Chapter 8
chapter eight
“I hate mornings,” Sandro grumbled, stomping down the stairs of his townhouse. The knock on his front door came again, and he swung the door open to scowl at Eli. “I hate sun,” he grumbled to his teammate. “I hate you.”
Eli didn’t appear bothered by that in the least. Dressed in running pants and a matching running jacket, he grinned. “Let’s go jogging.”
“Fuck no.”
“You said you’d come with me.”
“That was before I drank my weight in tequila.” Sandro smacked his lips together. He’d brushed his teeth—four times—yet his mouth still felt like it was stuffed with tequila-flavored cotton balls.
“In your defense, you probably didn’t expect Hughes to have that much booze,” Eli said kindly.
“It wasn’t my first Hughes Thanksgiving. I knew exactly what to expect.”
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t overindulge—he hadn’t in years.
But Bennett had been there, with his perfect hair and blue, blue eyes and teasing smile, and he’d needed a distraction from his feelings.
Of course, the booze had only made him feel more, which should be fucking illegal, and he’d gone and thrown himself at the man.
Not that asking him to stay was throwing himself at him. Or was it?
Well, whatever it was, the deed was done. Sandro wasn’t embarrassed about it. He was annoyed that he’d asked in the first place and even more annoyed that Bennett had done the mature thing and left. And he was even more annoyed that he was annoyed that Bennett had done the mature thing.
He shouldn’t be annoyed. He should be grateful. Because repeating the past wasn’t on his to-do list.
Apparently, his hormones had thought otherwise because they’d wanted Bennett last night.
Still wanted Bennett this morning.
And yes, that was also annoying.
“Come on, let’s go,” Eli said.
“Why aren’t you throwing up on your bathroom floor? You were as drunk as I was.”
“Told you—iron stomach. Were you throwing up on your bathroom floor?”
“No, but it was a near thing.”
“Okay. So, let’s go.”
“I don’t want to.”
Eli looked him up and down. “Then why are you dressed in running clothes?”
“Because I said I’d go with you, so I’ll go even though I don’t want to. Let me make a fuss about it, will you?”
Eli’s laughter was as bright as the morning sunshine.
Sandro let him set the pace and the direction. His head didn’t hurt, but his stomach was queasy, a fact that wasn’t helped by the jogging. Thank god they didn’t have a game tonight. Practice later, though, but hopefully the queasiness would pass by then.
“So,” Eli said, dragging the word out as their footsteps pounded the sidewalk. “Um, I think I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“That day we ran into Bennett at the coffee shop, when I asked about your overlap at the University of Michigan,” Eli said.
“It didn’t occur to me until later that maybe the reason you didn’t answer my question was because the two of you didn’t get along.
Or maybe it had been so long since you’d seen each other, and being thrown together for the series was making you feel awkward.
I’m sorry I had to rush off and left you to deal with what could’ve been a tricky situation. ”
“Oh, that’s . . .” Sandro recalled thinking that Eli was oblivious, but he obviously saw more than he let on.
“Except now I’m thinking that the reason you didn’t answer my question was because the two of you were, uh . . . lovers? Partners? And you clearly aren’t anymore, so . . .”
Sandro’s already queasy stomach rolled. Definitely not oblivious. “That’s . . . It’s not . . . We’re not . . .”
“Deny it all you want, but I saw the look on your face yesterday when Bennett said he’d almost gotten married in Vegas.”
Had it been a look of pure murder? A model. Pfft.
“Did anyone else notice?” he found himself asking.
“Please. They’re idiots.”
Surprised into laughter, Sandro paused at a stop sign just to give his stomach a chance to rest.
“Plus, you asked him if he wished it was you he’d almost married,” Eli said, amusement in his eyes. “If I hadn’t noticed you mentally wish death and dismemberment on his almost-husband, I would’ve noticed that and figured there was something between you. Or had been.”
“Had been,” Sandro confirmed. “It’s in the past.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” Sandro gritted out. “Are we jogging or what?” He started to cross the street, Eli’s footsteps behind him.
“Oh, now you want to jog, huh? Why’s that? Trying to run away from this conversation?”
Sandro ground to a halt on the other side of the road. “What the fuck, Eli?”
“Just . . .” Coming to a stop in front of him, Eli waved a hand. “You never talk about yourself. You’re supposed to be my mentor and I’m trying to get to know you, but you never answer a question directly unless it’s about hockey.”
Offended, Sandro planted his hands on his hips. “That’s not true. I’m an open book.”
Eli’s snort of laughter morphed into full-on guffaws.
“An open book.” Eli sniggered, holding his stomach like his intestines would burst forth and laugh at Sandro too. “Sure. Okay, Zanetti. God, the fact that you believe that is honestly hilarious.”
“You do know I’m about to murder you, right?”
“Oh yeah?” Jogging backward, Eli smirked. “You’ll have to catch me first. Think you can keep up, old man?” He took off at a dead sprint.
Sandro, annoyed again but also more amused than he wanted to admit, ran after him.
There were fifteen hockey games this evening, which meant most of the teams in the league were playing.
The Trailblazers were one of the lucky few who didn’t have a game the day after Thanksgiving, but that didn’t mean they got the day off.
Matty Coates and CC were looking a little green around the gills during practice, though, which made Sandro feel better about his own hungover state.
His stomach had begun to feel better after coffee, so there was that at least. He was a little sluggish, a fact Coach Madolora wasn’t shy about pointing out, but considering CC had had to step away to throw up, Sandro wasn’t performing too badly.
Not that CC had set the bar all that high.
Even Dabbs was flagging, and the team captain never flagged. Sandro didn’t know what his excuse was, though—he hadn’t been at Hughes Thanksgiving.
Bennett’s camera guy, Fowler, was filming practice from near the crease, and two of his crew floated around on skates with their own cameras. Skates and cameras seemed like a precarious combination to Sandro, but they seemed steady on their feet, so what did he know?
Usually Fowler’s presence meant Bennett wasn’t far, but Bennett wasn’t in the arena today. Sandro had checked.
Often.
“All right, pack it in, everyone,” Assistant Coach Friedle called. “Hit the showers and go home. I expect a better performance from you all at tomorrow’s game. If I never see another practice like this one, it’ll be too soon.”
“I don’t think he likes us much today,” Hughes pointed out.
“Yeah?” Sandro followed him down the chute. “And whose fault is that?”
Hughes eyed him over his shoulder. “I didn’t pour the alcohol down your throat.”
Sandro opened his mouth to argue, but . . . damn it, it was true. He blamed Bennett, with his . . . his . . . his presence.
Of course, that presence had been Sandro’s fault—he’d been the one to invite Bennett to Thanksgiving. But what was he supposed to do? Let Bennett spend the day alone with his frozen pizza and work?
Fuck that.
Inside the locker room, he nodded at Deeley. “Hey, man. You get home okay last night?”
“Yup.” Like Eli, Deeley didn’t look any worse for the wear.
Sandro missed being twenty-five, able to drink all night and be totally fine the next morning.
“You should’ve stayed a little longer,” Deeley added. “We had a pickleball tournament in Hughes’ basement.”
“Oh god.” Sandro laughed and removed his helmet. “Good thing I didn’t. I would’ve been utterly useless.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Prinnie quickly strip out of his uniform as if he were angry with it, leaving him in his base layers, and quietly sneak out of the room in his socks.
“We were all utterly useless,” Deeley said. “Just ask CC.”
“How come you didn’t ask if I got home okay?” CC complained with a pout. “You stole Mr. Wiggles right out from under my nose—asking after my health and well-being is the literal least you can do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sandro said, removing his skates and leaving them by his stall. “And besides, you stayed with Hughes overnight. I don’t need to ask if you’re okay—Hughes always takes care of you.”
CC blinked at that, his gaze straying across the room to where the D-men’s stalls were located.
Hughes was halfway out of his uniform, his back to them, hair matted to his head.
CC let out a soft “Huh” that Sandro might’ve teased him about under different circumstances, but as it was, he wanted to check on Prinnie.
He found Prinnie in the workout room, sitting with his back against the mirrors, forearms resting on his bent knees. When Sandro entered the room, Prinnie’s eyes popped open, red-rimmed and echoing with pain.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Zanetti.” Prinnie’s voice sounded as red-rimmed as his eyes looked.
Sandro nodded and sat next to him, their shoulders touching. “Okay. I don’t want to talk about it either. But you stole my thinking spot, so you’ll just have to put up with my presence.”
That drew a short laugh from Prinnie. “Fucker.”
His amusement didn’t last long. He closed his eyes again and rested his head back against the mirror. Sandro eyed him for a moment, his heart hurting for his friend. He had a feeling whatever was going on had something to do with his marriage—he and his wife had been struggling for a while.
But if he didn’t want to talk about it, that was fine. Sandro could sit here as silent support until Prinnie got sick of him.