaming, shadows falling on the unreal curves and planes of his face. “And tomorrow, he’s going to crow about how he met the guy you’re dating and I’m hot and charming and a hockey player? Yeah, I know.”
Nate should stop being astounded by the way Ramsey just knew things.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Ramsey teased, nudging him.
“I live with Wes, remember? And while he can be absolute shit at communication, he talks a lot to avoid talking about the thing he doesn’t want to talk about, so I know a lot about the team.
Hadn’t put a name with a face before now, though. So that’s Jordan Atkinson.”
“My pet problem,” Nate grumbled.
“He’s not a problem,” Ramsey said, and yeah, he still wasn’t used to hearing these truth bombs drop from Ramsey’s lips.
“What do you mean, he’s not a problem? He is.
He totally led me to believe there was a problem at the club.
He’s missed meetings. Curfew. He practically lives at the strip clubs.
He wants to go rogue on the field and isn’t particularly interested in being coached, because he already thinks he’s God’s fucking gift to a defensive scheme.
Sterling and Coach Dell are both on my ass about it. He’s a total fucking problem.”
But Ramsey just shrugged again. “Not really.” He gestured towards the street as a car pulled up to the curb. “Look, there’s your car.”
“My car?”
“Yeah, I got something to take care of too,” Ramsey said. “An actual problem. So I’m gonna go a different direction.”
Nate was still trying to parse that the date was over, so abruptly, when Ramsey reached over, pulling the rear car door open. “Text me when you get home,” he said, a casual order.
He might’ve argued with that, but it was easier to just nod, and say, “You too, okay?”
He went to slide in, but at the last moment Ramsey caught his hand and Nate turned back.
“You—” Ramsey murmured and then shook his head fiercely, like he was trying to clear it. But whatever the point of it, it must not have worked, because he was leaning in and brushing a brief kiss against Nate’s cheek.
Nate froze, but Ramsey was already letting go, and the driver was meeting his eyes in the rearview, asking to confirm the address.
Then the door was closing behind him, and Ramsey was gone.
He nearly craned his head, to see if he could catch just the figure of him, but he held himself back at the last moment. It wasn’t going to provide him any additional clarity on what the fuck had just happened.
When he got home, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, opening it to his text convo with Ramsey. But he didn’t know what to say. He wanted to ask, why did you do that? Nobody was watching.
But if he asked the question, he might get an answer, and not knowing felt like it might be more preferable to hearing something he didn’t want to hear.
Maybe it hadn’t even been anything. Maybe Ramsey kissed his friends on the cheek all the time. Maybe that was the typical way he said goodbye to Wes, and when he kissed Nate, it didn’t mean anything.
He should just ignore it. Pretend it didn’t happen. But the feeling of it was still spooling through him, the imprint of Ramsey’s lips against his skin.
For one more moment, Nate let himself feel it, and then he pushed it aside. They’d had a good night, despite all his frustrations with Jordan, and he wanted to focus on that. Not on what he hadn’t gotten.
This was good, and this was enough, and maybe sometime, in the distant future, Ramsey would be a friend. Probably not a close friend, because it was clear his future was playing hockey, even if he wasn’t doing that right now.
His brain reassembled into the correct order, he sent a text. Back home. Don’t forget to do the same.
Ramsey sent a little saluting emoji and then added, you’re not a bad casual date, Nathaniel.
And if that jumbled Nate’s orderly brain into a different, much more uncooperative arrangement all over again, well . . .only he knew it.