Chapter 7 #3
“Watching hockey? Holding hands? Having sushi at my place?”
“Doing this at all,” Ramsey clarified. “But that’s why. It’s . . .it sucks sometimes.”
“What? Being a victim of your own act?”
Ramsey shot him a hot glare.
“What?” Nate retorted. “You are, kinda.”
“What’s annoying is how perceptive you are.”
“But if I wasn’t perceptive, I wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be here.” Of course, Nate knew that he bought every second of Ramsey’s time and attention with that inherent understanding. Didn’t mean he liked it, though.
Was it so wrong to want Ramsey to want to spend time with him not because he felt seen by Nate, but because he just plain fucking liked him?
“True,” Ramsey said, sounding more cautious than normal. Like he was going to pick every word out of his mouth. But then he didn’t say anything else.
And it sucked, sure, but shutting Ramsey up sucked even more.
“Explain this to me,” Nate said, blindly waving at the screen.
“You want me to explain a power play to you?”
Maybe Nate should be embarrassed, because he actually knew what that was.
“Sure,” he said.
“It happens,” Ramsey said, faux seriousness oozing from every word he said, “when someone from the other team is very, very naughty and gets punished for it.”
Nate barked out a laugh. “Seriously?”
“You seriously wanted me to tell you what a power play is,” Ramsey retorted fondly. “I told you, that stupid football player routine doesn’t work on me.”
“Okay. Fair.”
The Wild’s power play ended, still no score, and to Nate’s surprise, Ramsey spoke up again. “I will tell you about offensive zone entries, if you’re interested.”
He said it so casually, like he wouldn’t care one way or the other. But Nate saw it for the olive branch that it was, and there was never going to be any circumstances he didn’t accept it.
“Sure,” Nate said.
He followed about seventy percent of Ramsey’s detailed lecture, which Nate thought was pretty impressive, considering that he’d only been watching hockey for less than two months.
“Why aren’t they trying to do that now?” he asked, gesturing to the screen, after Ramsey finished.
“Oh, that’s the fourth line,” Ramsey said.
“So? Do they not count? Do they not try to score?”
Ramsey shrugged. “Sure, they do. But they eat up minutes. They keep the other team from scoring, but generally those guys aren’t exactly scoring powerhouses.
” He turned towards Nate, and he felt fully relaxed now.
“You know you have starters, and how sometimes for a play or two a backup comes in to give the starters a breather?”
Nate nodded.
“Well, that’s what the fourth line—and sometimes the third line—is for. The top six, they’re the major players. The starters.”
“What are you?” Nate caught himself just in time from asking what were you?
Ramsey barked out a laugh. “Not a forward. I play defense.”
“Legit,” Nate said, squeezing his hand. With someone else he might’ve fist-bumped them, maybe as an excuse to touch them if he liked them, but he was already holding Ramsey’s hand.
“It’s a little different in hockey.”
“You don’t say,” Nate said dryly.
Ramsey grinned. “We’re allowed to score points.”
“So are we,” Nate retorted, though he had yet to do that in his career. But maybe someday he’d hit the end zone with a fumble or an interception.
Someday soon, hopefully.
“Not like us,” Ramsey argued. “And we get to run the offense, when our team’s on the power play.”
“Did you do that?”
“Yeah, I ran the power play at Portland U. And right before I got hurt, I was transitioning from the second to the first power play for the Wolves.” Ramsey sighed.
“That sucks,” Nate said, “but you’re going to get back to that.” What else was there to say? Maybe he couldn’t promise anything, but he wanted to. Anything to erase that hateful wrinkle between Ramsey’s eyebrows.
“Soon, maybe,” Ramsey said, the edge of his voice suddenly rough. He didn’t move away, but Nate could feel the line of his body tense up.
With anyone else he was dating—or “dating”?—Nate would know how to divert the subject, or even cheer them up. But if he kissed Ramsey again . . .well, he couldn’t do it and not mean it.
Which meant he needed to do something else. Anything else.
“Uh, I bet the food is nearly here,” he said.
That’s so shitty; couldn’t you do better?
But he couldn’t, because the game was currently on a commercial break, and what was he supposed to do? Ask Ramsey to talk about it, when he clearly didn’t want to?
Ramsey looked over at him, wry smile blooming across his face. “God, you are kind of shitty at this. What are you gonna ask me about, the weather next? It’s Toronto. It’s balls cold, and it’s gonna get colder and then colder still.”
“I thought I was so good you couldn’t stay away,” Nate said with faux outrage.
Ramsey rolled his eyes, but he’d relaxed, enough.
“Seriously, though, the food should be here shortly.” And when he checked his phone, sure enough, he’d gotten a notification that the delivery guy should be here any minute. He was just about to open his mouth and tell Ramsey this, when the doorbell chimed—the concierge with the food, no doubt.
“I got it,” Ramsey said, jumping up before Nate could.
Nate half-expected Ramsey to bring the bags of food to the living room and they’d spread it out on the coffee table, but he didn’t. He took it to the kitchen island instead, making himself at home in Nate’s condo, going through every cupboard until he found plates.
“Do you mind if I have a beer?” Nate asked, making a mental note that if—when—they did this again, he’d have better non-alcoholic beverage options.
Ramsey shot him a look over the plastic containers he was unpacking from the bags. “Why would I?”
“No reason,” Nate said lightly, detouring to the fridge and grabbing one, popping the top.
“If you start treating me like someone who’s broken, I’m gonna break you,” Ramsey retorted.
Nate considered saying that he’d be shocked if Ramsey was able to, and then he realized that Ramsey wouldn’t need to best someone physically to break them.
He’d probably have a half dozen ways in the back of his mind that would destroy Nate’s life, creatively and completely, and Nate would never be the wiser.
He must have seen that knowledge dawn on Nate’s face, because Ramsey just nodded in satisfaction and said, “Exactly.”
“Okay, I won’t,” Nate said, settling down on the barstool next to Ramsey’s. If he was different—more like, if this thing between them was different—he might tuck his ankle around Ramsey’s. Enjoy the feeling of them touching all through dinner.
But this thing between them wasn’t different. He’d agreed to it, even though Nate knew it might be like an exercise in frustration and denial.
So far, that was seeming pretty accurate.
They were halfway through the significant haul of sushi, Nate trying to focus on eating and not on the deft way Ramsey maneuvered his chopsticks, when Ramsey spoke up. “Wes does that.”
“Wes does what?” Nate asked, not sure he was following.
“Treats me with kid gloves, like I’m broken and I won’t ever get fixed. Like a stray dog that got lost and won’t ever be found.”
Nate spluttered. “You’re not lost, and even if you were—you said it yourself, it’s not forever.”
“He means well. And sometimes it does feel good. But most of the time it just drives me nuts.”
“Then why are you here?”
The corner of Ramsey’s mouth quirked up. “Believe it or not, it was worse being back in Buffalo.”
Ramsey didn’t say it, but it was clear that despite Wes’ hovering, which Ramsey himself said got old, that it was somehow better than being alone.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not—” Nate cut himself off.
Ramsey knew he was perceptive—that he saw through a lot of his bullshit.
But he didn’t need to point it out, blatant and cruel.
Not like that. “I’m glad you’re not there,” he repeated, finishing the sentence in a way that softened it, at least a little. “Glad you’re here,” he added.
Ramsey smiled, small but real. “Yeah, me too.”