Nate shook his head, cheeks unexpectedly flushed. “That’s just, like, anobjectiveopinion. I bet you if you polled this entire bar, even the straight guys would be like, oh yeah, that dickhead Ramsey’s hot.”
“Probably,” Wes conceded.
Nate turned towards the bar, hunching over its shiny surface, flagging down the bartender. Ordering a shot. “Fucking hockey players,” he muttered under his breath.
“Should I not have—” Cam murmured, leaning in so only Dawson could hear him. His curls brushed against his cheek, smelling like citrus and spice. Cam swallowed the longing that swept through him.
As annoying as it was, they were apparently onDawson’sschedule, here.
At least Dawson wasn’t protesting that he was even interested, like Nate was.
“No, that was hilarious. And true to boot. They should totally hate-fuck about it.”
Cam nodded. “Nate is looking awfully pent up these days.”
The tension in the defensive captain’s shoulders was undeniable as he threw back one shot and then barked out a request for another.
“Yeah, but if they did, imagine the fallout,” Dawson said. He was apparently viewing everything, including the Nate-Ramsey situation, through the samebad idealens these days.
“What do you mean?” Cam asked, sipping his drink. Even though he had a pretty decent idea of what Dawson had intended to say. He just wanted to hear Dawson say it out loud; maybe then he’d realize how much of a non-issue it actually was.
“I mean, if they do hate-fuck about it, what’s going to happen the next time they’re both here? And it’s going to happen. Ramsey’s practically Wes’ shadow these days. They’re gonna be awkward and it’s not going to get better.”
“Or they could have fun and keep having fun?” Cam suggested, maybe a trifle optimistically.
Dawson chuckled. Reached up and patted Cam’s cheek. “You’re adorable.”
“I’m not naive,” Cam complained.
“Never said you were. You’re just . . .alwaysjust so glass-half-full,” Dawson said.
“And that’s adorable?” It was hard not to ask, out loud, why that wasn’t sexy or hot or irresistible, but Cam swallowed the question back, along with a good-sized swig of gin and tonic.
“It sure is. I also think . . .” Dawson trailed off.
“You think?” Cam prompted.
“I never spent any time long on injured reserve, not like Ramsey. But it must suck. Kind of like how it sucked when my life fell apart. He saunters around like nothing can touch him, but I’ve done that too, so I know what it looks like. If things get weird between him and Nate, then he can’t be friends with us. And he should be friends with us.”
That was not what Cam had expected Dawson to say.
“Oh,” he said softly.
“Yeah.Oh.” Dawson’s gaze was knowing.
“That makes . . .yeah. I can see it. You think that’s why Wes brings him around all the time, even though he doesn’t like football?”
Dawson nodded. “I do. Wish some of my teammates back in Baltimore had been nearly that observant or that dedicated.”
“They weren’t?” Cam was mad, just thinking about it. Dawson had played for the same team forever. Had been with the same guys for many of those seasons. Whyhadn’tthey realized he was hurting?
“Not really. Kind of wish I’d been like him.” Dawson gestured over to where Ramsey was holding court with Aidan and Levi and Griff now. “Really fucking good at hiding it.”
“I could tell,” Cam said. He didn’t add that he hadn’t known Dawson nearly as long as some of his ex-teammates. But it had been obvious to him that Dawson was hurting. That his self-confidence was shot. That he could use a friendly shoulder. He’d tried, initially, but Dawson had seemed oblivious to it.
“Yeah, well, you’re not like those guys, rook. You’re special.” Dawson ruffled his hair, and it didn’t feel like a patronizing gesture you’d do to a kid; it felt like more, like Dawson just wanted to touch him, any way he could. Especially with the intimate way his fingers lingered against his scalp.
“Thanks,” Cam said, gazing down at Dawson’s face. “Ditto, obviously.”
