Sterling would say something, and while they were both captains, both voted to the position by their teammates, Sterling was almost ten years older, in the twilight of his career. Everyone knew this was his last season, and next season, the defense would be all Nate’s.
Maybe Ramsey wouldn’t be there tonight; surely he had to have better things to do than trail after Wes.
Maybe he’d left Toronto and gone back to Buffalo. Maybe he was even back to playing hockey.
Nate pulled his phone out of his pocket and did something he never let himself do.
Googling Ramsey Andresen—when they’d run into each other in August, it hadn’t taken Nate very long after to search “Ramsey hockey” and find out his last name—was a dangerous proposition. But if he didn’t, he wouldn’t know if he’d be around. Wouldn’t be able to prepare himself for the possibility.
There was his face right there in the beginning of the results, that heartbreaking profile that Nate had begun to hate. His pulse always betrayed him when he saw it, racing even though the last thing he wanted was to still be affected by the asshole.
But as Nate scrolled down through the news about him, it didn’t look like Ramsey had come off the long-term injured reserve.
He stayed strong, clicking out of the search results before he could do anything more monumentally stupid like watch his highlights again.
Turned out that the guy was actually a damn good hockey player. Not that Nate would ever admit that out loud. Or admit to spending too many late nights on YouTube with his name in the search bar.
He’d go tonight and pretend, like every other time he saw him, that he didn’t like him. Because he didn’t. Hedidn’t.
Ramsey was a smug, egotistical dickhead, clearly enamored by his own charm.
Reminding himself of that fact, Nate headed out to Vault, catching a cab and taking it downtown.
Sure enough, there he was, in one of the corner booths with Wes again, looking cozy. Diamonds barely glinting out from underneath his collar.
It would be easier if Nate could believe Ramsey was involved with Wes. If he could even believe Ramsey was in love with Wes, even if it was unrequited. But he’d been around them enough that it was obvious there was nothing but platonic feelings there.
Well, at least on Wes’ side. Clearly, Ramsey didn’thavefeelings. He was too shallow for them, like a puddle on the street.
Nate headed to the bar, and the bartender, catching his eye, poured him a few fingers of the sipping rum he favored.
He swirled his glass and glanced around, hoping that someone else would materialize so he didn’t have to go over there.
He got his wish, because a second later, Sterling arrived, sliding up to the bar next to Nate.
“Hey,” he said, nudging Nate. “Great game out there.”
“You said that already,” Nate said. Sterling had told him as the last few minutes of the fourth quarter had ticked by.
“Yeah,” Sterling said, nodding. He looked grimmer than he should, considering the Thunder were riding a four-game win streak to kick off the season.
“What is it?” Nate asked.
Sterling sighed. “I don’t know what to do about Jordan.”
Nate had been afraid it was about Jordan Atkinson, the Thunders’ rookie linebacker. He was aware of how Jordan had missed a meeting, had gotten benched for it for the first series today, and had been vocal about how that was a bullshit punishment.
It wasn’t bullshit. It was necessary, especially for rookies, because they needed to understand the commitment that was required to give to the team if you were going to play professional football. This wasn’t college, where coaches would let shit slide as long as a player performed on the field.
Both Coach Robertson, the Thunders’ head coach, and Coach Dell, the defensive coordinator, weren’t going to stand for Jordan fucking around, no matter how talented he was.
“You talked to him?” Nate asked.
Sterling shot him a look full of frustration. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing his bare head with one of his hands. “I fucking tried. He didn’t want to listen.”
“Of course not,” Nate grumbled. He sipped his rum. This was his fourth season in the NFL, and he’d been around long enough to know that talent only got you so far. He’d seen guys wash out, not because they couldn’t play, but because they couldn’t follow the rules.
Jordan was good, sure, but it was going to take more than some flashy play to stay on this team if he kept fucking around.
