Rookie Move (Playing for Keeps #1)(11)

“I get it.” Ramsey shifted on the wall and, at my dubious expression, a half-smile twisted his lips. “No, I really do. I’m not bullshitting you. You know about my dad, right?” I nodded. Ramsey didn’t talk about him much, and I’d always gotten a sense he was a sore subject, something Ramsey wanted to keep his distance from, and probably the reason he spent so much time with my family. From what I could tell, we were a whole other world away from what he grew up with. “It’s kinda the same. Different shadow, though. I always feel like I’m on the line to not go the way my dad did. Not fuck shit up, not to squander my career, my money, my opportunities. Not to be like him.”

All traces of the Ramsey who teased me and called me out relentlessly were gone, replaced by a somberness in his expression that filled me with a strange urge to smooth a thumb over his pinched brow. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him so serious before. At least with me.

“I didn’t want the Rush either, at first. I mean, my dad had played for them, after all, right? That seemed like bad luck. I was stoked when Tampa signed me. When I got traded, I was furious. Thought, fuck this, I’ll play for a year and then ask to go somewhere else. Anywhere else. I thought I was doomed.”

“You’re still here.”

“Yep. I got off to a rough start, but your brother and I became tight. Then, I don’t know, I just settled in. Realized I really liked the other guys, really liked being back in Colorado. If I let the anger get the better of me, I was just as bad as my dad. I would’ve let someone else’s shit fuck up my career, and that’s just crazy.”

“Easier said than done.” I got what he was saying, even if his dad had been long gone by the time he got to the Rush. Everything with Houston still felt fresh. Hell, it was fresh. But I appreciated what Ramsey was trying to do, and that he wasn’t patronizing about it by telling me to get over it. I already knew I should get over it.

“Just give it some time, see how it goes. Get settled in. Shit, you keep eating like you did tonight—or not eating, more like—and no one’s gonna be able to see your skinny ass on the field anyway.”

I laughed and stood, Ramsey following. “Kiss my ass. My appetite’s already back.”

He tucked the container of leftovers under his arm. “Good. See you at training camp sooner than you think.”

“Hey,” I said before he could turn for his SUV. It occurred to me that maybe I should thank him for the pep talk, but…nah. Not my style. “Was my fly really down the whole time at New Year’s?”

Ramsey’s grin skewed devious in answer.

“You fucker. How did you know what boxers I was wearing, though?” God help me if he said he’d been looking. But I knew better.

“Lucky guess. You only wear three pairs during the holidays.”

“Paying attention to my underwear, huh?” I gave him my best scandalous smile, even if it was wasted on him. “What would Alice say?”

“Alyssa,” he corrected me with a grin. “And it’s kinda unavoidable since you more or less refuse to wear clothes at home.”

“You’re welcome.” He wasn’t wrong. I tended to roam the house in either PJ pants or boxers and a tee over the holidays, but fuck it, that was what being home was all about, right? Comfort. Letting it all hang out. Ogling my brother’s best friend every time he was around. It’d been a time-honored tradition for years now.

Ramsey waved me off with a dismissive snort, and I lingered until his taillights had disappeared too, wondering what training was gonna be like with him and whether it was humanly possible to squash a rabid crush in the months before it started.





Two months later


This was exactly the life I’ve been dreaming of. It was a Friday night two weeks before training camp started, and half the team had taken over one side of Double Down, a popular downtown Denver bar. Ramsey had set up the outing as a kind of meet and greet. The drinks were flowing, and there was eye candy galore. On the way to the bathroom I got asked for my first autograph by an older blonde woman, which I was often down with, but tonight I was more interested in a table of hot guys I’d spotted earlier.

I signed the napkin she handed me, we took a quick selfie, and I continued on to the bathroom. I posted myself in front of one of the urinals, whistling—not something I usually did, but I was a little drunk. Okay, a lot drunk, and the acoustics were awesome.

“Christ, sounds like someone’s murdering a cat.”

I glanced over my shoulder and grinned at Ramsey as the door swung shut behind him. Somehow he managed to look hot even in shitty fluorescent lighting. “That’s ‘Rocketman’ by the great EJ. Sorry your musical taste sucks.”

He stopped at the urinal next to me. “First, you tight with Sir Elton? Second, no. That’s the sound of someone plummeting toward their death.”

I put all my lung power into the next bar, and Ramsey shook his head with a laugh. “How drunk are you?”

“I’m jussssst right,” I informed him. Those damn Ss were getting trickier as the night wore on, though, no lie. “Hey, some lady asked for my autograph in the hallway.”

“She was probably looking for me. Accepted you as a weaker alternative.”

“Maybe.” I considered. “But she seemed pretty into it when she asked for my number.”