Chapter 8 #3
“It’s what the new wellness initiative needs to cover,” Roman said.
He rounded his desk and stood next to Sandro by the whiteboard, where three bullet points had been written in chunky all caps.
He tapped the board next to the first one.
“Identity beyond hockey. Players—rookies especially—tend to define their entire worth as I’m only as good as my last shift or my last game.
But who are they two years into a professional career?
Five years? How do we help them build meaning that isn’t wiped out by a bad season? ”
Bennett pulled out his phone to take notes as Roman tapped the board next to the second bullet point. “Emotional literacy.” He paused there, head cocked. “I don’t love that wording, but I’ll leave it to you to call it whatever you want.”
Bennett glanced up from his phone, his gaze pinging from Roman to Sandro and back. Was Sandro meant to develop the wellness initiative?
The proverbial lightbulb clicked on in his head. This was the job Sandro wanted Bennett to convince Roman he was wrong for.
“Anyway,” Roman continued. “Whatever you want to call it, emotional literacy is all about supporting teammates without defaulting to avoidance or jokes.”
Bennett’s gaze swung back to Sandro at that, because he’d noticed Sandro doing exactly that with his teammates, but with Eli especially. Roman had noticed it too, judging by the side-eye he was currently tossing Sandro.
“But it’s also about how to ask for help,” Roman said. “How to be seen without feeling too exposed, and how to talk about pressure without feeling ashamed.”
Bennett let out an involuntary “Oof,” that last one hitting too close to home and to his own baggage with professional hockey. Sandro shot him a questioning raised eyebrow, which Bennett shook his head at—now wasn’t the time.
“We have a team culture that already promotes all of this.” Roman tapped the board again. “And the mentorship program helps. But we can do better.”
The mentorship program. The proverbial lightbulb clicked back on—or maybe off?
That was what Sandro was doing with Eli.
Bennett had researched the hell out of the Trailblazers, and he’d read the document outlining all of their programs that the organization had provided to him, yet he’d failed to put two and two together.
Of course Sandro was mentoring his younger teammate.
He had a decade and a half of experience.
The rookies had probably assigned him god status and Sandro didn’t even know it.
Hell, Bennett wanted to pick his brain about all things Trailblazers.
Problem was, he was biased where Sandro was concerned, and he wasn’t sure how to interview Sandro without that bias getting in the way.
“And finally,” Roman said. “The initiative needs to address public narrative versus private reality. Who are you on camera? Who are you in the locker room? Who are you when you’re alone at home?
And most importantly, what happens when those three don’t line up?
Fans tend to put athletes in a box and give them a label, but we’re all human and multifaceted.
Those lines should blur.” Roman grabbed a dry-erase marker and uncapped it.
“These can’t all be developed at once—you’d never have time to sleep.
So which one of these do you think takes priority?
And more importantly . . . why haven’t you been taking notes? ”
Bennett swallowed a laugh.
“Because,” Sandro grumbled, “like I already told you, I’m not the right person for this. B, tell him.”
“Uh . . .” Looking up from where he had been taking notes, Bennett frowned, not having expected to be called on. “Why are you the wrong person, exactly?”
“Because . . . Because.” Sandro waved both hands like the answer was obvious. “I’m not a psychologist, and I have no idea how to organize this kind of thing.”
“I don’t need you to be a psychologist,” Roman countered. “We already have one of those.”
“You have the lived experience,” Bennett pointed out.
“That’s what I said,” Roman muttered.
“Maybe not the experience coordinating this type of program,” Bennett continued, “but that can be learned. You have the experience that matters. And if you put it together, your teammates will participate. They look up to you.”
“They look up to Dabbs,” Sandro countered.
“Yes, but in a different way,” Bennett said, because it was his job to pay attention. “He’s the team captain—they treat him like the older brother they want to impress. It’s you they come to for help or for a sympathetic ear.”
“Exactly.” Roman jabbed the marker in Bennett’s direction. “Who else would sit quietly with Prinnie for ten minutes while he got his shit together?”
Sandro stared at him. “How do you know that? It just happened.”
“I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere.”
Snorting a laugh, Sandro faced the whiteboard, which put his back to Bennett.
Quietly, Roman recapped the marker and stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited Sandro out.
Did he notice that Sandro’s shoulders lost a bit of their tension the longer he looked at the board? Did he notice that Sandro rubbed his jaw in that I-have-ideas way he had? Did he notice Sandro’s quiet “Goddamn it, fine” sigh that signaled reluctant acceptance of the situation?
Bennett wasn’t sure if he had, but he didn’t react when Sandro nabbed the marker out of his hand and wrote 4. Career Transition on the board.
Wearing a smug smile he was lucky Sandro didn’t notice, Roman asked, “Why that one?”
“Because apparently seventy percent of marriages among professional athletes end in divorce,” Sandro said.
“And of those, fifty percent happen after the athlete retires. There’s got to be something to that, right?
Plus, a lot of athletes don’t know what they’ll do after they retire.
Look at Kas—he’s been retired a few years, and he spends his time playing golf.
And when I asked Cotton the other day, he said he doesn’t have a plan for after he retires.
Hell, I don’t have a plan for after I retire in a few years. ”
Bennett raised both eyebrows and couldn’t help but insert himself into the conversation. “A few years?”
“Two or three, yeah.”
Roman met Bennett’s gaze and tipped his head in Sandro’s direction. “He thinks his body’s going to last that long.”
Sandro narrowed his gaze on him. “You’re seriously the worst, you know that?”
“You’re welcome for giving you a job that’ll take you post-retirement.”
“I hate you sometimes,” Sandro grumbled, fondness ringing clear in his voice. “Smug bastard.”
So maybe Sandro had noticed Roman’s smile.
Ignoring the jab, Roman stole the marker back. “Where do you want to start?”
The meeting went on for another thirty minutes, with Sandro and Roman debating initiative priorities.
Sandro claimed that initiatives one and three—identity beyond hockey and public narrative versus private reality—were similar enough that they could be combined into one, leaving them with three initiatives instead of four.
But while Roman argued that emotional literacy should be priority number one, Sandro insisted it had to be career transition.
When it was clear they wouldn’t reach a consensus, Roman called a halt to the meeting. “We can regroup on Monday morning.”
“Can’t.” Sandro grabbed his leather jacket off the back of a chair and slipped it on. “I’ll be driving back from Tobermory.”
“What are you heading home for this time?”
“Brother’s birthday dinner on Sunday night. I’ll leave after the game on Saturday.”
Something like irritation kindled in Bennett’s chest as he shut down and packed away his cameras.
Sandro was still returning home at every opportunity for family functions?
To a degree, Bennett understood—he never missed visiting his mom on her birthday.
But there was a fine line between wanting to be there for family and stretching oneself too thin.
The drive hadn’t been bad when they’d been at U-M, only six hours. But from here? It was double that.
Muttering to himself about idiot hockey players who did too much, Bennett hefted his camera bags to stash them back in Coach Madolora’s office downstairs and strode out behind Sandro and Roman, tempted to snap at Sandro to take it easy—he had the rest of the season to get through, and his family would understand if he didn’t attend his brother’s birthday dinner—but Roman was telling Sandro that his in-laws had taken his kids to an indoor playground for a few hours this afternoon, and he was looking forward to them being tired enough to go to bed at a decent hour because, dear god, they had enough energy for five people.
“Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow for our morning run. Bennett.” Roman nodded at him. “Have a good night.”
“You too.”
Sandro waved goodbye to a departing Roman and turned on Bennett. “What are you doing right now? Want to grab an early dinner? I’m starved.”
Every ounce of irritation fled, replaced by a powerful hope that had Bennett almost stumbling back a step. “You’ll have to drive. I walked here this morning.”
“Let’s go.”