“Ouch.” I put a hand over my heart. “You mean otherwise you would’ve just thought I was the hottest guy in the bar?”
He narrowed his eyes, looking me up and down. “Touché. I’m Alex, by the way. Buy you a drink?”
“Ordered one already. Maybe I should buy yours.”
“You’ve certainly got the salary for it.”
“My guess is you do too. We can make a game of it if you want. See whose is…bigger?” I joked, arching a brow.
He barked out a laugh. “You’d have me by a mile, I suspect.” He cast a look over his shoulder. “I’m technically at a networking event. It’s boring as hell, but they tell me I’m necessary. Will you be here for a while?”
“I might.”
“Rain check on the drink, then.” He tapped the bar in front of me and gave me a pointed look. “And on our discussion of whose is bigger.”
I checked out his ass as he walked away—definitely promising—and then turned back as the bartender plunked my fresh beer down in front of me. His gaze swerved to the side as movement, again, caught in my peripheral. “You’re a popular one.”
I swiveled, ready to tease Alex for his impatience, and found myself staring at Ramsey’s broad chest instead.
I forgot all about the bartender and Alex as Ramsey dropped onto the stool beside me. “I think I’ve had all the Vegas recaps from Tucker I can take in a night, especially knowing Coach is gonna go over all of it again tomorrow. We should just tell him that Tucker has covered it solidly and we’re all good. Take the rest of the day off.”
“Why’s Tucker got such a beef with Hardin, anyway? Has he always been like that?”
Ramsey rubbed his jaw, considering. “I don’t think it’s really a beef. Tucker is just extremely competitive.” One shoulder hitched. “You know how it is. Sometimes those random rivalries pop up for no real reason. Fortunately, it’s always directed at other teams.”
We both shot a look at Nance and laughed.
I could tell by Ramsey’s looser posture that the alcohol had mellowed him. He wasn’t stuffy in a general sense, but he usually seemed keenly aware and tuned in to everything going on around him, which was part of what made him a great QB. But the relaxed vibe looked damn good on him too.
“Do you have one?” I asked him.
“A rivalry?” Ramsey’s mouth twisted to one side, but then he shook his head. “Nah, not really, aside from LA. Their cornerback Whitt is a dickhead—was in college too. When I was playing for Michigan and we’d play Franklin U, he always acted like his shit didn’t stink. And I’m not a big fan of Daryl Rogers, but that wasn’t all his fault.” Rogers was one of the first players to make contact with Houston after he’d been injured, before the rest of the defense had piled on, which probably made it worse. Ramsey inclined his chin in the direction of the executives. “Who’s that guy you were talking to? Your next hookup?”
“Maybe. His name is Alex. Seems cool. I don’t know, I might just go back to Houston’s and crash. I’m beat.” I frowned at the words coming out of my mouth. What the hell? I wasn’t lying, I was beat, but I’d been full-steam ahead about getting laid until Ramsey had sat down beside me.
“Hmm.” Ramsey seemed distracted as he continued eyeing the execs, before his attention veered back to me. “You’re still looking at places, right? Or did you decide you’d keep living with Houston?”
“Still looking. I’m picky,” I joked, even though it had kinda come as a surprise to me. I’d expected to roll into town and immediately plunk down a large sum on some opulent downtown loft or maybe even a house over in Cherry Hills Village, but despite looking, nothing had seemed right yet, so I continued living in one of Houston’s spare rooms for the time being. “It’s harder to find places with compasses embedded in the floors and shrines to my greatness than you’d think.”
“Imagine that.” Ramsey chuckled.
“If only it was as easy as getting laid.” I mock-sighed, but Ramsey’s expression remained thoughtful as he rubbed his thumb idly around the rim of his glass.
“I’m starting to come around to the whole bi-fi thing. Is there a way to tune it or home in on the mother signal or something? You’ve got guys simping for you left and right.” He glanced pointedly at the bartender.
“Requires a lot of practice and study. Dedication. Perseverance.” He rolled his eyes at my confessional tone, and I laughed. “It’s called eye contact, Ramsey. Jesus. Take the same shit you’d do with a woman and make it…a little less subtle.”
“I’m not about to walk around eye-fucking every hot guy I see.”
I stared at him, wondering what he considered hot. Hell, for all I knew, Ramsey preferred twinky blonds with a penchant for glittery eyeshadow, or slender intellectual types who drank single-malt scotch. Sweet, nerdy bookstore owners or baristas. None of which I was ever gonna be. “You just have to pay attention,” I told him. “If you spot someone you like, see if you can make eye contact. Then gauge the interest from there. A straight guy will usually give a quick acknowledgment—up-nod, grin, whatever—then look away. Someone interested is gonna linger.” I picked up my drink and slid off my stool.