“She had a different one.”
“Do you want to tell me?” I ask gently. It sounds like he does, but he’s still holding back for some reason.
“Yeah. I do.” He draws a breath, and it sounds like it fuels him to continue. “See, when I first started out in the pros, the guys and me, we did the whole smack-talk thing. Which we still do, but that’s when it started. We were always competing any way we could,” he says, with the once-upon-a-time note of settling in to tell a story.
“Martinez and I were in different sports, but we ripped on each other about who was first in our respective drafts, who had better stats, who got on those lists and where we placed, and so on. That might sound dumb, but that’s what we did. We still do. That’s our currency. Hell, I do that with Fitz.”
“Smack talk,” I say, nodding, understanding him. “I get that.”
“You do?” He sounds wildly relieved.
“I do. It’s sort of like jokes. It’s how you communicate. Your insults, your put-downs—they aren’t truly insults. It’s because you like each other. The gibes show you care, and that you’re part of the group, right?”
The longest exhale of tension comes from the other end of the phone line. “Yes. That. Exactly.”
“And she didn’t like you smack-talking each other?”
“She hated it. Couldn’t stand it. She despised that I texted them. That we found things to give each other a hard time about.”
I laugh, a little incredulous. “Basically, she hated the things that made you, you.”
He chuckles lightly, then returns to his more introspective side. “In a way, I suppose she did. She didn’t entirely get it. Or get it at all.” He takes a beat, then marches forward, and I wish I could see his face, but I imagine his hazel eyes are resolute, confident. “And you know what? I actually liked being on the lists again when we split. I liked it for a bunch of reasons.”
“Tell me why.” I want to know, and he sure seems eager to share. Maybe he’s even pacing around his place now, energized.
“Because it meant I was single and wasn’t being lied to anymore about how she felt. I was free from someone who didn’t feel the same way I did. But most of all, because it meant I could do those things I’d missed—talk to my buddies in the way we liked to talk, hang with them—and I didn’t have to worry about what she thought.”
His answer makes perfect sense. And it reveals another layer to him, one I find fascinating. Men and women can present such simple fronts to the world, but behind those are so many more sides than we expect.
That’s what I’ve learned about Ransom every time we’ve talked recently. I’ve seen his family side, his giving heart, his wounded soul, and now the guy who likes to hang with his buds—because they matter to him. Even if it seems like all they do is engage in bro banter, it’s bro banter with a purpose.
And that’s all kinds of cool in my book.
“Sometimes a joke is just a joke, but sometimes it’s a connection to a friend,” I say.
“Yes! God, yes,” he says, punctuating his relief with a laugh.
“And whoever you’re with should understand that your relationships with them are important to you. We shouldn’t try to dictate every single behavior. We have to give the people we care about space to be themselves.”
I can sense his smile as he speaks. “You get it, T. You get me.”
“I try,” I say, my heart glowing in my chest.
“You do more than try, Teagan,” he says, then swings back to the topic. “And I still like being on the lists, but not because I care about something arbitrary like looks or a hotness meter. Whatever. I can’t control that, and it truly makes no difference in my daily life. But it’s this thing the guys and me bond over, even if we’re insulting each other.”
“Because they aren’t truly put-downs,” I say, a wide smile spreading across my face as he shares this glimpse of his soft, vulnerable underbelly. Who would have thought it’d be lined in insults? Yet it is.
“Don’t get me wrong. Martinez is an ugly son of a bitch.”
I crack up. “And all straight women in New York would disagree.”
He growls. “Don’t say that.”
“I speak the truth.” A grin spreads across my face when I add, “But I happen to think a certain hockey player is much sexier.”
He hums, low and sexy. “Best. Response. Ever.”
“But I get that you’d want to rib him about being number one on a single-in-the-city list.”
“You definitely don’t think it’s weird?”
I shake my head, still grinning as I snuggle deeper into the couch. “No. I think it’s cool.”
He lets out another contented sigh. “I have a brilliant idea, Teagan.”
