Chapter 13
chapter thirteen
Bennett didn’t know how Sandro had done it, but he’d managed to book a private room last minute at one of the top-rated restaurants in Winnipeg, where the Trailblazers had a game the following evening.
He’d brought the two rookies who were traveling with the team for this eleven-day, five-game Canadian road trip—Eli Parker and DeShawn James—as well as two other vets: Owen Cotton, who, like Sandro, had been with the team since its first season, and Michael Hughes, who hadn’t, but who, at thirty-four years old, had been playing professionally long enough to know what was what.
CC had accompanied Hughes down to the lobby of the hotel, pouting when Sandro told him he’d be invited next time. CC hadn’t seemed annoyed that he wasn’t invited, though. He’d seemed to be irritated that Hughes was going somewhere he was not.
It was cute, if a little co-dependent.
Sandro had asked Bennett to come along with his camera because, as he’d put it, “This is the kind of thing that might be good for the docuseries.”
What this kind of thing was, though, Sandro had refused to tell him, instead wanting Bennett to watch and record without any preconceived notions.
So he’d sat with the players in the private room, dining on smoked fish dip and steak tartare and shrimp dumplings.
Once dinner had been consumed and they were waiting on dessert to arrive, he’d eventually gotten up to tuck himself unobtrusively in a corner with his camera.
He was beginning to think Sandro wanted him to film a casual evening between the rookies and vets—not bad content by any means, but why this evening?—when the conversation quieted naturally, the way it did when the same few people had spent a couple of hours together.
Sandro leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table, and regarded the rookies. “Okay, so don’t get mad, but I kind of brought you here under false pretenses.”
DeShawn James, the rookie from Tennessee, looked down at the table, which had been cleared of their dinner dishes. “We’re not getting a free meal?”
“No, you are,” Sandro said. He glanced at Eli quickly and said, “It came to my attention recently that life as a rookie can be . . . difficult. I know this, of course, but after a few seasons in the NHL, you tend to forget about that. And we vets haven’t done a very good job of helping you acclimate. ”
Eli’s expression turned to one of absolute horror. “Oh my god, Zanetti, no. That’s not what I meant at all. I didn’t mean to make you feel like—”
“I know,” Sandro jumped in. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not true.
And I brought Cotton and Hughes along tonight because, between the three of us, we’ve got, like, forty-five years of professional hockey under our belts.
So if you’ve got questions or concerns or you need advice, ask away. We’re open books.”
Eli shot him a disbelieving look.
“Shut up,” Sandro muttered at him. “I’m working on it.”
Interesting. Sandro had organized an intimate focus group of sorts so the rookies could pick the brains of the vets. And he’d done it over dinner, making the entire experience less formal than if he’d led this type of thing around a conference room table.
Sandro had been right—this was definitely content that would be good for the series.
“So,” Sandro said. “Who wants to go first?”
Predictably, neither rookie volunteered.
Bennett’s stomach dropped to his toes the longer the silence went on. He knew exactly what was about to happen—Eli and DeShawn would feel intimidated or pressured or they’d worry about saying the wrong thing, and ultimately this whole evening will have been for nothing.
That was exactly how this scenario would’ve gone when Bennett had played for Chicago.
But then Eli tentatively lifted a hand. “Um, I’ll go.”
Owen Cotton smiled at him. “Go for it. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, uh . . .” Eli glanced around, and as he clocked his fellow teammates looking at him, his shoulders straightened and he cleared his throat.
“I think the biggest thing I’m struggling with is the pressure.
Not just the pressure to win, but the pressure from fans, the pressure from the engagement staff to do more community activities, from the media relations team to participate in more fun social media videos.
Then there’s pressure to fit into a box.
” He made the shape of a box with his hands.
“You know? Like, Dabbs is the cool one—”
“That’s offensive,” Sandro muttered, but his eyes were dancing.
“And Hughes is the grouchy one and Cotton is the nice one and Matty Coates is the one all the kids love at events because he can do the splits and Gaff is the one who looks like everyone’s cousin and CC has the best smile.”
Hughes crossed his arms over his chest. “Goddamn right.”
They all stared at him.
Unperturbed, he said, “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
Bennett rolled his lips inward so he wouldn’t laugh.
“It’s just,” Eli went on, and he was laughing, “there are so many people who want something from me that I get lost in all of that, which distracts me from what I’m here for—to play hockey and help this team get to the playoffs.”
“Okay.” Hughes propped both elbows on the table.
“I’m going to tell you something that probably nobody’s told you.
Ready? You’re allowed to say no. If things get to be too much, if someone wants you to make an appearance somewhere or someone else wants you to film a ‘how well do you know me’ video with another player for Instagram and the thought of either just makes you feel exhausted .
. . you can say no. Nobody talks about it, which is a crying shame, but your mental health is important. Push back if you need to. Okay?”
The rookies stared at him as if the word no wasn’t in their vocabulary. Bennett had quietly shifted while Hughes had been talking, so he could point the camera at him, but now he changed angles again to get Eli and DeShawn’s reactions.
“My biggest struggle is probably the team culture,” DeShawn said.
“The Trailblazers are notorious for being inclusive and respectful and, I don’t know, just a team.
You’re all about open communication and airing out your problems and talking shit through and being there for each other, but, like .
. .” The kid, so achingly young at only nineteen, passed a hand over his face.
“For a lot of people, that’s not easy, and there’s no handbook on how to adapt to that kind of culture.
I came from a team where it was all, keep your head down, do as you’re told, show up when you’re supposed to, and for fuck’s sake, win games.
To go from that to this . . . it’s like playing left-wing when you’ve played right-wing your whole life. ”
Swallowing hard, Bennett retreated into the corner with his camera.
He felt for the kid. DeShawn’s previous team was very much like playing for Chicago, and Bennett didn’t miss it one bit.
The Trailblazers, by comparison, were like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Of course, they hadn’t been sixteen years ago when Bennett had played in Chicago, but Roman Kinsey was as famous for the team culture he’d created as he was for winning this team two Stanley Cups as captain before he’d retired.
Would Bennett’s career have taken a different trajectory if he’d played for a team like the Trailblazers right out of college?
Maybe. He’d never know.
In all his years in hockey, he’d never witnessed players leaning on each other the way the Trailblazers did.
The rookies weren’t giving their problems to the vets.
Instead, they were inviting them into their world, sharing in a way that was foreign to Bennett.
As someone who was used to blending into the wall to get the best footage and who had kept his problems close to the vest so he didn’t put more pressure on his overworked mom, it was both refreshing and alien to watch these guys ask for help in a way Bennett had never been able to.
“That’s a tricky one,” Hughes said with a nod.
“I got traded to this team mid-season several years ago, and the culture was one of the things I worried about too. But over time, I’ve found that most of that culture is grounded in being a good person.
And you’re all good people, so you’re halfway there. ”
“What do you think?” Cotton asked Sandro. “Would Roman be willing to put together a team culture handbook?”
“Probably,” Sandro said, kicking his legs out under the table.
“Roman’s going to be the director of player engagement until the day he dies, which means he’s going to stress team culture until the day he dies.
If he knew how much of a struggle it was for rookies to adapt to it, he would’ve created that handbook a long time ago or at least provided more information about what it means to be on this team.
Or hell, he would’ve given us—” He waved a thumb between himself, Cotton, and Hughes.
“—the responsibility to properly explain what the team culture means. Because the truth is, you guys are the ones who are going to be carrying it on. Us older guys, we’re going to be retiring in the next few years.
We’ll be passing the baton to you, so to speak. ”
It clicked then, less like a lightbulb in Bennett’s head and more like the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler, brightly blinding.
Legacy. That was the story his series needed to tell, the overarching theme behind every episode.
The culture was what held this team together.
It was how the Trailblazers had made it to the playoffs so many times.
It was the glue underpinning each and every player.
Legacy.
He just had to sell it to his producer.
David was unconvinced.
“Ben . . .”