Chapter 11 #2
The Eagles set up for the field goal attempt and after grabbing some Gatorade, Nate headed in the direction of where Jordan was slumped on the bench, one of the backups excitedly re-narrating the play, adding comments in about how fucking amazing it had been.
It had been really good, but Jordan didn’t need this backup inflating his ego even more, especially not when Nate had to lay down some hard truths.
“Yeah,” Nate said as he approached, “it was a really fucking great play, wasn’t it?”
The backup nodded emphatically, eyes a little wider now that he realized who’d spoken. “Sure was,” he agreed.
“Shouldn’t have come to that, though.” He gave Jordan a hard look. “Barkley shouldn’t have been able to rip that run off at the beginning.”
Jordan shrugged mechanically, the light in his eyes dimming a little.
God, Nate really fucking hated this part of his job.
But in this case, it was better him than Sterling, who would come down like a ton of bricks, with none of the subtlety needed to soften the blow.
Some guys handled that okay, but it was becoming clear to Nate that Jordan was not one of those guys.
The backup melted away, heading further down the bench like he already had an inkling of how this conversation was going to go.
“You were out of position,” Nate said. Maybe more bluntly than he’d intended, but what else was there to say?
“Receiver ran a pick on me,” Jordan said. “Got me tied up a little. Was a second too late to intercept Barkley.”
“And you were still out of position,” Nate said. If he’d been in the right spot, even a receiver—especially a receiver—shouldn’t have been able to disrupt their defensive play.
“You think so,” Jordan complained.
Nate huffed out a frustrated breath. There were times he wanted to just leave Jordan to Sterling’s not-very-tender care. Let him deal with him. Instead of Nate, who kept trying to be a friend. Who kept trying to give him the room and the grace Nate knew he needed to grow.
He wasn’t doing it for Jordan’s thanks, but he wished that Jordan might at least recognize that it could be a lot, lot worse.
“I know so,” Nate said.
“I dealt with it in the end, didn’t I?” Jordan retorted.
Okay, that was something, at least. At least Jordan seemed to realize Nate was right. Didn’t want to admit it straight out, but he at least saw it.
Nate wasn’t surprised though, because again, Jordan had the football brain he needed. He just didn’t fucking use it enough. Let his ego get in the way.
“An unbelievable play doesn’t cancel out every mistake,” Nate reminded him.
Jordan made a face. “Whatever, man,” he said.
Nate walked away not sure if he’d made a dent. He was hopeful, at least, but not convinced.
Still, when they took the field after Aidan took the Thunder’s offense down the field, Dawson hitting a matching field goal, it seemed that Nate’s optimism wasn’t misplaced, because Jordan’s position was better.
This time they didn’t let Barkley rip off a big run, and after only one first down, the Eagles were forced to punt.
It was one of those games, Nate thought as the final minutes ticked down, that left you weary and exhausted to the very marrow of your bones. Each and every yard for both teams had been hard fought.
They hadn’t given up another big run to Saquon Barkley, and they hadn’t even given up a big play to Hurts, but the special teams guys had given up a big punt return in the third quarter and that had set them up for a fairly easy touchdown, no matter what Nate and his guys had tried to do to stop it.
And for the first time in what felt all season, Aidan and the offense had been stymied, barely able to put drives together.
Cam was getting more work as a punter than he had all season.
Games like this happened. It was just football. Sometimes the breaks didn’t fall your way, and a team was better suited or even better prepared to handle what you were good at. That seemed to be the case today.
Nate had just hoped that in the end, it might go their way. But it didn’t.
They lost by three, the Eagles hitting one last field goal.
Nate’s body ached as he tipped his head back in the showers.
He dressed, dealing briefly with the media questions, and half an hour later, they were filing onto the plane, a quiet, subdued bunch.
It was only their second loss of the year, but that didn’t mean it didn’t suck either.
Especially because it felt like this one should have been the Thunder’s kind of game.
Even Jordan, joining the card players at the back of the plane, was quiet-ish.
As he slumped into his seat, Nate was grateful because he didn’t have the energy to fucking deal with his bullshit tonight.
He pulled out his phone and turned it on, letting all the messages filter in.
One from his dad, telling him that he’d played great, and sometimes the breaks didn’t go their way.
Another from his agent, congratulating him on his two tackles for loss and his sack in the fourth quarter.
Wisely, Ian didn’t bring up the actual game result, because they’d been together a long time, and he had to know that if Nate had to choose between individual stats and team success, he’d pick the latter every single fucking time.
A text from Deacon. Good game, tough loss, was all it said. Deacon would understand. Deacon always understood.
Nate scrolled through the rest of the texts—various friends and family members peppered with some old college teammates and even a few from guys he’d played with on the Condors—but his thumb froze when he got to one particular text.
He hadn’t expected to get one from Ramsey, and when he opened their conversation, his stomach fluttered, because there was way more than just one.
Ramsey had clearly been texting him throughout the whole game.
There were easily a dozen texts here, and Nate could easily identify what had driven Ramsey to send each and every one.
He’d started with something about Jordan being out of position—Nate would have to give him some shit for watching enough football this year to know that much—and then he praised him for that crazy batted pass of Brown’s.
He made a comment or two about Nate’s prowess, including his third quarter sack, that made Nate’s heart beat a little bit faster, and then he wrapped up the whole analysis of the game by only saying one thing.
Hard fought loss. Keep your head up.
The plane took off, and the plane quieted more.
While Nate was scrolling back and through the messages, reading them three, four, five times—that last time through was between him and his phone—another text popped in.
Don’t kill the rookie, okay? He’s going through it.
Nate hummed under his breath. This wasn’t the first time Ramsey had made an allusion to understanding what Jordan was going through.
He wanted to know why Ramsey believed it. Wanted to understand what Ramsey had seen that Nate had somehow missed.
Thanks, Nate replied, and I’ll take that under advisement.
Knew I picked a smart guy to fake date, Mr. Big Vocabulary.
But before Nate could reply that he might be a football player, but he wasn’t stupid.—he’d gone to college, and unlike some of his teammates, he’d actually gone to some of his classes—another text arrived.
Seriously, though. Camera caught you giving him a lecture after that first drive, and I hope you took it easy on him.
Why should I? Nate asked, really curious what Ramsey would say.
Because you’re not an asshole like the other captain. Also—that’s so fucking weird. Who makes the decisions if you’re both captains?
You know who gets the final say and it’s not me, Hockey Guy. The vet always.
But Ramsey hadn’t answered his question, and now Nate had even more so he texted again. Why do you think Sterling’s an asshole?
Vibes, Ramsey said, and the way Jordan tenses whenever he looks at him.
Shit, so it wasn’t just his antenna perking up about how uneasy Jordan was about Sterling.
Not just me, then.
If it makes you feel better, I don’t think it’s anything the guy’s done or said that’s put the rookie’s back up.
You wanna explain? Nate asked.
Of course, though, Ramsey was slippery.
He should have one of those signs near him at all times. Slippery when wet.
But he should really, really not thinking about a wet Ramsey, especially not on a plane full of his teammates and coaches. Especially not after a bad loss.
That way lay absolute insanity.
He was already going out of his mind, trying to keep his hands and his thoughts to himself.
Every casual touch Ramsey gave him lit him up from the inside, and at one point, Nate wasn’t sure how much more he could take without breaking and doing something he absolutely shouldn’t.
The worst part of it was that he was fairly certain that Ramsey wouldn’t even be disappointed. It even seemed like Ramsey might actually welcome it, which was not doing Nate’s peace of mind any favors.
Ramsey finally replied. Sorry, he said, I had to talk Wes off the cliff. And no, not really.
The thoughts flashing through his brain like uncooperative flashcards—Ramsey wet, Ramsey laughing up at him, Ramsey naked in bed underneath him, Ramsey’s lips against his cheek—made Nate reckless.
He wanted to claim that he’d tried to avoid it, but if he was being really honest, it hadn’t been so hard to break him down.
If I was there, I bet I could get you to tell me.
Probably, Ramsey texted back. Too bad you’re not. Sounds like a fun time.
Nate groaned under his breath, his head hitting the seat cushion behind him. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Ramsey was trying to seduce him. But if he was, wouldn’t Nate know it? And if he was, wouldn’t he have suggested something else besides fake dating?
Not for the first time, Nate wished he understood the guy a little better—even though Nate had a feeling that he understood him better than most.
Don’t tease me, Nate texted back.
No. Besides, you started it.
Nate typed out one letter at a time, deliberate and slow.
And I’ll finish it, but he before he hit Send, he sat there for a minute and just stared at the message.
At what it would mean. Was he just slotting into the place Ramsey wanted him to be?
Going along the path Ramsey had laid out for him already?
And if he was, why was that so terrible?
They already knew how good the sex would be. Nate had a feeling that it might be even better, now that they were getting to know each other.
But what was going to happen when Ramsey went back to hockey and Nate had to shake himself out of the daydream he was currently floating through?
Nate didn’t know, and that was the thought that made him delete the text, one letter at a time.
You okay there? Ramsey sent.
No, Nate wanted to send. You’re changing everything. You’re changing me. And I can’t even hate it.
But he didn’t send that either.