Chapter 12
chapter twelve
It was possible Sandro was going to miss his game.
Not only that, but he’d slept like shit while staying at his parents’ place for his brother’s birthday.
He was exhausted, frustrated, running on empty, and as the tow truck driver followed his directions to the players’ entrance minutes before the pre-game warm-up, he cursed himself for the thousandth time for not checking the weather forecast before he’d set out for Tobermory two nights ago.
Rookie mistake.
He’d been keeping Coach Madolora updated via text for the past hour, and although it was difficult to judge someone’s mood via text, Sandro had a feeling Coach was pissed at him. Coach’s What have I told you about returning home when we have games less than three days apart? hadn’t been subtle.
His entire body was tense and his knee bounced angrily as the tow truck driver, a woman with chin-length salt-and-pepper hair who’d introduced herself as Dolly, navigated the tow truck with Sandro’s SUV hooked to the back toward the players’ entrance.
“How long does it take to get ready for a game?” Dolly asked as she pulled up to the unmarked doors Sandro indicated.
“Not long,” Sandro muttered, drumming his fingers on his knee. “It’s easy enough to suit up.”
Not as easy to get in the right headspace, mentally, but he kept that part to himself. His tardiness wasn’t Dolly’s fault.
As soon as she put the truck in park, Sandro was out of the car. He yanked his duffel out of the footwell, wincing when the zipper scraped against the glove compartment, but Dolly didn’t appear to notice or care. “Thank you so much. Bye.” He slammed the door shut and jogged toward the entrance.
“Hey!”
Gritting his teeth, he turned at Dolly’s call. She’d rolled down the passenger-side window. “I’ll have your car at the garage you told me about in the next half hour.” She grinned winningly. “Make sure you leave me a Google review!”
Under different circumstances, he would’ve cheerily agreed. As it was, it felt like ants were crawling under his skin. He waved to acknowledge the request, then continued toward the entrance.
The door opened as he approached it. Sandro was expecting the security guard Coach had said he’d send to let him in, but instead it was Kyle Dabbs. His team captain was fully dressed for tonight’s game except for his skates and helmet, his ginger hair bright in the arena’s overhead lights.
“Thanks,” Sandro said as the door closed behind them and they fast-walked toward the locker room. “And sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Dabbs said in his deep rumble. “Are you okay?”
The genuine concern in his voice had tears of frustration prickling the backs of Sandro’s eyes.
“I’m fine. Just . . .” He let out a low groan.
“There was a snowstorm as I was leaving Tobermory, and I had to drive at a fucking crawl. The traffic through the Montreal suburbs was a goddamn nightmare. Then I got pulled over for a random inspection at the border, which put me another two hours behind, then my car broke down outside of Colchester, and it took forever to get a tow truck out there because of the weather—”
“Hey.” Dabbs stopped him, right there in the hallway, and took him gently by the shoulders. “Take a breath.”
“I don’t have time for a breath. The game’s starting in—”
“Zanetti. Take a breath.”
Rolling his eyes, Sandro did so, inhaling for the count of four before exhaling for the count of four.
When it loosened the anxiety knot in his chest, he took a second and a third.
Noises drifted out to him—doors slamming and the murmur of voices—but he breathed in a fourth time and his shoulders relaxed.
Shaking out his hands, he paced away a step. “It’s been a fucking day.”
“You good to play?” Dabbs asked.
“After what it took to get here, there’s no way I’m not playing.”
“All right. Let’s go then.”
They started back down the hall at a fast clip, and as they neared the press room, Bennett stepped out of it, gaze on his ringing phone.
Sandro’s heart shot into his throat, and he wanted nothing more than to step into him for a hug and let Bennett soothe the day away.
He’d been gone less than forty-eight hours, and at least ninety percent of that time had been spent thinking about Bennett.
Bennett looked up at their approach, and he raked his gaze over Sandro, brow furrowing. “Are you just arriving?” he asked, silencing his phone.
“Yeah. Long story.” Sandro squeezed his wrist on his way past. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
Dabbs didn’t miss the gesture—of course he didn’t. They were steps away from the locker room when he said, “Something going on there?”
“Zanetti!” Deeley called as Sandro walked into the locker room, saving him from having to answer.
“My man!” Gaff added.
“We were beginning to think you wouldn’t make it,” CC said with a grin, offering Sandro his bag of ketchup chips.
Sandro waved it away and forced a grin for his friends. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re here now.” Hughes clapped a huge hand on his back. “Let’s get ’em tonight, yeah? Worst team in the league. This game’s a fucking shoe-in.”
Smiling weakly, Sandro turned away to get ready.
He struggled to get his head in the game during the warm-up. Going from the day he’d had right onto the ice without first going through his pre-game routine was like taking over a board game from another player without knowing the rules.
As he went through his warm-up, the ants under his skin multiplied, and it felt like he’d downed two energy drinks one right after the other, and because of that, his mind couldn’t settle.
He kept remembering crawling out of bed after a sleepless night to a snowstorm and to his weather app advising travelers to stay home.
Remembered the border agent’s bored expression when he’d informed Sandro that he needed to “Pull over there. You’ve been selected for a random car inspection.
” Recalled the sinking feeling in his gut when his car had sputtered and died and the creeping feeling of guilt as he’d waited and waited and waited for a tow while the snow that had followed him from Tobermory had piled up on his hood.
He was going to let his team down, just like Bennett had predicted.
Except he’d made it. Barely. Although, judging by Coach Madolora’s expression, maybe it would’ve been better if he hadn’t. He could’ve put off the pending lecture for another day and sat through it when he was feeling more rested.
Madolora gestured him over. Squaring his shoulders, Sandro joined him at the team bench.
“Zanetti,” Coach said. “You doing okay?”
Sandro nodded. “I’m good, Coach. Sorry about today.”
Coach sighed, and though it was exasperated as hell, his tone was fond when he said, “We really need to talk about your trips home. I wasn’t kidding about that three-day window.”
Of course, there were often practices and meetings during those game-free three-day windows, but as a fifteen-year vet with a nearly spotless record and a fairly consistent game, Sandro got a lot of leeway.
“Now get your head in the game,” Coach demanded. “And focus. Even I can tell your mind’s a thousand miles away.”
“I’m right here, Coach.”
Coach gave him a searching look. “Glad to hear it. Let’s do this.”
The Washington Undergrounds were struggling this year.
Plagued by injuries almost from their first game of the season, they had the fewest points of any team in the league, putting them dead last in the rankings.
It was a shitty place to be. The Trailblazers were having another fantastic season, but there’d been seasons in Sandro’s career that had been absolutely miserable.
Sandro wouldn’t wish that dreaded last-place spot on any team.
Except maybe New York. They were all assholes.
The Trailblazers scored twice in the first period, but that didn’t mean the Undergrounders didn’t make them work for it. Just because they were last didn’t mean they didn’t have some phenomenal players on their team. They were simply having an off season. It happened to everyone.
Sandro began to flag embarrassingly early. The fatigue he could handle, but he hadn’t eaten a real meal since his brother’s dinner last night—this morning’s fast-food breakfast sandwich didn’t count—and the hunger combined with the long day succeeded only in making him hangry.
Every intercepted pass made him see red. Every hit into the boards boiled his blood. But it wasn’t until he wanted to slash at one of the Undergrounders for calling Eli Parker a cocksucking motherfucker that Sandro admitted to himself that he probably should’ve sat this game out.
“The fuck did you say to my teammate?” Sandro growled at the Undergrounder during a break in play.
“Zanetti,” Eli said. “Hey, it’s fine.”
The Undergrounder leered. “What’s wrong, Zanetti? Can’t take a little chirping? I only called him a—”
Dropping his gloves, Sandro advanced on the Undergrounder before he could repeat what he’d said, but Hughes got between them before his fist could land and shoved him back several steps.
“Dude, what the fuck?” Hughes slapped him on the side of his helmet. “If someone needs a beatdown, that’s my job. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” Sandro snapped. “I’m fine.”
Coach benched him for the rest of the first period.
And the Washington Undergrounds scored twice, tying the game at 2–2.
During intermission, he caught Coach speaking to Eli, whose shoulders were hunched and his cheeks pink. Eli had missed a perfect opportunity to score on the rebound, and it looked like Madolora was chewing him out for it. Or possibly for something else; Sandro wasn’t close enough to hear.
Besides, he was on a mission to find food before he expired, so he left his helmet and skates at his stall, ducked his head to avoid the gazes of anyone who might want to talk to him, and headed for the kitchen.