Chapter 15
Ramsey deliberately went out of his way to set this meeting for a time when he knew Wes would be at practice. It wasn’t that Wes wouldn’t be supportive—he’d be the opposite, in fact—but he’d hover.
If he hovered, he’d see exactly how nervous Ramsey was about this conference call, and as much as he usually didn’t mind Wes seeing his vulnerabilities, this felt different.
Not something he could share with others. Instead, this felt like a journey he’d been undertaking by himself, fighting off all the demons in his head with only his own hands and his own wits.
Wes wanted to be there for him. Nate wanted to be too. Ramsey knew that, but he wasn’t ready to share it.
Wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready.
He dressed carefully. When he wasn’t playing, Ramsey usually avoided team-branded merchandise, but today he dug in the back of the guest closet and pulled on one of his Wolves sweatshirts.
The one with his number on it. Forty-three, stamped in white on the black background. Impossible to miss. Impossible to deny.
I’m still a member of this team, it declared, so much louder and so much more obviously than Ramsey would’ve ever felt comfortable doing himself.
His foster dad would’ve told him to do it anyway, but Ramsey was too used to hiding the deepest desires of his heart away.
When he pulled up the meeting invite on his computer, perched on one of the barstools in Wes’ kitchen, his agent was the only other person who’d logged on yet.
“Looking good, Ramsey,” Bartholemew Smith III said, nodding in approval.
He didn’t specifically say that Ramsey’s team-branded sweatshirt with his number stamped over his heart was a smart choice, but he didn’t have to.
He and Barty were a good pair. When Ramsey had needed to sign with an agent pre-draft, he’d met with half a dozen.
Barty had not been among them. Ramsey had potential, yes, and he was going to hockey powerhouse university Portland University, but a defenseman, even an offensively minded defenseman, had not been on his radar.
“Yeah,” Ramsey nodded. That was the beauty of Barty; he understood at least half of Ramsey’s moves. Which might not have been a lot, but it was still more than most people.
“You ready for this?” Barty asked, tapping his fingers on the polished hardwood of his desk.
“Born ready,” Ramsey replied, making sure his voice was steady. Controlling himself the way he’d been doing his whole fucking life.
Barty nodded in approval. He never had to worry about Ramsey going off script. In fact, Ramsey was usually the one making up the script.
That was exactly why, tired of the small mindedness of the agents he’d met with, he had reached out, making himself impossible to avoid.
The move had impressed Barty, and everyone had been surprised when Bartholemew Smith III, used to cherry-picking first overalls and the big superstars in their prime, had signed a d-man not expected to go in the first round at all.
But then, he’d stayed in college, honing his skills, and by the time he’d hit the Wolves’ roster, he’d been the best version of his hockey self.
Good enough, ready enough, that he’d killed it his first season.
Third most points on the team, an exceptional plus-minus.
Finalist for the Calder, even at his relatively old age.
Barty had told him he could get the contract they wanted if Ramsey had delivered.
And Ramsey had delivered, all the way up until the second to the last game of the year, when that asshole from the Sens had taken him out.
“You really were. I’ve got all the reports from Dr. Thompson and also your PT there in Toronto.
Back on the ice, even. You’re going to be ready to come back soon.
” Barty kept his tone mild. Maybe Brock Rossbury wasn’t on the call yet, but that didn’t mean either of them were ever going to let down their guard.
This was all carefully pitched small talk.
He and Barty had already had a phone call yesterday about this meeting and hashed all this out. Discussed every line of those reports.
“That’s the idea,” Ramsey said.
“I still think you should’ve come down here. Weather’s so much better in Florida,” Barty said mildly. “Hayes could’ve gotten you into the Sentinels’ practice facility.”
“I’m good here,” Ramsey said. “At least until I’m ready to go back to Buffalo.”
The video conferencing window chimed, and Brock Rossbury’s face appeared next to Barty’s.
Ramsey straightened.
“Morning, Ramsey. Barty,” Brock greeted them in his mild-mannered way.
Rossbury had not been the GM when the Wolves had drafted him five years ago—that change had happened two seasons ago—but Ramsey liked the guy.
Admired that he also had figured out that you could get more accomplished with honey than with vinegar.
He didn’t yell. Didn’t scream. Even during a string of losses that had essentially taken them out of playoff contention last season.
“You’re looking good. Good color. Strong.” Brock couldn’t tell any of that, probably, but Ramsey had noticed his eyes catching on the number emblazoned on his chest. And when he had, his chin had lifted a bit, the corner of his lips tilting into a small smile.
“Feeling good,” Ramsey said.
“I can’t tell you how glad we all are here to hear that,” Brock said.
Didn’t bother prevaricating at all, which was something Ramsey didn’t quite understand, though he could appreciate it. Could appreciate the lines Brock Rossbury drew in his own organization.
When it had become obvious that the coach he’d inherited did feel like yelling in retaliation for missing the playoffs was only allowed, but acceptable—and not just yelling, but personal attacks and brutal bag skates—Brock had relieved him after the season had drawn to a close.
Ramsey had only talked to the new coach a few times, but he seemed more cut from the same cloth as Brock Rossbury himself, and Ramsey couldn’t wait to play for him.
Though, truthfully, at this point he’d be willing to play for the devil himself if it meant he was back on the ice and back with the team.
“Can’t be more glad than I am,” Ramsey confessed. That was one of his secretly, tightly held truths, but it wasn’t anything Rossbury wouldn’t already expect.
Ramsey was a hockey player. Of course he wanted to play hockey.
“I’m sure,” Rossbury said, smile growing a little more. “Let’s talk about your medical reports. The GyroStim did what we needed it to do, it seems.”
“Yeah,” Ramsey agreed. Barty had been quiet so far but then that wasn’t surprising because it was what he and Barty had agreed on yesterday. Truthfully, he hadn’t really needed Barty here for this; he was only present because it would be weirder if Barty wasn’t.
“Headaches gone. Balance back. Returning to the ice. Your PT specifically put a note that in the few ice sessions you’ve had so far, your drills looked great.” Rossbury paused. “She’s not a coach, of course.”
Ramsey shrugged, as easily as he could. Even though it wasn’t easy at all. “Only a lifelong Leafs fan.”
Rossbury chuckled under his breath. “Poor woman.”
“Trust me, she feels it,” Ramsey said.
“I floated the idea to Barty of sending you to Syracuse for a conditioning stint.”
Yeah, Rossbury had. Ramsey hated the idea of it. He didn’t want to go to the AHL. He wanted to be back on NHL ice. Playing in NHL games. Earning the contract extension he’d signed right before the Sens game.
“I don’t need that.” It was unlike him to be so dead set against something—at least verbally, when working his opponent around to his own opinion was usually far more effective—but Ramsey wasn’t willing to take the chance he couldn’t pull it off and he’d end up in Syracuse for the rest of the season.
It was only mid-November. The NHL had only been playing for six weeks. He could come back by Christmas and play like he’d lost no time at all. Ramsey felt sure of this.
“I know you don’t think you do.”
Ramsey exchanged a quick glance with Barty, who gave him a minute shake of his head. Okay, so Barty hadn’t told Rossbury that Ramsey didn’t want to go to Syracuse, so Rossbury must have figured that out all on his own.
“I—”
“Ramsey, let’s be honest with each other,” Rossbury interrupted with a light, resigned sigh.
He pulled his glasses off and polished them on his shirt.
It was easy to forget he’d been a player himself, because he often looked like a guy who’d only ever crunched numbers, though that was not true.
He’d played for the Wolves himself, for fifteen years.
“I’m being honest,” Ramsey said. He was not going to get annoyed, even as he wanted to. Rossbury didn’t have a clue how much more uncharacteristic honesty he was currently getting from Ramsey.
“You are,” Rossbury agreed. “I know you don’t want to go to Syracuse. But you also want to play hockey. For a long time, I’m going to assume.”
For a long moment, Ramsey wanted very much to hold on to all his cards. On to all his walls. Not let Rossbury see beneath them. It was a habit born of too many childhood lessons. Tough to let go, though he knew he should, especially in this moment.
It took effort to do it. To do it and relax after doing it.
“For a long time,” Ramsey agreed.
“Cliff, the assistant GM, thought Barty here negotiated so tough because he’s Barty, and also because you give a shit about the money, but I told him he was wrong.”
Ramsey twitched. He hadn’t realized that Brock Rossbury was this observant.
“Cliff,” Rossbury continued, “was also under the mistaken impression that Barty runs you, like he does basically all his clients—”
“Hey now,” Barty interrupted, annoyance flashing across his face.
“Barty, we’ve been friends a long time. Don’t try to pretend Ramsey’s like all your other clients.”
Barty shot Ramsey a sympathetic glance. “Alright, I won’t.”