Chapter 7
chapter seven
Bennett’s new footage for the docuseries was—Christ, he couldn’t believe he was going to admit this, even in just his own head—uninspired.
Sitting at the desk in the spare room of the townhouse the Trailblazers had set him up in, he tried not to cringe as he watched the interview footage he’d shot earlier in the week.
First Dabbs, then Michael Hughes, then Sean Gaffney.
He’d spliced it into a five-minute video featuring the week’s highlights and he’d sent it to David a few hours ago, but he didn’t need the inevitable phone call from his executive producer to know exactly what he’d say about it.
Because as he watched the short clip again on his laptop, Bennett wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.
“You must be excited,” he heard himself say in the footage, “about being defending Cup champions.”
Dabbs shrugged casually. “It’s all part of the job.”
Hughes cocked his head like the question wasn’t worth answering. “Sure. It’s not every team that wins two cups in a row.”
Gaff smirked. “Obviously.”
“Jesus,” Bennett said now.
He’d been aiming for a certain vibe during this first set of interviews—he’d wanted excitement about the upcoming season, a sense of anticipation that would have the audience on the edge of their seats.
But as he continued watching—
“Tell me about the stress that comes with being defending champions,” his on-screen self asked. “You must be feeling the pressure from fans and management alike.”
Another shrug from Dabbs. “Comes with the territory.”
Another head-cock from Hughes. “Of course.”
Another smirk from Gaff. “Obviously.”
“Jesus,” Bennett repeated.
His questions were leading the players in a specific direction, making their answers sound manufactured. Inauthentic.
Uninspired.
He knew better than to lead interviewees like that, but in his attempt to control the situation, he’d ended up with boring content even he didn’t want to watch.
What was it his mom had said about over-preparing himself into boredom?
Ugh.
His phone rang, and he didn’t need to look to know who was calling. Bracing himself, he answered without checking the caller ID. “Hi, David.”
“Bennett.”
The way David said his name so flatly settled like a stone in Bennett’s gut.
“I watched the footage you sent this morning,” David said, eschewing pleasantries. “It’s got promise.”
Bennett blinked at his laptop. Had he heard correctly? “It . . . does?”
“Not the interviews,” David continued, blunt as always. “There’s nothing usable there. There’s no heart. But that clip of Sandbaker and Deeley arguing after the team lost to Montreal? That’s gold, Ben.”
“Bennett,” he corrected, but David spoke over him.
“I want to see more of that. More authenticity, more heightened emotions, more . . . realness. Get to the heart of these players—their desires, their frustrations, all of it. That’s what fans will want to see. Not bland answers to blander questions.”
Mean, but true.
Was it possible Bennett had lost his mojo after Chain of Command?
“I want to see tension, grit, vulnerability,” David was saying. “This series needs to pack a punch. You’re not the only qualified filmmaker. You’ve got until the new year to show me that you’re the man for the job.”
The threat wasn’t subtle—either Bennett stepped up his game, or David would replace him. Didn’t matter that the series was Bennett’s idea—at the end of the day, this was a business and he was replaceable.
A red-hot poker of annoyance jabbed between Bennett’s ribs. “Understood,” he gritted out.
“Good man. Talk soon, Ben. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Bennett,” he corrected again, but David had already hung up.
Tossing his phone onto the desk, Bennett ran both hands back through his hair, where his fingers got tangled in his hair tie. He yanked it out, ignoring the sharp tug of pain as he ripped hair out at the same time, and flung it aside.
This was normally where he’d get himself and Fowler into a room together to brainstorm ideas. But while the townhouse was nice, the walls were closing in on him. He needed to stretch his legs. Take in some fresh air. Get out of his own head.
He drove to a nearby deli and ordered a sandwich to go—on second thought, he should probably get two. A few minutes later, he was back in his car with his order, intending to head to the waterfront or a park, but instead, he accidentally found himself typing Sandro’s address into his maps app.
That explained why he’d ordered two sandwiches.
The townhouses in Sandro’s complex all looked identical in varying shades of gray.
What made one different from another was the color of its front and garage doors, the landscaping, and in some cases, the holiday decorations that looked like they were just beginning to pop up—an inflatable here, tree ornaments the size of his head hanging from bare branches there, and at the end of Sandro’s row, a man on a ladder installing exterior Christmas lights on a house.
Wait. Wait, was that Sandro?
Up on a ladder?
Without anyone spotting him?
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Bennett parked at the curb, threw his door open hard enough that it bounced back and almost caught him in the knee, and slammed it shut behind him. “What the fucking fuck, Ro?”
Sandro stared at him from the top of the ladder, dark eyes unmistakably amused. “What’s your problem?”
“You’re up a ladder without anyone keeping an eye on you,” Bennett growled, grabbing the ladder in both hands to keep it steady. “That’s what’s my problem.”
“Dabbs was here until a few minutes ago, but he had to go pick up his boyfriend at the airport.”
“Then why didn’t you come down?”
“Because I’m almost done.” Sandro waved behind him. “Only a couple of houses left.”
“Why are you putting lights up over here? You live over there.” Bennett tipped his head in the direction of Sandro’s house.
“I own the whole complex,” Sandro said, clipping the lights to the gutters. “And putting up the lights is a service I provide.”
“You own this complex?” Bennett looked around, taking in his surroundings in a way he hadn’t when he’d dropped Sandro off after Eli had abandoned him at the coffee shop.
The townhouses looked newish, likely built sometime in the past ten to fifteen years.
There were several rows of townhomes as well as a building that looked as if it had been subdivided into apartments.
Sandro’s row faced a large park with a pond, a playground, a basketball court, a baseball diamond, and a fenced-in area for dogs to run around off-leash.
On his way in, Bennett had passed a strip mall with a small grocery store, a bakery, an ATM, a dry cleaner, a dental office, and a post office.
It was like a town within a city.
“You really went and put down roots, huh?” Bennett muttered, mostly to himself.
That was Sandro, though. He’d grown up surrounded by family and extended family, always knowing his place in the world and how he fit into other people’s lives.
On his visits to Tobermory with Sandro, Bennett had witnessed the tight-knit clan that was the Zanettis and how easily Sandro fit among them.
How he’d thrived when surrounded by loved ones.
“Dabbs lives in this complex too?”
“Him and Bellamy.” Sandro descended the ladder, moved it back a couple of feet, and climbed up again, string of lights clutched in one hand.
Bennett followed, still holding the ladder steady.
“They share a house with Dabbs’ dogs and Bellamy’s cat over that way.
And Eli’s renting one of the apartments until a townhouse becomes available. ”
“How often does that happen?”
“Every once in a while. People come and go, just like anywhere else.”
Sandro descended the ladder again, moved it, climbed back up.
“Should you even be on a ladder?” Bennett asked him. “Isn’t there a clause in your contract preventing you from doing stupid shit?”
Laughing, Sandro peered down at him, and Bennett wanted to sink into his smile.
“No,” Sandro said. “Well, yes, but there’s no mention of ladders. Maybe there should be. A Toronto player fell off a ladder and broke his leg about . . . shit, a decade ago maybe? Took him out of the game for a while.”
“And yet here you are. On a ladder. By yourself. On Thanksgiving.”
“I’m Canadian—it’s not my Thanksgiving. Besides, I don’t know what one has to do with the other.”
“Nothing, except that emergency rooms tend to be busier on holidays,” Bennett said. “So if you fall and break something, your entire afternoon’s going to be ruined.”
Plus, it wasn’t right that Sandro was hanging lights, alone, instead of spending time with friends and family on Thanksgiving.
But, as he’d said, it wasn’t his Thanksgiving. Canadian Thanksgiving was in October.
“I won’t fall,” Sandro said. “And if I did, you’d break my fall, wouldn’t you?”
“Goes without saying.”
Their gazes met, awareness and history and a sense of inevitability passing between them.
Or maybe that was only on Bennett’s end, because Sandro looked away with a short cough and went back to his lights. “What have you got planned for the day?”
“Me? Not mu—Oh, are you done? Finally.”
Back on solid ground, Sandro smirked at him. “You did hear me say I have two more houses to do, right?”
Sighing, Bennett let the ladder go and shook out his hands. He’d forgotten his gloves at home. “Sandy.”
Sandro raised an eyebrow in question, but he didn’t bark at him not to use the nickname.
“It’s fucking cold.”
Loosing a laugh, Sandro carted the ladder and the box of lights next door. “No one’s twisting your arm to be here.”
“Maybe not, but someone should be here to call 911 when you fall and break your neck.”
“I’m wounded you have such little faith in me.”
“Graduation Day,” Bennett said instantly. “You swore up and down to Professor Fisher that you’d calmly walk across the stage to accept your diploma and then calmly walk off again. And what did you do?”
Climbing the ladder, Sandro grinned. “Jimmy dared me to.”