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,readyenough, 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, whichwassomething 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 inheriteddidfeel 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.”
