“Dude,no, he’s been Big Dog since he was in college.”
“Thought I could leave it there,” Nate grumbled. Hehad, but then Jordan had showed up. He hadn’t gone to Wisconsin, but Indiana, which was in the same conference, and Nate had been a legend in some of those locker rooms.
Jordan had cut his collegiate football teeth on stories about Big Dog, and so when he’d showed up here in Toronto, that was how he thought of Nate. And of course, that meant the nickname came back in force.
“Oh, it’s adorable,” Ramsey said, shooting him a sly smile. “Gonna call you that from now on instead of Nathaniel.”
“Sick, dude,” Jordan said.
“I take it back. Actually, I don’t hate Nathaniel at all,” Nate said.
“He’s kind of a whiner, isn’t he? Is he actually . . .you know . . .fun?” Jordan asked Ramsey.
This was outrageous but not really all that wrong. Natewasboring. Boring made for a damn good football player, whichmattered more than being the entertainment for some rookie. But hewasn’tsure what Ramsey would say.
“Oh, he’s plenty fun,” Ramsey said coyly, shooting Nate a hot look from under his lashes. The kind of look that meant,we’ve fucked and we’re gonna fuck again later.
God, Nate wished the second part of that was actually true.
But if he took Ramsey to bed, every line would blur, even fuzzier than they already were.
“Oooooh,” Jordan said, punctuated by a loud cackle. “So it’s like that, huh?”
Nate couldn’t exactly give Ramsey a nudge and let him know that Jordan was the second biggest gossip in the locker room—second only to Aidan—and tomorrow, at practice, Jordan was going to be opening his big mouth, telling everyone about Big Dog’s date with the hot hockey player.
“It’s like that,” Ramsey agreed, with a sharp nod. He drained the rest of his glass. “We’d better let you get back to your ladies,” he said, standing.
Nate was only halfway done with his beer, but he followed suit, unsure what was going on, but willing to follow Ramsey’s lead.
Ramsey reached down and took Nate’s hand. “See you around, Little Dog,” he said to Jordan with a wink, and then he was leading slash towing Nate out of the club.
“What was that about?” Nate managed to hold his question in until they were outside, Ramsey calling them another Uber.
Ramsey glanced up from his phone. “What was what about?”
“We didn’t need to stay.”
Ramsey didn’t say anything, so Nate plowed ahead. “And we didn’t need to lay it on that thick for him either. He’s the second biggest gossip in the locker room and—”
Ramsey looked up again. His bluish-silver eyes were gleaming, shadows falling on the unreal curves and planes of his face. “And tomorrow, he’s going to crow about how he met the guy you’redating and I’m hot and charming and a hockey player? Yeah, I know.”
Nate should stop being astounded by the way Ramsey justknewthings.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Ramsey teased, nudging him. “I live with Wes, remember? And while he can be absolute shit at communication, he talks a lot to avoid talking about the thing he doesn’t want to talk about, so I know a lot about the team. Hadn’t put a name with a face before now, though. So that’s Jordan Atkinson.”
“My pet problem,” Nate grumbled.
“He’s not a problem,” Ramsey said, and yeah, he still wasn’t used to hearing these truth bombs drop from Ramsey’s lips.
“What do you mean, he’s not a problem? Heis. He totally led me to believe there was a problem at the club. He’s missed meetings. Curfew. He practically lives at the strip clubs. He wants to go rogue on the field and isn’t particularly interested in being coached, because he already thinks he’s God’s fucking gift to a defensive scheme. SterlingandCoach Dell are bothon my assabout it. He’s a total fucking problem.”
But Ramsey just shrugged again. “Not really.” He gestured towards the street as a car pulled up to the curb. “Look, there’s your car.”
“My car?”
“Yeah, I got something to take care of too,” Ramsey said. “An actual problem. So I’m gonna go a different direction.”
Nate was still trying to parse that the date was over, so abruptly, when Ramsey reached over, pulling the rear car door open. “Text me when you get home,” he said, a casual order.
