Chapter 9 #2
Ramsey wanted to argue this was also about him, but that argument wasn’t going to do him any favors either. He didn’t need to give Brody any more reasons to be suspicious.
What he couldn’t do was tell Brody he was taking all of this in stride, because if it was real, he wouldn’t be.
“I don’t know how much Wes told you,” Ramsey hedged, instead.
“That you and him kept slicing into each other, before suddenly, you show up one morning and are like, we’re all good and we’re dating now.” Brody paused. “You realize how fucked up that is, right? The one guy who doesn’t like you, and that’s the one you want?”
“That’s not why,” Ramsey protested. Because if that was actually how it was, that would be a little fucked up. Ramsey could imagine his old therapist from his teen years having a field day with that one.
“Then what is it about him? Sure, he’s hot.”
“I’m gonna text Dean and tell him you said that.”
“He told me that he thought he was hot. Your guy’s one of the guys Dean’s been following.”
“See, that’s hot. You know I have a competency kink.”
“I know you do,” Brody said steadily, but still he didn’t sound particularly convinced.
“So maybe that’s why.”
Brody huffed out a laugh, edged with frustration. “Why does it sound like you don’t even know why you like him?”
Ramsey didn’t want to answer that question, because he wasn’t sure Brody was actually wrong.
He was usually so good at parsing through all his emotions and identifying each and every one.
Cataloging them, then slotting them where they could be of the most use.
But Nate had never fit into any of his known boxes.
He’d tried, of course, but Nate was always wiggling away, evading not just analysis but dissection, too.
“Maybe I don’t,” Ramsey finally confessed.
Maybe the truth hiding in the lies would be enough to convince Brody.
Brody was silent for a long moment. “Huh,” he finally said. “Wild. Okay. Maybe you do like him.”
Ramsey was not going to look too closely at the fact that the one thing he’d told his friend that was absolutely true was the one thing that had convinced him this thing with Nate was real.
“Why would I date him if I didn’t? I’ve liked plenty of guys, and I never dated them,” Ramsey insisted.
“But here’s the thing, I’m not sure you really did. You liked that they liked you.”
Ramsey swallowed hard.
Being seen was always a double-bladed pain. It sliced with an unexpected delight, but it could sting, too.
“That’s what I mean,” Brody said reproachfully. “You’ve never done this before. You’re in new ground here. It’s okay to panic about that, a little.”
“But not too much right?” Ramsey asked flatly.
“Or a lot,” Brody corrected gently.
“Well, then if you’re going to allow it.”
“Wes says he’s a good guy. Solid. So I’m not going to worry too much that he’s going to fuck you up,” Brody said.
“Thanks,” Ramsey said wryly.
“And I’m not gonna suggest that Wes warn Nate that you might fuck him up,” Brody added.
“Hey, fuck you,” Ramsey said. He left everyone better off than they were when he’d stumbled onto them. Nate had been the one exception, and he supposed it wasn’t all that surprising that Nate was still the one exception.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Brody reminded him. “And you flailing around, you might hurt him without meaning to.”
“I don’t flail,” Ramsey argued, though in a certain light, what he’d been doing all fall, and then by insanely suggesting they pretend to be getting along—better than just getting along, really—was the textbook definition of flailing around.
“Alright,” Brody soothed. “And you did say your balance was a lot better.”
“As good as it ever was, these days,” Ramsey insisted. And that was true physically. But he did feel off, a little out of step, with Nate. No matter how much he tried to get them on solid ground, it kept wobbling out of his control.
“Good,” Brody said, approval seeping into his voice. At least there was that. Brody was settled. Wes was curious but not in a pointed way that was difficult to handle.
“See, I’m all good,” Ramsey reassured. Brody agreed, to his relief.
But even after Ramsey hung up, he still wasn’t sure that he was balanced. Not really.
There was last night, when he’d kept everything casual and easy and fun, all the way up until he’d needed to say goodbye, and his hands and his mouth had tingled. Desperate, even though it was stupid and pointless, to touch Nate with intention.
He shouldn’t have kissed him, even on the cheek.
But that had felt like the less nuclear option.
Nate hadn’t mentioned it when he’d texted him later, so Ramsey told himself he’d brushed it off, called it the same kind of thing as the hand holding. It wasn’t a big deal.
Except it was, because it felt like Ramsey was learning a new language that he’d never spoken before, and he couldn’t believe how easy it flowed from his mouth.
He’d expected it to be painful and difficult, vowels impossible to form, but it was the exact opposite.
He got ready for his PT appointment and headed out, walking because despite the cold, Ramsey thought he could use the bracing air to clear his head.
Marsha Evans was his physical therapist here in Toronto—recommended by the Wolves organization and seconded by the Leafs—and he’d been working with her for months now. She’d arranged for him to visit the clinic that owned the equipment that Brody had suggested he try out.
She’d been a little skeptical at first, but then she’d read up on Sidney Crosby’s history, and after, she’d become one of GyroStim’s biggest proponents.
“Hey, bud,” she said briskly as he walked into the clinic’s gym and hung his coat up on the hook on the wall. “How’re you feeling?”
They always did this check-in at the beginning of every appointment.
Only once had Ramsey not told her the complete truth about how he’d been feeling, and after he’d nearly fallen twenty minutes later, doing an exercise he probably shouldn’t have been doing, she’d sat him down and given him a blunt lecture.
“Don’t fucking lie to me, ever again,” she’d said.
And he hadn’t.
“Good. Balance good. Not feeling tired or drained. No headache.”
Marsha nodded. “You’ve been making real progress.”
“Chance I could get back on the ice next week,” Ramsey said casually, the opposite of how he actually felt about it.
Marsha looked over at him, her normally no-nonsense face breaking into a bright smile. She knew just how hard he’d worked for this. How much he’d wanted it. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Then he was grinning too, just as big, if not bigger.
“The Wolves have been talking to the Leafs about possibly letting me skate at their practice facility. They’re still working out the arrangements but Dr. Thompson feels like I’ve been doing well enough it won’t possibly trigger a relapse.
” He looked over at Marsha. “I’m assuming you’re going to agree with Dr. Thompson on this. I know you send him reports.”
She shot him a knowing look. “You think I’m kicking your butt but not being honest about it to Dr. Thompson? I’m telling him everything, buddy. Probably even stuff you don’t want him to know.”
It was impossible not to laugh about that. Ramsey didn’t know that he could have, a few months back, when it seemed like he was never going to get better, and he’d be stuck on the sidelines forever, but now that the whole nightmare was nearly in his rearview, he actually could.
“Even that time I almost fell over during—”
Marsha shot him another quelling look. “Oh, I sure did.”
Ramsey made a face. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Why do you think I told you to start having sex horizontally?” Marsha raised an eyebrow. “And I’m gonna expect that you followed instructions.”
“Yeah.” What he didn’t tell Marsha was that he hadn’t hooked up much—or really, at all—since then. That had been the hookup before he’d met Nate, and he’d felt so good that night, he’d been careful.
And then after? Well, he didn’t want to blame his dry spell on Nate, but it was absolutely Nate’s fault. Nate’s fault for being the final nail in the coffin of the guy he’d used to be.
“Come on,” Marsha said, gesturing towards one of the big mats laid out across the floor. “Let’s do your stretches and work on your balance exercises. Maybe you’re nearly cleared for ice time, but that doesn’t mean you’re gonna be phoning it in.”
“I’d never assume that,” Ramsey said, giving her his best serious face.
But she just laughed. “Remember when you thought you could run my shit?”
“I never thought that,” Ramsey claimed as he walked over to the mat, and carefully—he could never be too careful, or take for granted his basic balance, again—went down on one knee and into one of his stretches.
“Who are you kidding?” Marsha crossed her arms over his chest, pinning him with her best no-nonsense look. “You run everyone’s business, all the time.”
Ramsey just shrugged, a little sheepish in a way he wasn’t about his skills, most of the time.
He owned how good he was at working people, at getting what he wanted and needed, and making sure it didn’t just go one way, but that he always returned the favor.
Not many people he’d met saw through him. Wes. Brody, sometimes. Marsha, for sure. And Nate.
Most of all, Nate.
“Come on, pretty boy,” Marsha chided, nudging him with her knee. “Let’s get those stretches in.”
Ramsey re-focused, on what was the most important thing. Not Nate, but hockey.
Specifically, getting hockey back.