“With any luck, we’ll see, yeah.” I pasted on a grin, ready to get the hell away from their love connection.
“C’mon, more drinks,” Ramsey said, draping his other arm around me. If I hadn’t been so on edge, I might’ve liked the familiarity as much as I liked the warm scent of him.
Houston found me in the kitchen a half hour later, a plate piled high with ribs in my hand. “You ready to head out soon?”
“Already? For real?” I sucked sauce from my fingers. Maybe the socializing part had been a bust, but the food was fucking delicious.
Houston shrugged. “Yeah, I’m beat, and I don’t want to keep you out too late anyway.”
It was only ten, but the guy did look exhausted. “Yeah, sure. Hey, is it true that Ramsey’s parents just mashed two last names together?”
“What?” Houston cracked up. “No. He was just fucking with you.”
“Dipshit.”
“Nah, he’s cool. He’s spending Christmas with us, you know?”
Fuck my life. “Great, I can’t wait,” I deadpanned, ignoring the thrill that spread through my chest and died a quick death as I thought of something else. “Is he bringing his girlfriend?”
Houston shrugged. “I doubt it.” He glanced at his phone, then reached out and took the plate from my hands. “Uber’s here. Let’s jet.”
“I’m taking this with me, dammit.” I snatched back the plate and followed him out.
I’d learned two things tonight. One: these were my people. Or at least, I wanted them to be, and I was hell-bent on spending the next four years getting there. And two: I was most definitely bi.
RAMSEY
Four years later
“Come on, man. You got this. Three more,” I told Houston, standing in front of him while he worked on the leg-press machine in my home gym. He was still able to exercise at the Rush facility, but it wasn’t something he liked to do very often. I was pretty sure it wasn’t something he liked to do at all, but sometimes he faked it well. In the beginning, when he was cleared to train after the knee injury that ended his career, I used to ask him to meet me at our training facility, thinking it would be good for him, that he’d like to feel as if he was still part of the team.
In some ways, I figured he wanted that, but in others, I was positive it was the last thing on his mind. That made sense, given the conflicting feelings he must have had swimming around inside him—loving football, but angry at losing it. So I’d stopped asking, but some of the other guys hadn’t, and Houston would go because that was the kind of guy he was. The fucker always thought about other people first.
“Goddammit.” He grimaced, pushing one more time before slowly letting off. He was still building strength—the weight a quarter of what he could have managed before. Sweat made his brown hair curl slightly against his forehead. Houston’s hair was a shade or two lighter than Garrett’s, but the way their grins kicked up, a little higher on one side, and the rumbling sound of their laughter, made it clear they were related. They were similar, yet not. Houston was humble while Garrett wanted the whole fucking world to know how great he was. He wasn’t wrong either, the little bastard. At least when it came to football. Some people thought he’d eventually be even better than Houston, if only because my best friend’s career was cut short.
“You good?” I asked when he picked up a towel and wiped his face.
“You better not be talking about my knee.” That was one of their similarities. Neither wanted to appear weak.
I’d gotten to know the family pretty well over the years. Not Garrett quite as much as the rest since he’d been away at college, but he’d spent his summers at home in Denver, and I tended to end up with the McRaes most of the important holidays. The cocky little shit was one step away from making all the dreams he’d told me about the first time we’d met come true. He’d killed it in the combine. The draft started tonight, and Garrett was expected to go in the first round, just like Houston and I had.
“You’re the only person I know who’d rather talk about something emotional over physical,” I finally replied.
“I wouldn’t. I’d rather not talk about any of it, but I know you. You’re real good at questions and won’t stop until you get answers, but you also don’t like to provide many about yourself. It’s annoying as shit.”
“I’m a complicated man. What can I say?” I winked. When he sighed, I added, “You know, it’s okay to be feeling a whole lot of complex shit right now.”
“Tell me more, Dr. Ramsey.”
“Wow, this is serious. You’re bringing out the sarcasm.”