Ramsey swallowed hard.
Being seen was always a double-bladed pain. It sliced with an unexpected delight, but it could sting, too.
“That’s what I mean,” Brody said reproachfully. “You’ve never done this before. You’re in new ground here. It’s okay to panic about that, a little.”
“But not too much right?” Ramsey asked flatly.
“Or a lot,” Brody corrected gently.
“Well, then if you’re going to allow it.”
“Wes says he’s a good guy. Solid. So I’m not going to worry too much that he’s going to fuck you up,” Brody said.
“Thanks,” Ramsey said wryly.
“And I’m not gonna suggest that Wes warn Nate thatyoumight fuckhimup,” Brody added.
“Hey, fuck you,” Ramsey said. He left everyone better off than they were when he’d stumbled onto them. Nate had been the one exception, and he supposed it wasn’t all that surprising that Nate wasstillthe one exception.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Brody reminded him. “And you flailing around, you might hurt him without meaning to.”
“I don’tflail,” Ramsey argued, though in a certain light, what he’d been doing all fall, and then by insanely suggesting they pretend to be getting along—betterthan just getting along, really—was the textbook definition of flailing around.
“Alright,” Brody soothed. “And you did say your balance was a lot better.”
“As good as it ever was, these days,” Ramsey insisted. And that was true physically. But he did feel off, a little out of step, with Nate. No matter how much he tried to get them on solid ground, it kept wobbling out of his control.
“Good,” Brody said, approval seeping into his voice. At least there was that. Brody was settled. Wes was curious but not in a pointed way that was difficult to handle.
“See, I’m all good,” Ramsey reassured. Brody agreed, to his relief.
But even after Ramsey hung up, he still wasn’t sure that hewasbalanced. Not really.
There was last night, when he’d kept everything casual and easy andfun, all the way up until he’d needed to say goodbye, and his hands and his mouth had tingled. Desperate, even though it was stupid and pointless, to touch Nate with intention.
He shouldn’t have kissed him, even on the cheek.
But that had felt like the less nuclear option.
Nate hadn’t mentioned it when he’d texted him later, so Ramsey told himself he’d brushed it off, called it the same kind of thing as the hand holding. It wasn’t a big deal.
Except it was, because it felt like Ramsey was learning a new language that he’d never spoken before, and he couldn’t believe how easy it flowed from his mouth.
He’d expected it to be painful and difficult, vowels impossible to form, but it was the exact opposite.
He got ready for his PT appointment and headed out, walking because despite the cold, Ramsey thought he could use the bracing air to clear his head.
Marsha Evans was his physical therapist here in Toronto—recommended by the Wolves organization and seconded by the Leafs—and he’d been working with her for months now. She’d arranged for him to visit the clinic that owned the equipment that Brody had suggested he try out.
She’d been a little skeptical at first, but then she’d read up on Sidney Crosby’s history, and after, she’d become one of GyroStim’s biggest proponents.
“Hey, bud,” she said briskly as he walked into the clinic’s gym and hung his coat up on the hook on the wall. “How’re you feeling?”
They always did this check-in at the beginning of every appointment. Only once had Ramsey not told her the complete truth about how he’d been feeling, and after he’d nearly fallen twenty minutes later, doing an exercise he probably shouldn’t have been doing, she’d sat him down and given him a blunt lecture.
“Don’t fucking lie to me, ever again,” she’d said.
And he hadn’t.
