But Ramsey only shrugged. “You said it yourself, I’m good at pretending.”
Nate was dying to ask what else he was pretending about, but that felt too personal even for arealfirst date.
“I should text him back.” Nate changed the subject instead, because that was a hell of a lot safer.
Nate stared at his phone screen, unsure what he should say. He never knew what to say to Jordan, and they didn’t understand each other at all. Nate had come into the NFL determined to do anything and everything he needed to be successful. He’d never have dreamed of fucking around the way Jordan was doing. And if he had, Deacon would’ve smacked him upside the head, told him to stop being so fucking stupid, and in thrall of the guy and all his accomplishments, Nate would’ve done it immediately.
But that wasn’t what Jordan was doing.
A second later, he felt the warm press of a body next to his, and he looked over in surprise to see that Ramsey had slid right next to him.
“What are you gonna say?” Ramsey asked, casually, like it wasn’t a big deal that they were pressed together, hip to shoulder.
It was a big deal to Nate. He was lightheaded with the feel of having Ramsey this close, again.
“I don’t know,” Nate confessed. If he’d known before Ramsey entered into his bubble, he definitely fucking didn’t know now.
“Hm.” Ramsey hesitated. “You could tell him to have a good time—”
“But what if hedoes?” Nate asked with a grimace. “He probably fucking will, and then I’ll have to go bail his ass out, and I don’t want to do that.”
“And fuck up our date? Hell no. We have sushi coming, and you’re going to pretend to try to hold my hand on the couch later,” Ramsey said.
Nate swallowed hard. “I am?”
“Well, why wouldn’t you?” Ramsey’s glance over was arch. “Do you not want to hold my hand?”
Nate wasn’t going to answer that question. Not for real. “You ever done that before? Maybe you’re going to be shitty at it.”
Ramsey rolled his eyes. “It’s hand holding. I think I can rock it.”
“Might have to practice,” Nate suggested.
“No advantages for you there,” Ramsey retorted fondly, his smile deepening into something real.
“None whatsoever,” Nate lied, returning the smile.
“We’ll have to do it until we get it right. Have to be convincing to everyone else, right?” Ramsey said.
“That’s the idea.” Nate had to look away. It would be too easy—soeasy—to get lost in Ramsey’s eyes, in the way his body felt pressed against his own.
“So, you can’t tell him to have too much fun,” Ramsey said, like he knew he’d pushed Nate as far as he could. “You could warn him.”
“Ugh, and be accused of being boring and stuffy again? No thanks.”
Ramsey nudged him with his hip. “You aren’t boring and you aren’t stuffy.”
“Tellhimthat,” Nate complained. Not secretly glad at all that Ramsey had said it.
“Next time,” Ramsey promised, then hesitated. “Though the examples I’d probably supply wouldn’t be teammate approved.”
Nate’s skin flushed hot. “Probably not.”
“At least the first—and best—one,” Ramsey added, shooting Nate a look that was vaguely apologetic.
“Right,” Nate said. Like yes, they’d already had sex. He didn’t need the reminder. He thought about it all the time. He’d thought about it all the time even when he’d been trying to resent Ramsey’s presence. Now? It was virtually impossible not to fixate on it constantly.
“You could threaten him,” Ramsey suggested slyly. “Tell him you’re gonna destroy his ass in practice this week if he fucks this up for you.”
