That was where Dawson steered them. “Hey, look who I found,” he said casually, like Cam hadn’t arrived ten minutes ago, totally losing his shit.
He’d never imagined that Dawson would spill his secrets, but it felt good to be protected, anyway. And he was additionally relieved that nobody else seemed to have noticed his meltdown, because they all gave him a welcoming nod and went back to their conversation.
“I’m just saying,” Wes’ hockey friend said, “I could play football, sure. I could catch a ball. No problem.”
“No problem,” Nate muttered under his breath, looking put out. But Cam noticed that he was still here. A dozen or more other guys were milling around, but he was here, like he was glued to the hockey guy’s every word.
“But,” the hockey player continued, “are you gonna be able to get out there on skates and put in twenty minutes of ice time, chasing around Connor McDavid or Mitch Marner?”
Nate made a face. “Why the fuck not?”
The hockey guy—Cam was pretty sure his name was Ramsey—just laughed. And looked damn good doing it. So good Cam had to wonder if he practiced that shit in a mirror.
“You ever skate before, even?” Wes asked.
“It can’t be that hard,” Nate claimed.
“Oh, honey,” Ramsey said pityingly.
“You better hope he never calls you on that, Bishop,” Duke said.
Nate looked like he was just about ready to demand to be taken to Scotia Bank Arena right the fuck now, to test their claim that he couldn’t pull it off.
“Football isn’t easierthan hockey,” Nate argued.
“Kind of seems like it is,” Dawson pointed out dryly.
The bartender approached, and Cam ordered a gin and tonic and, glancing over at Dawson, ordered him another glass of red wine. The same brand that he’d drunk the last time they’d been here that he’d said he’d liked. That seemed like a safe enough bet.
By the time he pressed it into Dawson’s hand, it seemed like the football-versus-hockey argument was getting heated.
Well.Moreheated.
Cam was like Dawson; perfectly willing to concede to Ramsey’s argument. Sure, there was a lot of specialized skill in football. A lot of people thought punting was just kicking a ball, and he knew that was absolute bullshit. But he wasn’t doing that on a thin piece of metal balanced on a slippery surface.
“You ever go out on the ice, I bet you’d go over like one of those giant trees in the forest. Like a redwood, yeah?” Ramsey chuckled to himself, like he found his own joke so funny it didn’t even matter if anyone else laughed.
Nate ground his teeth together. He looked about five seconds from throwing Ramsey against the bar.
Cam kind of hoped he might; that would be extremely entertaining while simultaneously being hot as fuck. He wasn’t attracted to Nate or Ramsey, particularly—his dick was way too focused on Dawson these days—but they were both ridiculously good-looking.
“I’ve got better balance than that. Best balance in the league,” Nate argued.
“Sure,” Ramsey said and ducked his head. “Something I gotta check. Good to see you guys again.”
A second later he was gone, and Nate still looked murderous.
Wes shot him a sympathetic glance. “You shouldn’t let him rile you up like that,” he said, nudging Nate with his shoulder. “He enjoys it too much.”
“Seems like he could enjoy it a little more,” Cam pointed out.
Everyone’s face swiveled in his direction. Nate looked shocked and not in a good kind of way. “Are you fucking joking?” he barked.
Wes just laughed, though. “Oh my God, of course the rook says it. Yes, Nate, you two enjoy pulling each other’s pigtails.”
“He’s just an . . .an . . .anasshole. Smug and hot and annoying.”
“Hot, huh?” Wes teased.
