The last thing Jordan needed was to hang aroundLane.
Lane was smart enough—or experienced enough?—to know where the line was between raising hell and getting kicked off the team. But Jordan wasn’t, and he’d take it too far. Lane would probably laugh the whole way, right up until the worst scenario.
“Heard this place was pretty sick,” Jordan said.
“You wanna play?” Nate said, trying to be casual, gesturing towards the table.
Jordan shot him an unimpressed look. “Pool?”
“They’ve got darts too,” Duke said, though Nate already thought combining Jordan’s recklessness with sharp, pointy objects was a disaster waiting to happen.
“Who’s winning?” Jordan asked, gesturing to the table.
“Not Bishop,” Lane said, before Nate could speak up. “He’s distracted.”
“Yeah?” Jordan glanced over at him. “What do you have to be worried about?”
“Not worried,” Nate said.Annoyed. Preoccupied. Frustrated—sexually and otherwise.
“Something,” Lane said knowingly. He shot Nate a sideways glance. “He wants to fuck the hot hockey player, but he thinks it’s a bad idea.”
Nate snorted. Lane was so right and so wrong, impossibly at the same time. “No, I don’t.”
“So why don’t you?” Jordan asked.
When they’d first met, Nate had been worried that Jordan would be one of those guys who hadn’t gotten the memo and still carried around a hard kernel of homophobia, buried deep down. But it turned out, he didn’t give a shit, he just cared about having a good time, wallowing in his newfound money and celebrity. Expecting that he’d be the second coming of linebacker Jesus the moment he stepped onto the field.
And hewasgood, that was part of the issue. He was almost as good as he thought he was, even.
“It’s complicated,” Nate said.
Jordan smirked. “Seems pretty straightforward to me. Don’t be such a square, Bishop.”
It was not what Nate had expected—or wanted—but if Jordan making fun of how boring he was kept him out of the worst of the hell he could raise, then Nate would take it.
“Play me, and if you win, I’ll go over and talk to him,” Nate said. He had no intention of losing or of talking to Ramsey, again.
“Heishot,” Jordan said.
Trevor scoffed. “You’re fucking straight, Atkinson.”
Jordan just raised his hands in mock surrender. “But not blind.”
It was annoying, but not particularly surprising when even the straight bro-dudes on Nate’s football team could see themselves making an exception for Ramsey.
“Come on,” Lane said persuasively, nudging Jordan. “Bishop’s been off all night. It’s your fucking time, Jordo.”
Trevor held out his cue and Jordan accepted it, and Nate took that to mean it was on.
After racking the balls, he looked over at Jordan. “So, what do I get ifIwin?”
Jordan shrugged but Nate had an idea.
“You’ve been off all night. You’re not gonna win,” Lane boasted.
Yeah, he had. But if the price of losing was having to go talk to Ramsey again, he was going to fucking win.
“IfIwin,” Nate said, “you’re gonna hang out with me this week.”
