Chapter 6
chapter six
“Eli.” In his skates, sweat slicking down his temples, Sandro crossed the locker room during the second intermission to where Eli was moping by his stall. “You okay?”
“I should’ve had that goal.” Eli yanked off a glove and flung it into his stall. “Could’ve tied up the game.”
“Maybe,” Sandro conceded, because Eli should’ve had that goal, but Montreal’s goalie was a brick wall, which explained why the Trailblazers were currently losing. “But it didn’t go your way. So shake it off and focus on the next period.”
“But I should’ve had it.” The other glove hit the back of Eli’s stall with a thump, then joined the first at the bottom.
“Why?”
Sandro’s question seemed to stump Eli for a moment. “Why what?”
“Why should you have had it?” Sandro pressed. “This is hockey. Things often don’t go our way. Why should it have this time?”
“Because Friedle keeps telling me that I made the roster this year for a reason, and if I play like I did with the Groundbreakers, I’ll be top scorer one day, like you.”
To be fair, the title of top scorer had, for years, gone back and forth between Billy Honeybun and Owen Cotton.
Sandro was usually third or fourth, but Honeybun had retired at the end of last season, giving Sandro a chance to take that top first or second spot and prove to management that his body could handle another few seasons.
None of them had gotten to the top by letting one failed goal affect their game, though.
“But the NHL isn’t like the AHL. Not even a little,” Eli continued, jaw uncharacteristically tense. “And no one prepares you for the NHL. It’s fucking criminal. Why isn’t there some sort of transition program?”
Jesus fucking Christ, Sandro had no idea how to handle a rookie about to go off the rails.
He looked around for help, but his teammates were busy stretching or eating or doing whatever their intermission rituals dictated.
And of course, Cotton was nowhere to be seen.
Even Bennett had disappeared, taking himself and his camera into Madolora’s office to record whatever was going on in there between the coaches.
“What’s your favorite thing about hockey?” Sandro asked.
Eli blinked at him. “What?”
“What’s your favorite thing about hockey?” Sandro repeated. “And don’t say winning.”
That, at least, earned him an eye roll and a puff of laughter. “I don’t know. The speed, the action, the skill—”
“Pick one.”
“The camaraderie,” Eli said instantly. “The sense of family and community that comes from being on a team.”
Sandro nodded. “Good answer. Now look around you. Are any of your teammates—your family—chewing you out for missing that goal?”
Eli’s jaw worked, almost mulishly. “No,” he grumbled, definitely mulishly.
“Because we’re a team, and we win or lose as a team. So keep your chin up, set your frustrations aside, and concentrate on what comes next.”
“Right,” Eli said, visibly squaring his shoulder. “But for real, though—do you think I could be top scorer one day?”
Fucking hell, this kid was going to kill him with earnestness.
There wasn’t any more time for chit-chat, though.
They were back on the ice for the third period with Montreal up by one.
Their goalie must’ve found religion or whatever during intermission because he came out all scowly and determined and more brick-walled than ever.
He made the Trailblazers look like children, which wasn’t a good look for them.
What was worse was that every time he blocked one of the Trailblazers’ shots, the Trailblazers grew just that much more frustrated.
That frustration cost them, made them sloppy, and a Montreal player snuck a goal in with only three and a half minutes left on the boards. Sandro saw it happen from the bench and predicted the goal before the puck found the back of the net.
Next to him, Michael Hughes swore under his breath. “Why the fuck are we falling apart tonight?”
“Something in the air, maybe?” Sandro offered.
“Fuuuuuuuck. Losing at home sucks.”
“Hey, there’s still two minutes and forty-eight seconds left.”
Hughes side-eyed him.
“Don’t give me that look. Stranger things have happened.”
“Sure,” Hughes said agreeably. “But not tonight, it won’t.”
He was right. They were both on the ice when they lost to Montreal in their own arena. As Sandro headed back down the chute, he shook off the disappointment. He hated letting the fans down, but he’d been doing this long enough to understand that off days were a real thing.
Some of the younger guys weren’t so well-adjusted.
“What the fuck?” Deeley tossed his stick aside as he entered the locker room behind Sandro. “How did we lose to fucking Montreal?”
“You missed a pass,” Sandbaker told him, venom dripping from his voice. “And it was all downhill from there.”
“Oh, fuck you, asswipe. You’re the one who—”
“Hey!” Dabbs’ sharp bark split the air between them, silencing the room briefly before everyone else went back to undressing. “Knock it off. Take a shower, hit the workout room, I don’t care. But the next person who takes their frustration out on a teammate gets benched for the next three games.”
Sandbaker scoffed, and considering how he practically idolized their team captain, it spoke to his level of bitterness about how the game had turned out. “You don’t have the authority to do that.”
Dabbs yanked his helmet off, leaving his ginger hair in a riot of sweaty tangles, and raised one eyebrow. “Don’t I?”
Bennett, meanwhile, watched this all happen from a corner of the locker room.
Camera hefted onto one shoulder, his expression was impassive to the point of boredom, as if he’d seen all of this before.
He probably had, back when he’d played for Chicago.
Teammates shitting on each other wasn’t unique to any one team.
The Trailblazers might have a reputation for being what one reporter had termed “lovey-dovey,” but they weren’t perfect.
They fought, just like any other family.
Sitting in front of his stall, Sandro unlaced his skates and watched Bennett watch the argument, which had devolved into Dabbs sending Sandbaker to shower and Deeley to the kitchen.
What was going through Bennett’s mind? Was he reminded of his own NHL days?
Reminded, maybe, of why he’d quit? Or perhaps of why he’d loved the sport in the first place?
Or maybe his thoughts were all about camera angles and juicy footage or whatever else a filmmaker looked for. His black jeans and green T-shirt blended in with the locker room’s color scheme, making him somewhat invisible. Sandro didn’t think anyone else had noticed him lurking.
Sandro would never not notice him though.
Hughes stepped into his line of sight, blocking Bennett from view. Getting back to the task at hand, Sandro tugged off his skates and stretched out his legs. He’d gotten a foot cramp early in the third period, and although he’d skated through it, it had left his lower leg feeling stiff.
Hell, everything felt stiff. He needed physio and maybe a massage before he went home.
He was massaging his right knee when a prickle of awareness zipped up his spine. Glancing up into the sea of chaos that was a post-game locker room, his gaze unerringly caught on Bennett’s.
Bennett’s expression wasn’t impassive anymore. His brows tugged low into a frown, and he seemed to have forgotten about the camera—it sagged on his shoulder, the lens angled toward the floor.
You okay? Bennett mouthed.
Sandro hated that his chest went all gooey at the concern. He gave Bennett a thumbs-up, then rose to strip off his uniform.
It was more than an hour later before he dressed and headed out. Physio, a massage, and a hot shower hadn’t cured him of the chronic pain that plagued his life like a bad toothache, but he wasn’t as stiff, so . . . yay?
On his way toward the exit, Sandro passed the workout room, where Deeley and Sandbaker were laughing like best friends, their earlier argument forgotten.
“Zanetti. Wait up.”
He turned, and there was Roman Kinsey jogging down the hallway toward him.
“What are you still doing here?” Sandro asked, holding out a hand for his friend to fist-bump. “I thought you went home hours ago.”
“Nah, I’ve been here all day,” Roman said. He looked it too, shirt rumpled and eyes tired. “Had a series of late afternoon meetings, so I stayed for the game, then I met with Madolora. I bumped into Bennett on my way out, and he wanted a quick interview.”
Bennett was still here? Sandro peered past Roman, but the hallway was quiet aside from the occasional laugh from Deeley and Sandbaker drifting out of the workout room.
Roman gave him a very knowing look. “He left twenty minutes ago.”
“Good,” Sandro said quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. He faced forward, heading for the exit and avoiding Roman’s gaze. “Great. Good for him. He’s had a long day too. I’m sure he’s eager to get home.”
“Uh-huh.” Roman fell into step beside him. “Speaking of home . . . do you need a lift?”
“No, I got my car back from the shop. But thanks.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“I don’t know. A bunch of lights were on on the dashboard.”
Roman pushed open the door to the parking garage. “They didn’t call you after they examined it?”
“They did, but listening to a mechanic is like trying to learn Greek.”
“You could just get a new car. At this point, you’re sinking more money into it than it’s worth.”
“Rude.” Sandro patted his SUV when they neared. “Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t understand the relationship between a man and his car.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Roman leaned back against his own car, conveniently parked next to Sandro’s. His expression was darkly amused when he said, “I lived out of my car when I got kicked out for being gay, remember?”
Sandro winced. “Yeah, all right. Sorry.” Roman was so settled now, both professionally and personally, that Sandro often forgot that hadn’t always been the case.
“She’s my baby, though, you know?” He patted the side of his SUV again.
“She was my first big purchase after I started playing for the Trailblazers. She’s been with me since the beginning.
We’ve been through four Stanley Cup wins, three team uniform redesigns, five—or is it six?
—head coaches, and more than one rookie who’s puked in the back seat on the way home from the bar.
She and I? We’re in this until the end.”
“Speaking of rookies, how’s it going with Eli?”
“Good. He hasn’t asked for a trade yet, so I think I’m winning.”
Roman’s laugh was a low rumble. “Glad to hear it, because I need you to take over the mentorship program.”
Sandro laughed, but when Roman didn’t join in, Sandro gaped at him. “I’m sorry, what?”
Casually, as if he hadn’t just handed over the program he’d been nurturing since its infancy, Roman crossed one ankle over the other.
“There are a couple of programs I want to get off the ground this season or next, but I can’t do that without letting something else go. There aren’t enough hours in the day.”
“Okay,” Sandro said slowly. “So I’d be what? Your assistant?”
“More like a program coordinator, but the title doesn’t really matter. I need you to run it but also expand it to include a wellness initiative. Playing professionally can be overwhelming and intimidating without the right support in place.”
Sandro thought of what Eli had said earlier about the NHL being nothing like the AHL and couldn’t fault Roman’s logic.
“But the wellness initiative isn’t only for rookies,” Roman continued. “The team’s got medical staff to treat the body and therapists to treat the mind, but this initiative needs to treat the space between—identity, transition, peer culture. That ‘who am I when I’m not playing hockey’ question.”
Sandro swallowed hard. He’d been grappling with who he was outside of hockey for a while now, and Roman wanted him to walk others through that?
“Why me?”
“Because you have the lived experience. You’ve been with the team for sixteen years—you’re universally respected, you know what rookies fear, and you know what vets try to hide.”
“So? That doesn’t give me the credentials for this kind of thing. Don’t you want to hire someone with project management experience? Or at the very least someone with a degree in something other than general studies?”
“No. I want you.” Roman jabbed a finger in Sandro’s direction for emphasis.
“You don’t need credentials. Look, you might not recognize it, but you’ve shaped men here for years.
You have trust, empathy, and experience, something no degree can give you.
Players will follow you, whether you’re playing or working in the background, and I want to build something that lasts. ”
Warm fuzzies erupted in Sandro’s chest. Was that really how Roman saw him?
Except Roman ruined it by saying, “Plus, this way you’ll have a job lined up when you retire at the end of the season.”
Stomach bouncing until it settled somewhere in the vicinity of his toes, Sandro let out a half-amused, half-panicked tch sound. “What are you talking about? I’ve got two seasons left after this one, minimum.”
Roman’s expression went very Bitch, please. Who are you trying to fool? “We both know your body can barely handle this one.”
Annoyed now, Sandro dug in his pocket for his keys. “Fuck you, Roman.”
“What part of your body doesn’t hurt right now?”
Because he wanted to give Roman a truthful answer, Sandro did a mental inventory. “My head.”
Roman sighed. Straightening, he tugged open his driver’s side door. “I’ll schedule us a meeting in a couple of days to talk about the program. I have ideas.”
Of course he did.