Chapter 11
chapter eleven
The next morning, Sandro watched Bennett sleep like a creeper.
It was dark in the bedroom—the sun wouldn’t begin to rise for another hour—but Sandro’s eyes had adjusted and he could make out the curve of Bennett’s cheek, the slash of his nose, and his slightly parted lips as he slept on his stomach.
His hair was a wild tangle around his head, spread across the pillow.
Sandro kissed his bare shoulder. His body and his heart were still aligned—his body wanted to blanket Bennett’s with his own, and his heart wanted more cheese platter dinners and more of Bennett putzing around the kitchen making him bagels, and more laughing together.
But his head had entered the game, and it was questioning every decision he’d made in the past twelve hours.
Not in a million years would he have expected to land in bed with Bennett again.
He’d thought the part of his life that included Bennett Jackson was over and done with.
He’d gotten over Bennett and moved past their breakup, but what he hadn’t realized was that he wasn’t over what they’d had.
He’d been over the man but not their relationship.
Had he, too, compared every relationship to his and Bennett’s? If he had, it had been subconsciously as he’d searched for—and never found—a partner who made him feel like Bennett had.
He didn’t know what to make of Bennett’s admission that he’d compared his relationships to theirs. That he regretted ending things. Did that mean Bennett hadn’t fallen out of love with him? If that wasn’t why he’d broken up with him, then why had he?
Did the reason even matter anymore?
His bruised heart said yes.
Bennett let out a little snore that made Sandro’s lips twitch, but his smile faded fast. Fucking hell, he shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t have fallen into bed with Bennett. Shouldn’t have gotten out of the car and followed him to the door. Shouldn’t have asked him to dinner.
Was this a one-time thing? Would they continue to hook up while Bennett was here?
Should they continue to hook up? What would happen when Bennett left?
Was this even allowed? A filmmaker getting involved with one of his subjects was just stepping all over filmmaking ethics, wasn’t it?
What if there was something in Bennett’s contract preventing him from getting involved with the players?
That seemed a little far-fetched, but there was probably something about conflicts of interest.
And this was unquestionably a conflict of interest.
“Fuck,” Sandro muttered, scrubbing both hands over his face.
Bennett made a snuffling sound. Sandro froze, but Bennett didn’t wake.
Quietly, he got out of bed, found his underwear half hiding under the nightstand, and slipped them on. Downstairs, he collected the rest of his clothes in the dark and dressed in a hurry, then paused at the front door.
Damn it. He couldn’t leave the door unlocked behind him. Could he sneak out the back?
Nope, it had the same kind of deadbolt lock as the front door.
Crossing back to it, he grabbed Bennett’s rental car keys off the counter and tested the one extra key on the door lock.
Success.
Stepping outside, he locked the door, tucked the keys under the mat, and texted Bennett.
Sandro:
Keys are under the mat out front.
As a morning-after text, it was seriously lacking in . . . anything. But Sandro’s thoughts were zigzagging through his head, and the adrenaline pumping through his veins was akin to how he felt after his team won a game.
He drove home on dark and empty streets, trying not to think about the man he’d left behind. Once there, he changed into jogging clothes and drove to Roman’s.
Roman and Kas were waiting in Roman’s driveway when he arrived.
“What are we waiting around for?” Sandro asked as he exited his vehicle. He took a pair of fleece running gloves out of his pocket and began to jog backward. “Let’s get a move on.”
“What’s the rush?” Kas asked even as he tugged his toque lower and followed.
As his friends fell into step with him, Sandro faced forward. “It’s cold. We’ve got to get the blood moving.”
“Why are you being weird?” Roman asked.
“How am I being weird?”
“You hate jogging,” Roman pointed out. “You only do it because you have to.”
“Yeah, you usually spend ten minutes trying to convince us to go out for coffee instead,” Kas said. “So what are you trying to run away from?”
Sandro clenched his teeth. Kas was now the second person who’d recently accused him of running away from something. “I’m not running from anything.” He picked up the pace, some sense of self-preservation giving him a boost of energy.
Roman’s neighborhood was a ghost town, the houses still dark with only the odd light on in a window here and there.
Sandro, Roman, and Kas followed the same route they always took, hanging a left at the top of Roman’s street onto the trail that hugged Lake Champlain.
Their footsteps crunched gravel and the water lapped peacefully at the shoreline.
The path was unlit, but as the sun began to rise, it illuminated the trail in soft shades of blue.
Tree leaves had browned and fallen to the ground over the past couple of months, and parts of the trail were still wet from a recent rainfall.
Sandro concentrated on his breathing, on putting one foot in front of the other, on dodging the occasional bare branch that had fallen onto the path. It was cold, but he warmed quickly. Was Bennett warm in his bed?
No. Nope. He wasn’t thinking about Bennett.
He was thinking about what time he had to leave for morning skate later and what kind of smoothie he’d make to drink on his drive to the arena and what it would be like to see Bennett there after last night.
Goddamn it.
Cursing under his breath, he came to a stop on a short wooden bridge that arched gently over a tiny creek and looked back at his friends.
Who were waaaaay behind him. Had he sprinted ahead without noticing?
Fuck.
Bracing his forearms on the bridge’s railing, he hung his head between his arms and panted.
Roman and Kas caught up, and Sandro braced himself for an inquisition.
“Nice sunrise,” Roman said inanely from his right.
Kas grunted his assent. “I think the most beautiful sunrise I’ve ever seen was from Cape Spear in Newfoundland. Owen and I drove out there from St. John’s at four in the morning to see it when we were there a few years ago.”
“That’s the easternmost point in North America, right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Still bent in half, Sandro looked first at Kas, then at Roman. “What’s wrong with you guys?”
“We’re just enjoying the sunrise,” Roman said amiably. “What’s wrong with you?”
Of course. They’d been giving him time to catch his breath and get his shit together before they started the inquisition. Except his shit was scattered to the four winds, so no amount of time in the world would help.
Sandro straightened, only to brace his hands on the railing. He blew out a breath that fogged the air in front of his face. “Nothing’s wrong with me.”
“Hm. Can’t help but notice that you left with Bennett Jackson after our meeting yesterday.”
“How could you possibly know that? You left before us.”
“I told you.” Roman waggled his eyebrows. “Eyes and ears everywhere.”
“I slept with him,” Sandro blurted without thought, avoiding his friends’ gazes.
“Who’s Bennett Jackson?” Kas asked. “Oh wait, the guy who’s filming the series?”
“He’s also Zanetti’s ex,” Roman told him.
Sandro stared at him. “I never told you that.”
Scoffing, Roman tugged his toque lower. “Don’t act like I can’t read a room.”
“This him?” Kas thrust his phone in Sandro’s nose.
On the screen was a photo of Bennett wearing a pinstriped suit with a white shirt and black tie, his hair tied back with little flyaways at his temples.
He was looking directly at the camera as he fiddled with one cuff, as though the photographer had caught him leaving a party.
“Yeah,” Sandro said hoarsely, nerves and heat and regret jangling for attention in his chest. “That’s him.”
Kas nodded. “Okay. Just so we have our facts straight, you slept with a hot guy—”
“His ex,” Roman oh-so-helpfully pointed out.
“You slept with your hot ex,” Kas amended. “Then left him in your bed to come jogging with us?”
“His bed,” Sandro corrected.
“That’s even worse.”
“How is that worse?”
“Because if it was your bed, at least he’d know you were coming back.” Roman leaned against the railing. “Since you live there and all. But leaving his bed . . .” He shook his head, like Sandro was a child who’d disappointed him.
“Are you going to tell him he’s an idiot or am I?” Kas asked Roman.
Pushing back from the railing, Sandro paced away. “How does that make me an idiot?”
“You left a hot piece of ass in bed to—”
Sandro rounded on Kas. “Fuck you, asshole. He’s not a piece of ass. He’s—” At Kas’s smirk, Sandro broke off to swear under his breath, belatedly realizing he’d fallen into Kas’s trap. “Asshole,” he reiterated.
“What is he if not a piece of ass?”
“I don’t know, okay?”
“Picking up where you left off?” Roman said.
“God, no. It’s been fifteen years. It’s too late for that. We’re different people now.”
The truth of that statement hit him square in the chest and he gasped in a breath. They were the same but different in the way that every thirty-eight-year-old was different from their twenty-three-year-old self. They couldn’t go back; Sandro had known that from the beginning.
Kas leaned against the rail next to Roman and crossed his arms over his chest. Behind him, the sky had lightened, turning the world to gold. “You were together that long ago?”