“Yeah, I ran the power play at Portland U. And right before I got hurt, I was transitioning from the second to the first power play for the Wolves.” Ramsey sighed.
“That sucks,” Nate said, “but you’re going to get back to that.” What else was there to say? Maybe he couldn’t promise anything, but he wanted to. Anything to erase that hateful wrinkle between Ramsey’s eyebrows.
“Soon, maybe,” Ramsey said, the edge of his voice suddenly rough. He didn’t move away, but Nate could feel the line of his body tense up.
With anyone else he was dating—or “dating”?—Nate would know how to divert the subject, or even cheer them up. But if he kissed Ramsey again . . .well, he couldn’t do it and not mean it.
Which meant he needed to do something else. Anything else.
“Uh, I bet the food is nearly here,” he said.
That’s so shitty; couldn’t you do better?
But he couldn’t, because the game was currently on a commercial break, and what was he supposed to do? Ask Ramsey to talk about it, when he clearly didn’t want to?
Ramsey looked over at him, wry smile blooming across his face. “God, you are kind of shitty at this. What are you gonna ask me about, the weather next? It’s Toronto. It’s balls cold, and it’s gonna get colder and then colder still.”
“I thought I was so good you couldn’t stay away,” Nate said with faux outrage.
Ramsey rolled his eyes, but he’d relaxed, enough.
“Seriously, though, the food should be here shortly.” And when he checked his phone, sure enough, he’d gotten a notification that the delivery guy should be here any minute. He was just about to open his mouth and tell Ramsey this, when the doorbell chimed—the concierge with the food, no doubt.
“I got it,” Ramsey said, jumping up before Nate could.
Nate half-expected Ramsey to bring the bags of food to the living room and they’d spread it out on the coffee table, but he didn’t. He took it to the kitchen island instead, making himself at home in Nate’s condo, going through every cupboard until he found plates.
“Do you mind if I have a beer?” Nate asked, making a mental note that if—when—they did this again, he’d have better non-alcoholic beverage options.
Ramsey shot him a look over the plastic containers he was unpacking from the bags. “Why would I?”
“No reason,” Nate said lightly, detouring to the fridge and grabbing one, popping the top.
“If you start treating me like someone who’s broken, I’m gonna break you,” Ramsey retorted.
Nate considered saying that he’d be shocked if Ramsey was able to, and then he realized that Ramsey wouldn’t need to best someone physically to break them. He’d probably have a half dozen ways in the back of his mind that would destroy Nate’s life, creatively and completely, and Nate would never be the wiser.
He must have seen that knowledge dawn on Nate’s face, because Ramsey just nodded in satisfaction and said, “Exactly.”
“Okay, I won’t,” Nate said, settling down on the barstool next to Ramsey’s. If he was different—more like, if this thing between them was different—he might tuck his ankle around Ramsey’s. Enjoy the feeling of them touching all through dinner.
But this thing between them wasn’t different. He’d agreed to it, even though Nate knew it might be like an exercise in frustration and denial.
So far, that was seeming pretty accurate.
They were halfway through the significant haul of sushi, Nate trying to focus on eating and not on the deft way Ramseymaneuvered his chopsticks, when Ramsey spoke up. “Wes does that.”
“Wes does what?” Nate asked, not sure he was following.
“Treats me with kid gloves, like I’m broken and I won’t ever get fixed. Like a stray dog that got lost and won’t ever be found.”
Nate spluttered. “You’re not lost, and even if you were—you said it yourself, it’s not forever.”
“He means well. And sometimes it does feel good. But most of the time it just drives me nuts.”
“Then why are you here?”
The corner of Ramsey’s mouth quirked up. “Believe it or not, it was worse being back in Buffalo.”
