Chapter 3
chapter three
The coffee shop Eli had chosen for their first mentoring session was in a brown brick building on Main Street about halfway between the Church Street Marketplace and the University of Vermont.
Sandro sat at a table for two and stretched out one leg to massage his aching knee—he’d have to ice his lower back too, but that was a problem for later—and waited for Eli to return with their drinks.
Because of the coffee shop’s location to UVM, there were always college students typing away on laptops or laughing over lattes.
Maybe that was why Eli liked it so much—the clientele was close to his age.
Plus, he was completing an online certificate program through UVM, so from Sandro’s perspective, he had as much in common with college students as he did with his teammates.
Sandro didn’t much care where they got their coffee, but he was familiar with this building.
The offices above the coffee shop belonged to the Sport U Foundation’s Burlington satellite office.
The Trailblazers’ arena was named after Sport U Apparel, the biggest sports equipment and apparel company in the country, and the foundation was their charitable arm that provided equitable access to sports for youth from the East Coast to the West. Every Trailblazer had volunteered for one of their programs at some point in their career.
The coffee shop was all wooden beams and exposed brick.
Rough-hewn tables and chairs cluttered the cavernous space, and hand-drawn sketches hung on the walls and on the hefty wooden support posts.
Large-bulbed string lights hung from the rafters, and touches of Christmas already populated the space: a twinkle-lighted garland running the length of the order counter, holiday-themed drinks, a festive wreath on the front door, and two squat Christmas trees on opposite sides of the space.
And sitting at a table for two next to one of those trees, clear on the other side of the room from Sandro and Eli, was none other than Bennett Jackson.
The new director of photography he’d introduced to the team earlier sat across from him, and they had their heads bent over a tablet and a notepad.
Fowler was gray-haired and gray-bearded and barrel-chested, and he had the air of someone who’d seen a thing or two.
Bennett’s hair was tied into a messy bun at the back of his head, strands escaping the hair tie to frame his heart-shaped face.
His eyebrows were a darker blond than his hair, matching the two-day-old scruff on his cheeks and jaw.
Sandro wanted to touch that scruff.
And really hated that he wanted to touch that scruff.
He wasn’t still in love with the guy, but he could admit that Bennett had aged really, really well. Like aged cheese. Just . . . yum.
Sandro had spotted Bennett and Fowler as soon as he and Eli had walked through the door and tried—and failed—to ignore Bennett’s presence.
Eli, reminiscing about how New Jersey’s defense had fallen apart when the Trailblazers had last played them, hadn’t noticed Bennett on the far side of the coffee shop . . .
Or how Sandro had nearly walked into a potted Christmas flower arrangement by the entrance.
Sandro was not a fan of how Bennett kept popping up wherever he happened to be.
Today, it was the arena and the coffee shop.
A few months ago, it had been in the Trailblazers’ office, where Bennett had met with management on final contract negotiations for the docuseries. Sandro had left before Bennett had seen him.
A year ago, it had been in the Trailblazers’ locker room, where Bennett had just suddenly been there, without any warning whatsoever.
Sandro hadn’t heard from him in more than a decade, and then boom!
There he was. All the old feelings had come rushing back, the hurt from Bennett’s breakup battering at him like a series of pucks to the chest without any padding. All he’d felt in that moment was anger.
How dare Bennett intrude on his space?
But ever since the docuseries had gotten the green light, Sandro had known that Bennett would be in his space a lot more this season. So he wasn’t going to let old hurts drive his actions—the past didn’t matter anyway. He was going to be professional. Cordial.
Emotions were persona non grata.
Not that he had any emotions when it came to Bennett Jackson. Not anymore.
“Here we go,” Eli said, returning from the order counter with two bowl-shaped mugs. “A flat white for me, and an extra-hot gingerbread latte with non-fat milk, no foam, and cinnamon topping for you. That’s a very specific order, by the way.”
“They only have the gingerbread latte for a few weeks at the holidays. I’ve perfected my order over the years.”
Over Eli’s shoulder, Sandro watched as Fowler rose from the table and slipped into a battered leather jacket. Bennett smiled as he waved him off, but once Fowler had departed, Bennett’s brow furrowed as he tugged the tablet closer.
Sandro recognized that expression. That I-can-do-it-myself, I-don’t-need-anyone’s-help expression that had annoyed Sandro to hell and back when they’d been together.
Prying Bennett’s troubles out of him had often been a source of frustration when Bennett insisted on staying stubbornly silent.
But it had also often been a source of pleasure when Sandro teased it out of him with whispered kisses and soft touches and dorm-room blow jobs.
“Hello. Zanetti.”
“Huh?” He turned back to Eli. “Sorry, what?”
“I asked how long you’ve been coming here.”
“Since this place opened. That was . . . damn, I don’t know. Ten years ago? More than that? Their menu has evolved since then. They didn’t offer breakfast or lunch when they first opened. Just pastries.”
“I do like a good pastry. So.”
“So.”
Sandro waited for Eli to continue.
And waited.
Sipped his gingerbread latte.
And waited.
“Is there something specific you wanted to talk about?” Sandro prompted.
Eli didn’t seem to know what to do with that. “No, just . . . when Prinnie was my mentor, he’d come with a list of questions when we met up.”
Oh good. Sandro was failing already. “What kind of questions?”
“I don’t know.” Eli shrugged. “Just . . . getting to know you stuff.”
Eli waited expectantly. For someone who wanted to pick Sandro’s brain about how best to prepare for his interview with Bennett, he was surprisingly light on questions. Taking inspiration from his surroundings, Sandro said, “Tell me about your certificate program. What are you taking?”
“Ecological foundations of agroecology, which examines the . . . well, the ecological foundations of agroecology, largely from a biophysical perspective.”
Sandro blinked at him. “Sounds . . . interesting?”
“It is! One of my classes looks at the social, political, and economic elements of the global food system . . .”
Bennett shifted in his chair, catching Sandro’s attention. Bennett massaged his forehead with one hand; the other poked at his tablet with a stylus. His shoulders were bunched like they had always been before he’d leave for a study session for his contemporary film theory exam their junior year.
Sandro had made the group sandwiches for cram sessions.
Christ, he’d forgotten all about that. Good ones too, pulled chicken or egg salad on ciabatta buns and cheesy buns with garlic aioli, apples, and arugula.
Hell, he’d even chopped veggies and sent Bennett off with homemade dip and chocolate chip cookies.
Because an overnight study session always needed cookies.
Bennett had returned to their apartment hours later with an empty Tupperware container, bags under his eyes, jitters from too much coffee, and kisses that he’d said were from his study group.
“Carl, Meg, and Arjun said to give you a kiss for the delicious snacks.” He pressed a kiss to Sandro’s lips, a second, a third. “Consider their thanks paid.”
“And how about you?” Sandro murmured, twining his arms around Bennett’s back. They were evenly matched in height, which he loved. “No kisses from you?”
Bennett’s smile was full of mischief. “You don’t need to make me sandwiches to earn my kisses. Cookies will suffice.”
“Ungrateful jerk,” Sandro teased before Bennett’s mouth landed on his again.
“Did you ever do a post-grad certificate?” Eli asked, drawing Sandro’s mind back into the present and his gaze off Bennett.
Sandro coughed out a laugh. “Uh, no. I graduated from college and never wanted to see another essay or exam ever again.”
“What’d you major in?”
“General studies.” Which had given him a firm foundation in absolutely nothing. But he’d been more focused on playing hockey.
“University of Michigan, right?” Eli asked. He took a sip of his flat white. “With Bennett Jackson?”
Sandro’s body flushed cold, and then hot. “What?”
“I was reading up on him. Wanted to know more about who’s heading up the docuseries.
I read a profile about him that said he played hockey at the University of Michigan with, quote, ‘NHL star Sandro Zanetti of the Vermont Trailblazers.’ I didn’t realize you know each other.
You didn’t even talk to him at the meeting today.
Did you guys not get along when you played together? ”
“I . . .” Trailing off, Sandro sipped his latte to wet his dry throat.
What was he supposed to say? That he and Bennett had gotten along so well that Bennett had his own nickname for him?
That they’d danced around each other their freshman year because they’d both been seeing other people?
That they’d arrived on campus for their sophomore year as single men and hadn’t hesitated to find out if there could be more between them?
That they’d had their own place their junior and senior years until hockey had taken them in opposite directions after graduation—Sandro to Burlington and Bennett to Chicago.