Chapter 4
chapter four
“When did you know you were good at hockey?”
“Oh god.” Chuckling, Bellamy Jordan, one of the Trailblazers’ forwards, shot the puck to one of his teammates before skating a circle around Bennett.
“Never? I don’t mean to sound self-deprecating, but I wasn’t one of those kids who was constantly told he was a hockey phenom, you know?
” He came to a stop in front of Bennett, looking enormous in his hockey pads, helmet, and practice uniform, especially compared to Bennett, who was in boots, jeans, and a hoodie.
At six feet, it wasn’t often Bennett felt short. But dressed in civilian clothing in the middle of a hockey rink with two dozen players participating in practice around him, he felt a bit like a fly caught in a spider’s web.
Fowler stood to his left, camera focused on Bellamy while two of Fowler’s crew filmed practice from opposite sides of the rink. Coach Madolora had allowed them onto the ice today, but Bennett was experienced enough to understand that wouldn’t be the case every time.
And hovering nearby was one of the team’s PR people, making sure that the players didn’t say anything they shouldn’t.
Or maybe making sure Bennett didn’t ask anything he shouldn’t.
“Even when I got recruited to play for the University of Maine,” Bellamy continued, “I didn’t truly think I could make something of this hobby. And then scouts started coming around, and my coaches told me I had a real shot at being a pro hockey player.”
“And now?”
“Now?” Bellamy looked around the arena and shrugged. “Sometimes I feel like I’m walking in someone else’s shoes. You ever get everything you want and not know what to do with it? That’s scarier than it has any right to be.”
As Bellamy was called away, his statement settled between Bennett’s ribs, clinging with sticky fingers.
He, too, knew what it was like to get everything he wanted and not know what to do with it.
He’d squandered his own opportunity, shoving away two things he loved—hockey and Sandro—because he hadn’t known how to handle it when those two things had become diametrically opposed.
He’d wanted to keep Sandro, but how could he when his life as an NHL player had been nothing at all like he’d expected?
Right from training camp, it had been like waking up in a nightmare.
Everything from his schedule to his social media posts to his diet to how he presented himself was regimented and monitored, and he’d chafed against the rules and the constant pressure to perform and be better.
And he’d broken. He’d lasted a single season before quitting hockey and pushing Sandro away.
Because how could he tell Sandro what was going on when Sandro was having an exceptional rookie season and was thriving as a Trailblazer?
Bennett had been drowning in his own angst as he’d slowly and inevitably realized professional hockey wasn’t for him.
And as he’d struggled to come to terms with that and the unavoidable questions of what came next, he’d refused to bring Sandro down with him.
Fifteen years later, with a little more wisdom on his shoulders and much more life experience under his belt, he wished he could remind his younger self that he and Sandro had been a team and he’d owed it to him to be honest. To give him the option of supporting Bennett through his shit or not.
If there was one thing Bennett hated, it was having his choices taken away from him. And he’d done exactly that to Sandro, though it had taken his mother pointing it out for him to realize it.
But by that time, months had gone by since their breakup, and Bennett hadn’t felt settled enough to reach out to him.
He’d been living with his mom in Washington, doing odd jobs at a small local dairy farm nearby just to keep busy while he figured out his next steps.
Meanwhile, Sandro had been killing it during his second professional hockey season.
And then there’d been the photo. A snapshot of Sandro and the up-and-coming country music star du jour—Natalie something—posing together at .
. . a music awards ceremony? Something hockey-related?
Bennett couldn’t remember now, but that picture had been the ass kick he’d needed to shed the stress and melancholy and general feeling of blah-ness that had plagued him for months, quit his job, and head south to California to see what kind of gigs he could get in the film industry.
Sandro had clearly moved on; it had been time for Bennett to do the same.
“Hey, Hughes,” Bennett called as the defenseman skated past him. “Who’s your favorite team to play?”
“Tampa Bay,” Hughes said instantly.
“The team that’s only two points behind you in your division?”
Hughes’ smile was a little evil. “We keep each other on our toes. Tell him, Zanetti.”
“You always rack up a shit-ton of penalty minutes when we play Tampa,” Sandro pointed out.
“Worth it,” Hughes called over his shoulder, skating away.
“Hey,” Bennett said to Sandro, his heart skipping in his chest.
Sandro gave him an up-nod, a flash of emotion passing behind his eyes.
The same flash that had appeared three days ago while they’d stood on Sandro’s porch steps, the rain coming down hard enough to almost drown out Sandro’s whispered “Maybe” when he’d responded to Bennett’s question about moving on as friends.
Vulnerability.
Uncertainty.
Apprehension.
Bennett couldn’t even blame him, but he’d take maybe over no. It was, at the very least, a step in the right direction.
Fowler side-eyed him from behind the camera. On most productions, the director of photography didn’t operate a camera, but Fowler had a preference for being hands-on.
“Something I need to know about that?” he asked as Sandro followed Hughes to the other end of the arena, where Friedle was running drills.
“Nope,” Bennett said.
Fowler’s grunt didn’t sound convinced. He stopped recording and shifted the camera off his shoulder. “Can I offer a suggestion?”
“Please do.” At almost two decades older than Bennett, Fowler also had almost two decades more experience in the film industry. If he had a suggestion, a comment, a piece of advice, constructive criticism—Bennett wanted to hear it.
“You’d get more from the players if you sat them down for interviews instead of trying to talk to them at practice.”
Bennett swallowed back a sigh of frustration. “We were supposed to start them today, but the practice schedule changed.” It had been a last-minute change, but it had thrown off Bennett’s own schedule, and he’d spent most of the afternoon yesterday rearranging things. “We’ll start those next week.”
Fowler nodded once. “Good. And you’re sure there’s nothing going on with that?”
Bennett followed his gaze to Sandro, where he was chatting with Eli Parker near the boards. Something to do with Eli’s skates, maybe, given they were both gesturing at his feet.
What was going on with them? They’d been at the coffee shop together, but it hadn’t been a date. The vibe had been all wrong. Teammates grabbing an afternoon coffee?
Maybe, although from Bennett’s experience, veteran players didn’t interact much with rookies.
Of course, he only had one season of professional hockey to base that on, so what did he know? Besides, the Trailblazers were different. That was the entire reason he was here.
Well, it was ninety percent of the reason he was here.
Several dozen feet away, Sandro smiled at Eli, and Bennett’s stomach jumped.
Okay, it was seventy percent of the reason he was here.
“Because he keeps looking over here,” Fowler added.
“What?” Bennett whipped his head in Fowler’s direction, hope mingling with disbelief. “No, he doesn’t.”
His tolerance for bullshit always somewhere around nonexistent, Fowler just looked at him like he was the gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Hefting the camera back onto his shoulder, he said, “Where to next?”
Moving Sandro to the deal-with-later category of his mind—something he was finding himself doing more of the longer he spent with this team—Bennett got to work.
Everything hurt as Sandro dressed after practice. The shower had helped, but watching his younger teammates go about their post-practice activities as if they had the knees and backs of four-year-olds, Sandro felt his age.
He’d recently been named one of the oldest active players in the league.
In a way, it had been flattering—thirty-eight years old and he still had it.
In another, it had reminded him that he was ancient in hockey years and his time was coming to an end.
Maybe this year, maybe next, maybe the one after that if he was lucky enough to get a few more seasons in.
The more he thought about his eventual and inevitable retirement, the more he wondered what came next.
How could he stay in hockey without actually playing hockey?
Roman Kinsey had created the role of director of player engagement for himself upon retirement because he’d been the drive behind changing the Trailblazers’ culture when he’d been team captain, but there wasn’t anything Sandro was good at that could lead to a non-player position.
“You okay?” Owen Cotton asked, nodding at Sandro’s wrist as he sat in front of his stall next to Sandro’s.
Sandro rotated his wrist once more—even that hurt—and gave his friend a smile. “I’m great. Hey, question. What’s your plan after you retire?”
“You mean after I sleep for a week?” Cotton pulled on socks. “I’ll have more time to illustrate children’s books, so that’ll be cool. Kas and I will probably do some traveling, visit family more. Other than that, I don’t really have plans.”
“It doesn’t bother you, not knowing what comes next?”
“Not really, but let’s face it, Zanetti—we make the kind of money that means we don’t need to have a plan right away. There’s time to figure it out, even after retirement.” Cocking his head, Cotton added, “Does it bother you?”