Chapter 12 #3
“This was a really terrible analogy.”
That made Coach laugh. “I get what you’re saying about Eli. I just want to see him succeed, you know? I know he’s got it in him.”
“I understand. But you’ll get further with him if you praise the one thing he did well rather than highlight all the things he did wrong in a near-perfect game. Trust me when I tell you that he already knows what he did wrong—we all know when we fuck up.”
“I hear you, Zanetti. Change tactics with Eli. I get it. Now can we go home or—”
A knock came on the door.
“Jesus Christ, now what?” Coach grumbled. “Why haven’t you all gone home yet?”
Sandro could only laugh, but when Coach told the knocker to come in, it wasn’t another player—it was his own son.
“Nolan!” Coach rose and rounded the desk. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Nolan said, hugging his dad. “Thought I’d drop in. Hey, Zanetti.”
Sandro sent him an up-nod as he stood. “Hey, man. How’s it going?”
“Not bad. Trying to survive the winter.”
“It’s not even technically winter yet.”
Nolan groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
Sandro had only met Nolan a handful of times since Coach Madolora had gotten the gig as their head coach three seasons back.
He lived in Toronto, doing something finance-related, though Sandro couldn’t remember what exactly.
Nolan was only a few years younger than him, and he looked like one of those boy-next-door types, slender-framed and shaggy-haired and baggy jeans-wearing—not at all like a finance bro—and Sandro knew there were tattoos covering both arms under the sleeves of his Trailblazers hoodie; he’d seen them at a team event Nolan had attended during the summer.
Nolan didn’t resemble his dad at all—Coach looked a bit like someone’s godfather but also like he could be the Godfather.
“Coach,” Sandro said. “Have a good night. Good to see you again, Nolan.”
“You too, Zanetti.”
Sandro used the facilities quickly, then grabbed his peacoat out of the dressing room on his way out, only to bump into Eli coming out of the kitchen with a carton of yogurt and a spoon in hand.
“Oh, hey,” Eli said, falling into step with him. “Didn’t know you were still here.”
“I’m just heading out.”
“Same.” Eli peeled the top of the yogurt. “Good game tonight.”
“Yeah. It wasn’t bad.”
They walked toward the exit in silence for a minute, Eli happily spooning yogurt into his mouth before he said, “Thanks for earlier, by the way.”
Sandro nearly stumbled a step. Did Eli know about his conversation with Coach?
“I know it was a billionty-seventy years ago for you, but it helps to know that you struggled in your rookie season too, even if it wasn’t for the same reasons.”
Billionty-seventy?
“I’m not that old.”
Eli side-eyed him. “Uh-huh. What hurts worse today? Your knees or your lower back?”
Sandro laughed. “Fuck you.”
“Seriously, though.” Eli bumped their elbows. “Thank you.”
Sobering, Sandro shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “I don’t talk about that time of my life a lot.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
“Don’t be a smartass.”
“It’s just . . .” Eli scraped the carton clean, then popped the spoon in his mouth.
“A lot of times, we rookies have no idea what we’re doing,” he said, slightly garbled with his mouth full.
He swallowed quickly and added, “We’re just doing what we’re told and going where we’re told and following the examples of the billionty-seventy-year-old players, but you guys act like you have all your shit together. ”
“Because we have the experience behind us. We know what to expect.”
“Right. That’s my point. We rookies don’t. So to hear from you guys about some of your rookie-days struggles . . .” Eli shrugged. “It helps. It made me feel less alone.”
For fifteen years, Sandro had kept himself contained, worried that if he let someone in again, they’d crush his heart like Bennett had.
But here was this twenty-five-year-old almost begging him to do just that.
Hell, this twenty-five-year-old had leaned on him more than once and hadn’t hesitated to tell him his own problems or how he was feeling.
Eli was proof that strength didn’t come from closing oneself off—it came from vulnerability, and more than that, authenticity.
He was about to tell Eli that he’d do better when Eli gasped. “Is that . . . Is that Nolan?”
Ahead of them, Coach stood with Nolan and the team’s equipment manager, who nodded at something Coach said and headed off at a jog down an adjacent hallway.
Nolan spotted Sandro and Eli and grinned. “Hey, Eli.”
Eli made a sound not unlike a deflating balloon that made Sandro squint at him.
“Nolan,” Eli said, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Hey. Hi. Hey.”
“It’s been a while, huh?” Nolan said as Sandro and Eli approached. “How’s your sister?”
“Oh. You know.” A little tentatively, Eli said, “She’s, uh, engaged?”
Nolan chuckled. “Good for her.”
“Yeah. Right. Good for her. I’m not, though,” Eli said with a hopeful smile. “Engaged, I mean.”
“Ah, that’s okay. Maybe one day, right?”
Eli’s shoulders slumped. “Right. One day. Heh.”
“Ready to go, Nolan?” Coach asked, glancing up from where he’d been doing whatever on his phone. “Zanetti, Eli. Get home safe, okay?”
They left, and Eli sent Sandro a wan smile. “That was Nolan.”
“Yes,” Sandro said, biting back a laugh. “I know who he is.”
“He dated my sister.”
“I got that impression.”
“The year Madolora was my coach,” Eli added, talking right over Sandro.
“But you wished he’d dated you instead, right?”
“Oh my god.” Eli brought his hands up, possibly to cover his eyes with them, but he was still holding an empty yogurt cup in one hand and a spoon in the other. He let his arms drop back to his sides. “Was I that obvious?”
Sandro did laugh now. “Yes. But I don’t think he realized.”
“Well, there’s that, at least.” Tossing his yogurt cup into a nearby trash bin, Eli pocketed the spoon and said, “Can I have a ride home? I rode my bike here, but now it’s snowing.”
“Yeah, sure, I—aw, fuck.” Sandro groaned up at the ceiling. “My car died on the way here.” How could he have forgotten? “Let me call us an Uber.”
“I can take you.”
Sandro turned, and there was Bennett, wearing jeans stylishly ripped on one thigh—why was that tiny peek of skin so goddamn sexy?
—and a black parka with a furred hood over a dark gray T-shirt.
His hair was tied back, and he looked as exhausted as Sandro felt, but he was beautiful, even under the harsh overhead lights.
Sandro’s heart lurched in Bennett’s direction.
“Hey.” He smiled and instinctively held an arm out for Bennett to snuggle into his side. “How come you’re still here?”
“I was interviewing a couple of the sports reporters.”
“Huh. Bet they loved having the tables turned.”
“You know, I think they did.”
Sandro was about to say something else when he caught Eli’s gaze going from the way Bennett leaned into him to the arm Sandro had around his waist. Eyebrow raised, Eli met Sandro’s gaze and said, “You’re not kids anymore.”
Sighing, Sandro turned to Bennett. “Got duct tape for that mouth of his?”
“Ha!” Eli danced away, cackling. “You can’t catch me.” He bolted out the exit to the parking garage.
“Unfortunately, that’s probably true.” Sandro placed a quick kiss on Bennett’s lips. “Hi.”
Bennett’s smile was delightfully pleased, and his blue eyes regarded him as though nothing else existed. “Hi. How was the drive back from Tobermory?”
“Oh god. Let me count the ways it was an utter disaster. Drive me home and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Bennett kissed him again. “Done.”