Just another one of those truths he’d cloaked in lies.
Nate stepped up to the bar, not even glancing at the menu, thick midnight blue paper embossed with gold lettering. It was fancy, a reflection of the surroundings they were in, but Nate didn’t need any of that classy shit. He just needed a drink, a useless attempt to forget the way Ramsey had tasted.
The bartender looked at him, and he just tapped the shiny wood finish of the bar. “Rum,” he said. “And keep it coming.”
He took one shot and then another, but the ugly knot in his stomach refused to loosen.
Lane leaned against the bar next to him. “He’s damn hot, isn’t he?” he murmured under his breath.
Nate didn’t have to ask who Lane was talking about. “I don’t know,” he said, because that was safer than either being honest—he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, and that’s not even why I want him so bad—or lying and claiming that he wasn’t. Lane would tell him he was blind, and then despite his own stupidity,probably guess why Nate refused to admit what was so fucking obvious.
“Oh come on, dude, he’shot. And interested. He keeps looking over here. Maybe time to break your dry streak?”
Nate didn’t know which was worse: that Lane had decided that Ramsey was interested inhimor that he wasn’t aware that Ramsey was entirely, one-hundred-percent, to blame for kicking off Nate’s spell in the first place.
“Nah,” Nate said, picking up the beer he’d asked the bartender for. If he took as many shots as he wanted, he’d probably end up saying, ordoing, something he shouldn’t.
“Why not? You don’t like blonds?” Lane wondered.
Nate told himself he was not going to be a dick. He wasnotgoing to ask Lane ifheliked blonds. Specifically sandy blonds like Trevor.
It would be an excellent change of subject because nobody ever got Lane worked up like Trevor did.
“Just not in the mood,” Nate said. “It was a long week of practice.”
Lane nodded in agreement. “Well, if you’re not going to, would you mind if I . . .” He gestured in the direction of Ramsey, who appeared to be giving drink recommendations to Cam, Dawson, and Trevor.
Nate felt hot and cold all over. “Uh.” How could he say no? And how could he stand by and say nothing while Lane went over there and hit on him?
“I’ll let you think about it,” Lane said, picking up his drink and patting Nate on the shoulder. “’Cause I can just imagine you’re gonna stare at him a few more minutes and change your mind.”
Nate wanted to tell Lane that hewasn’tfucking staring, but before he could get the words out, Lane was gone.
Before he could decide what he was now going to say to Lane later—because he sure as fuck wasn’t going to changehis mind, and he couldn’t imagine Ramsey wanting a repeat—Ramsey suggested they head to their private room. Nate couldn’t come up with a good reason to stay out here, so he followed, reluctantly.
“This is a pretty sweet setup,” Levi said, and Nate had to agree. He took a spot near the back of the room, a chair closest to the door, and tried to look anywhere but at Ramsey. For Lane, so he wouldn’t be encouraged, but if he was being really honest, for himself, too.
“Told you,” Wes said, smiling. “Ramsey’s the best at finding places like this.”
“And you’re not even from Toronto,” Aidan pointed out.
Ramsey just shrugged, even as Nate tried not to remember howtheirfirst conversation had begun. “No, but Buffalo’s close. And Wes is here, so we’ve met up a bunch. Especially during the last year.”
For a single ugly moment, Nate wondered if that was because Ramsey was sleeping with Wes. That would explain the way he’d reacted so negatively to the revelation of Nate’s identity. He could be caught cheating.
But then Wes made a face, pain flashing in his eyes. “Don’t,” he said, and then Nate remembered that Wes had had a bad breakup.
“Chill, I wasn’t going to mention Marcus,” Ramsey said easily.
“Wes said you were on injured reserve,” Levi said.
For the second time since he’d walked into this bar, Nate froze. This time with his beer halfway up to his lips.
Injured reserve?Nate’s insides curdled as his brain combed through every single second of their hookup in June. Ramsey hadseemedfine. He couldn’t remember seeing him ever limp or pull back. He’d given himself physically one hundred percent. Nate was sure of it, because Nate would’ve noticed, even if he hadn’t thought at that point that Ramsey was a professionalathlete. He’d still been looking at him through a professional athlete’s eyes.
“Yeah. Concussion syndrome,” Ramsey said.
Oh, God. The rum in Nate’s system soured even further.
