Chapter 14
He’d been offering more and more opinions of late—similar to how Nate was feeling more comfortable speaking up when they watched hockey together—but this was a new high.
Have a good game, was the text that kicked off the thread.
Then, looking hot, baby. Followed by, is it wrong to get turned on watching you tackle some other guy to the ground?
Especially when that guy is McCaffrey.
Nate laughed out loud, and several teammates glanced over his way, including Wes.
“He doing it to you now, too?” Wes asked, gesturing towards the phone in Nate’s hand.
“Texting me during the game? Yeah.”
Wes grinned. “It’s a sign of love.”
Nate knew what he meant—that it was a sign that Ramsey gave a shit, not that he loved him—but it was hard to stop his brain, but more his heart, from grabbing onto that turn of phrase and believing it meant what he wanted it to mean.
“Yeah,” Nate agreed. Not asking more. He wouldn’t want to do it here regardless.
He could already sense that the half of the locker room not currently celebrating the win against San Francisco were all paying attention to what he and Wes were discussing.
And Nate didn’t need to give them any more gossip ammunition.
He turned his attention back to the string of texts.
Fucking killer tackle for loss. Shit baby, you’re good at this. You sure you don’t wanna become a hockey player?
Nate laughed again.
Then, you’re gonna have to talk to Jordan again—he was out of position. Gave them that first down, plus more.
Inwardly sighing, Nate scrolled and there it was. He’d had a feeling the cameras had caught him talking to Jordan on the bench after that drive—after the 49ers had scored their only touchdown of the game—and sure enough, there it was.
Shit, of course you already know that. You’re a good C.
The first time Ramsey had referred to him as the “C” Nate had asked what that meant. “Captain,” Ramsey had clarified. “It’s what we call it in that other, real sport.”
Nate had only been able to laugh. Especially now that he knew that Ramsey respected what he did, just liked to give him shit about it.
A pattern that had definitely begun to go both directions.
He seems better after you talked to him. That text came in about fifteen minutes after the last one, about the time it had taken the Thunder to go on their next offensive drive, score a field goal, extending their lead to thirteen.
And yes, when the defense had taken the field again, Jordan had been better, but it was worrisome that he had to keep making these corrections.
He knew he was going to end up having to talk to Sterling about it. Probably Coach Dell too. They would see it all on tape and Nate hoped that Jordan was ready to have a long week of practice.
He could shelter him only so much. Didn’t even want to shelter too much, because no matter how much natural skill Jordan possessed, he was going to have to take coaching better.
It’s still crazy to me how long your shifts are. Wait, they’re not called shifts, right?
Ramsey was getting better at parsing out plays—that was probably entirely due to Wes playing so much tape in their apartment—but his terminology still sucked.
Nope, Ramsey texted next, before Nate could decide they needed to have some kind of sexy flashcard session in bed, I was right. They’re not called shifts. Drives. Huh. That’s weird. You football guys are so weird. Hot, but weird. Also a fan of the pants. Especially you in those pants.
Twenty minutes later, damn baby, you shut them right down. Guess that good luck blowjob did its work.
I know I said it last night, but make sure everyone comes out to Vault tonight. You earned a decent celebration.
Decent? That’s all I (we) get for holding the 49ers to thirteen points?
Could’ve held them to zero, Ramsey texted back.
Nate just laughed, not feeling bad at all about the result or how he’d played. By the time the 49ers had scored their touchdown, the Thunder defense had been hanging back, mainly trying to prevent big chunk plays, which of course, Jordan had essentially given up, by being out of position.
They’d recovered well after that, shutting the 49ers offense back down and only allowing one more field goal in the fourth quarter, but it had been a wake-up call that the game could’ve gone a different direction.
I’ll keep that in mind for next time. Gotta put that work in to earn a legit celebration.
Oh, Ramsey texted back right away, never said it wouldn’t be legit. I’ll meet you down there?
Sounds good.
Before he headed to the showers, he turned to the room and raised his voice, “Big party tonight at Vault. Ramsey wanted me to let everyone know they’re welcome and they’ll be on the door list.”
“Oooh, look at you,” Lane teased, whipping a towel in Nate’s direction, “being Ramsey’s good little errand boy.”
Nate knew it, knew someone might say that, but the truth was, he didn’t mind.
In fact, he liked it. Felt Ramsey’s touch, his presence, resting over him like a cloak.
So it was easier than Lane probably expected for Nate to turn to him with the best shit-eating grin in his arsenal and say, “Better me than you, bud.”
Lane made an outraged noise, but Trevor was laughing next to him, and Nate wondered, not for the first time, when Lane would clue in that maybe what he was looking for was closer to home than he realized. But Nate wasn’t going to be the one to start meddling in the demon twins’ drama.
Not when he was still trying to figure out his own relationship.
Nate took a shower, washing the sweat and dirt of a game away, and after doing some media, headed out in a cab with Lane, Trevor, and Dawson.
“Cam’s going to go grab his dad and meet up with us at Vault,” Dawson explained when Trevor asked where Cameron had gotten to.
“Yeah, you’re usually inseparable,” Trevor pointed out, clearly missing the ironic observation that he and Lane were also usually inseparable. Even as they bickered and gave each other a mountain of shit, Nate realized he couldn’t even picture a time when they hadn’t been right next to each other.
“Speak for yourself,” Dawson retorted, and yeah. Of course he was the guy who was going to say the thing they’d all been fairly careful not to say.
Trevor made a face and Lane chimed in, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Nate soothed.
Lane shot him a look across the bench seat.
Nate had taken one side, and Lane the other, shoving Dawson into the middle because he was smaller.
Dawson had squawked about that, claiming he was big where it counted, and yeah, if you saw the way Cameron was walking around like his head was in the sex clouds all day, that was not something anyone was currently doubting.
“You’re not the one who said it,” Lane argued as the cab pulled to a stop outside the alley that contained the Vault entrance.
They all piled out, and Nate sort of hoped that might be the end of it, but of course it wasn’t.
When they got inside, the doorman waving them inside casually, not even bothering to ask their names or if they were on the list. But then Nate had been at the head of the line and he had a feeling Ramsey had made sure that if anyone was going to be recognized from the Thunder, it was going to be Nate.
Still, Ramsey wasn’t anywhere to be seen yet, as they headed towards the bar, and Nate pulled out his phone, shooting him a quick, where you at? text before the bartender could approve him for his order.
But before he could answer, Lane pounced first. “What was that about, in the cab?” he asked Nate in a low voice, sliding in at least two inches closer so they wouldn’t be overheard.
“Seriously?” Nate asked, glancing up and clocking where Trevor was. Yeah, unsurprisingly, not that far away. Which meant that Lane at least suspected what Dawson had been talking about, and he didn’t want Trevor to overhear when he asked about it.
Nate mentally sighed. He was going to need to send Deacon a very nice bottle of whiskey or something to make up in arrears for all the difficulty he probably had caused him when he’d been young and very stupid.
Was it not enough that he had to deal with Jordan’s idiocy but now Lane was going to add to it too?
“What?” Lane whined. “You know I don’t like it when people say mysterious shit.”
“It was not that mysterious,” Nate said, after giving the bartender his order. “You know exactly what Dawson was saying.”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking,” Lane said sulkily.
“Okay, you’re ninety-five-percent sure you knew and wanted that five percent certainty.”
“I just don’t know why it’s a big deal. We’re friends.”
“You’re brothers,” Nate reminded him.
“Stepbrothers,” Lane retorted instantly, which really, didn’t that say it all? Nate really was about five seconds away from straight-up demanding Lane think about why that clarification was so key, but then he felt a hand slide up his arm, intimate and sure.
He glanced over at Ramsey, his cobalt blue sweater making his blue eyes impossibly even bluer.
“Hey,” Ramsey said, “congrats.” And Nate didn’t waste a moment, leaning in and kissing him. He kept it brief, unsure how Ramsey felt about obvious PDA—though he could probably guess. Next to him, Lane made a frustrated noise, and a second later he was gone.
“Is he okay?” Ramsey asked, settling easily into the place Lane had occupied next to him at the bar. It felt so right, so natural, to wrap an arm about Ramsey’s waist and tuck him in next to him.
Ramsey went easily so he must not have minded either.
“Oh, he’s demon twin-ing again.”
“Demon twin-ing?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve missed that he and Trevor, his stepbro, have got some real tension between them. Tension of the sexual variety.”
“Oh yes, that,” Ramsey said somewhat dismissively. “Don’t tell me you’re going to get in the middle of that.”
“Trust me, I don’t want to,” Nate said. Then paused. “Wait a minute. Are you—you—seriously suggesting that I shouldn’t be meddling?”