Chapter 2 #3
“You really do.” On Prinnie’s other side, Deeley leaned in and gave him a sniff. “What is that? Sandalwood?”
“I don’t actually know.” Prinnie brought his own arm up to his nose and sniffed. “Some new all-natural small-batch body wash I found at a market a couple of months ago. I forget the name of it.”
“Okay, but for real,” Fowler muttered as Prinnie selected a name out of the bowl. “What is happening?”
“This is how we start all meetings,” said the video coach, leaning against the wall on Fowler’s other side. “Five guys pick names out of the bowl and have to say something nice about that person.”
“Seriously?” Bennett said as Prinnie told Assistant Coach Friedle that he hadn’t yelled at him at practice last week.
“I never yell,” Friedle rebutted, earning a round of disbelieving laughs.
“Seriously?” Bennett repeated. Because . . .
What?
A bunch of hockey players—and staff, apparently—sat around saying nice things about each other?
Before every meeting?
It was unheard of.
It was unexpected.
It was awesome.
Fowler hit the record button on his phone. Bennett whipped out his own phone and began typing notes.
How long had this been going on? Why? Who started it?
Was this part of what contributed to the Trailblazers’ team culture?
How much resistance had that person faced when they’d first proposed it to the team?
How much resistance—if any—did the team face by rookies and call-ups and new staff?
This wasn’t standard practice. Far from it.
Had Bennett ever suggested something like this to his teammates when he’d played for Chicago, they would’ve laughed him out of the locker room.
He wished Fowler had his camera for this—the phone footage quality wouldn’t be as good—but if the video coach was being truthful, they’d have many more opportunities to film this sort of thing in the future.
Bennett let out a little laugh as the say-something-nice portion of the meeting wrapped up. This was storytelling gold. It had to go into one of his episodes.
The meeting continued on to more practical matters—the next day’s game against New Jersey.
Bennett listened with half an ear, his gaze straying to Sandy, who’d—perhaps purposefully, perhaps by virtue of it being one of the few remaining seats when he’d sat down—chosen a chair that put his back to Bennett.
Bennett stared at the back of Sandy’s head, willing him to turn and look at him, if only for a second.
No, wait. Sandro. Bennett had called him Sandy last year, when Coach Madolora had given him a tour of the arena, and gotten snapped at.
Don’t call me that. You lost the privilege a long time ago.
Bennett winced at the memory. Of course, Sandro wouldn’t want him to use his nickname for him.
Losing that hurt, but Bennett should’ve expected it.
Should’ve expected, too, for Sandro to otherwise ignore his very existence.
He’d wanted to have a conversation; instead, Coach Madolora had concluded his tour, and the following day, Bennett had spoken with some of the players about their reservations about the docuseries.
But not Sandro, because of the aforementioned ignoring-his-very-existence thing. So Bennett had returned to Los Angeles, where he’d been prepping for the release of Chain of Command, and that had been that.
But now here he was, with what could possibly be a second chance at a second chance, and if he could get Sandy—Sandro, Christ—to sit down with him for five minutes, he’d call that a win.
Besides, Sandro couldn’t ignore him forever.
Bennett would need to interview him for the docuseries at some point.
Probably multiple some points. Bennett would be on hand until the Trailblazers’ last game of the season, whether or not that took them all the way to the playoffs.
He’d be sitting down with every player, coach, and development staff member more than once.
Forcing his gaze off the back of Sandro’s head, Bennett took notes as the meeting dragged on.
He’d jotted down a few questions for players and coaches alike, but he’d save them for later.
He let the conversation happen around him, blending into the background as much as possible, a skill he’d learned as a kid that had served him well as a filmmaker, especially when he needed his subjects to forget he was there.
As the son of a single mom who’d worked three jobs to keep them afloat, Bennett had learned early on to remain unobtrusive.
To keep his problems to himself—everything from schoolyard bullies to struggles in math class to confusion over his own sexuality—so that he didn’t place more of a burden on his mom than she already had.
She was tired enough without him asking for help with his homework or a few extra dollars so he could go to the movies with his friends.
If he could make her life just a little bit easier by keeping his shit to himself, all the better.
In the end, it had made him independent and resourceful.
The meeting adjourned and Coach Friedle gave the players instructions to suit up and be on the ice within fifteen minutes for practice. Bennett rose, his gut cramping when Sandro didn’t glance his way. “San—”
“Let’s grab a seat in the stands,” Fowler said, forcing Bennett’s mind back on track.
Of course. He had work. Now wasn’t the time or place to have the conversation with Sandro that he wanted to have.
With that thought in mind, he focused on the other thing he wanted: access to the locker room. And he had a feeling the person he needed to talk to about that wasn’t Head Coach Madolora, but rather Team Captain Kyle Dabbs.
“You go on ahead,” Bennett said to Fowler. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”
Dabbs was the last player to leave the meeting room, as though waiting for his entire flock to depart before he followed. Bennett chuckled at the image that conjured in his head, then fell into step with Dabbs as he, too, finally headed out of the room.
“Welcome back,” Dabbs said, his voice deep and gravelly.
“Thanks. And thanks again for agreeing to this series.”
Dabbs’ wide shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It was a team decision.”
“That’s just . . . wild,” Bennett said. “Anywhere else and it would’ve been up to management.”
“That’s not how we roll here.”
“I’m aware. I’m also aware that you had reservations about allowing cameras into your safe spaces, which I completely understand. I appreciate you trusting me with this. I promise to do this series justice.”
A laughable promise given how Chain of Command had been received, but statistically speaking, he couldn’t have two flops in a row, right?
“Like I said.” Dabbs paused by the entrance to the locker room. “It was a team decision.”
“But as team captain, you hold a lot of sway. Which is why I wanted to ask . . . is there any chance you’ll reconsider your stance on letting cameras into the locker room?
I recognize that it’s an invasion of privacy, but I need full access in order to make this a strong series.
I need to be able to show—What? Why are you looking at me like that? ”
Dabbs’ expression had gone very huh? His ginger-colored eyebrows bunched together in a frown. “I was under the impression you do have access to the locker room.”
“Technically, that’s true, but the contract specifically states no cameras in the locker room. So while I’m allowed in, I can’t bring a camera, which defeats the whole purpose of me having access.”
Frown deepening, Dabbs scratched at his half inch of beard and called a “Hey, Coach?” over Bennett’s shoulder. “Do you know the details about the contract with Bennett’s production company?”
David’s production company, technically. Bennett’s title as associate producer was more of a formality than true managerial oversight.
Not that that was important in this moment.
Coach Madolora glanced up from his tablet as he approached. “I know some key details. Why?”
“What do you know about locker room camera access?”
“I think it’s max two at any one time.”
Bennett’s shoulders tensed. “Two? I thought it was none.”
“We tried for none,” Madolora said unapologetically. “But Lynne—our head of media relations—pushed for us to allow at least one, otherwise there wouldn’t be any point to agreeing to this series.”
Bennett owed Lynne a gift basket. All the gift baskets. She’d been instrumental during the contract negotiation process, but he hadn’t realized just how instrumental until now.
Madolora handed Bennett his tablet, where he’d pulled up a copy of the contract, with one section highlighted.
The Trailblazers agree to allow two (2) camera people and thus two cameras into home and visiting locker rooms: Bennett Jackson and a second person of his choosing.
The locker room shall remain accessible to Bennett Jackson and his plus-one at any time of day, including but not limited to: before, after, and during games; and before, during, and after practices.
“The fuck?” Bennett muttered before his mask of stoic professionalism could slip into place.
He had unrestricted access? Since when?
Handing the tablet back, he dug his phone out of his coat pocket and opened the contract David had emailed him before production had started. He scrolled to the same section and . . . there.
Explicitly no cameras allowed in:
The locker room
There were more bullets listed, but they were unimportant for the purposes of this conversation. Confused now, instinct had him checking the version of his own contract—V12—against the version of Coach Madolora’s—V14_Final.
Realization settled onto his chest, heavy with combined disappointment and fury. “My executive producer forwarded me the wrong version of the contract.”
“I did wonder why your camera crew wasn’t coming into the locker room,” Dabbs said. “I mean, I figured you probably didn’t care about the pre-season, but once the regular season started, I was surprised your people still didn’t come in.”
“Now that that’s settled . . .” Madolora handed the tablet to Friedle. “Should we expect you in the locker room today?”
Mind racing, Bennett shook his head. “I don’t have the right equipment.” He could use his phone, but he needed to strategize.
And call David.
Once Dabbs, Madolora, and Friedle disappeared into the locker room, Bennett stabbed David’s number on his phone.
“Ben,” David answered, using the shortened version of his name even though Bennett had told him more than once that it was Bennett. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. What’s up?”
Gritting his teeth, Bennett said, “I need you to forward me the contract we have with the Trailblazers for this docuseries.”
“Didn’t I do that already?”
“You sent me the wrong version.”
“I doubt that.”
Had David purposefully tried to sabotage him? But no. David had money riding on this; he wouldn’t try to limit Bennett’s activities.
“You did,” Bennett insisted, because while he might be agreeable, he wasn’t a doormat. “You sent me V12, which states no cameras in the locker room, but the final version—which does allow access—is V14. So send me V14—now. I need to know what parameters and restrictions I’m allowed to work within.”
“Shit,” David said, sounding—for once—genuinely contrite. “Sorry, Ben. I’ll have my assistant send it now.”
“Thank you.”
Bennett hung up, his free hand fisting at his side.
Fucking fuck. A weight sat on his chest, constricting his lungs, and he—
“You okay, man?” Eli Parker asked, exiting the locker room in full gear.
“Fine,” Bennett murmured, because he was always fine.
This wasn’t the end of the world. It was still early in the season; he could still salvage his project.
With that thought in mind, he went to find Fowler in the stands.