Chapter 14
chapter fourteen
Two weeks later, Bennett was working on his laptop at the kitchen island in Sandro’s open and airy townhome, where he’d been playing house since he’d returned with the team from their eleven-day road trip a few days earlier.
The Trailblazers had won four out of five games, losing only to Winnipeg, who, like the Trailblazers, were also first in their division.
Granted, they currently had fewer points than the Trailblazers, but they nonetheless made formidable opponents.
And since the game against Winnipeg had been near the tail end of their road trip, fatigue had made the Trailblazers sloppy.
“How many dresses do you think I should pack for my trip?”
His mom’s voice had him blinking away from his laptop, where he’d been typing out questions for the interviews he wanted to conduct with the players—non-leading interviews, this time—and he glanced at his phone, on speaker near his elbow.
“Uh . . .” He tried to recall how many summer dresses his mom owned and paired that with her upcoming trip to Mexico. “All of them?”
A pause, then, “You’re probably right.” There was the sound of hangers clacking against each other.
“Make sure you pack sunscreen,” Bennett said absently as he typed. “Like all the sunscreen.”
“I can buy some at the resort if I run out.”
“They’ll rob you for a single bottle, Mom. Unless you want to pay forty bucks, pack it in your suitcase.”
“Forty dollars for sunscreen? Jesus. Guess I need to make another trip to the store then.”
“How’s your car been handling lately?” Bennett asked. “Sandro’s died on him recently and it’s as old as yours.”
“And how is my long-lost son?”
He snorted a laugh. “Sometimes I think you liked him more than me.”
“Sometimes I did,” Mom said sweetly. “Did you tell him about the maroon suit?”
“Uh . . .” Fingers hovering over the keyboard, Bennett thought back to their recent conversations. Had they talked about a maroon suit at some point?
“Guessing you didn’t,” Mom said. “Since I saw a picture of him online a couple of days ago and he was wearing it.”
Sandro had worn it to the game against Calgary last week, and the team’s social media people had snapped a photo of him coming off the bus and posted it on Instagram. Bennett had thought he’d looked sharp and sophisticated in that suit.
“What’s wrong with the maroon suit?” he asked.
“It’s not a good color on him. Remember? We talked about this. Never mind, I’ll text him myself.”
That brought him up short. “You . . . still have his number?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, Bennett.”
He couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okay, I’ve got to go,” Mom said. “I need to finish packing, and apparently I need to go to the store. Do they even sell sunscreen in December?”
“In some states, probably. In Washington? Guess you’re about to find out.”
“I suppose so. What have you got planned for Christmas? Please don’t tell me you’ll be working through it?”
He had, in fact, planned to work through Christmas.
The Trailblazers had a few days of downtime late next week to coincide with the holiday, so Fowler and his crew were flying home to be with their families, but Bennett’s only family was flying south for a trip with her girlfriend.
It left him all alone for the holidays, a sad prospect when he thought about it that way, but if he treated it like any other time of year, it wasn’t so bad.
“I . . . might watch a movie.”
“A movie?” Mom scoffed. “Wow, living large. Have you decorated at least?”
“I have a wreath on the door.” He’d found it in his townhouse’s storage room in the basement.
“Has Sandro?”
Bennett glanced behind him, noting the distinct lack of holiday décor in Sandro’s cozy living room with its massive couch, plush rug, and rough-hewn coffee table. “He’s got the lights up outside.”
“So between the two of you, you did the bare minimum.”
“Shut up,” Bennett said, laughing as the front door swung open.
He had a direct line of sight to it from where he sat and watched as Sandro stepped inside and dropped his gym bag on the floor, next to the table in the entryway where Mr. Wiggles still sat like the stolen trophy-bear he was.
“We’ve been busy,” he told his mom, drawing Sandro’s gaze.
“Go finish packing. I’ll talk to you later. ”
“Bye, sweetie.”
“Was that Monica?” Sandro asked. He pressed a quick kiss to the base of Bennett’s neck as he walked by, and the cutely domesticated gesture had Bennett’s soul leaping in happiness. “You should’ve kept her on. I would’ve said hi.”
“She’s going to text you,” Bennett told him.
“To say hi?”
“And tell you not to wear the maroon suit anymore.”
Freezer door held halfway open, Sandro paused. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“According to her, the color’s all wrong for you.”
“Oh. Really? Huh. All right, then.” Sandro fished around for something in the freezer. “Maybe I’ll see if someone else wants it. I think CC is more or less my size.”
“That’s it? My mom tells you not to wear it, so you won’t wear it?”
“Obviously.”
Grinning now, Bennett said, “How often do you text with my mom?”
“Twice a year.” Sandro retrieved an ice pack and wrapped it in a towel. “For my birthday and hers.”
Concern replaced Bennett’s mirth when Sandro rounded the island and settled on the couch in the living room. He wedged the towel-wrapped ice pack underneath his lower back with a wince.
“Ro?” Rising, Bennett joined him. “You okay?”
Sandro grunted. “My back fucking hurts. Our athletic therapist says I’m old.” He pouted adorably. “I don’t know why everyone feels like they have to remind me of that. As if I don’t know.”
Bennett was about to crack a joke about him being ancient, which he was in hockey years, but he could read a room better than anyone—Sandro wouldn’t appreciate the joke at the moment.
Sandro had one of those extra-deep couches that was almost as wide as a double bed. Lying on it all sad-faced made him look puny, which was not an adjective Bennett would’ve previously associated with him. Puny and cute and in need of a hug.
Carefully, Bennett swung a leg over Sandro’s hips, squeezing a knee between Sandro’s body and the back of the couch, and sat on his thighs. He nudged Sandro’s hair off his forehead. “Do you think maybe it’s your mattress making your back hurt?”
Sandro scowled. “What do you mean? It’s brand-new. It was delivered two months ago.”
“But . . . it’s so hard.”
“It’s called a firm mattress, B.”
“It’s like sleeping on a rock.”
“Seriously, why does everyone feel the need to insult me today?”
Chuckling, Bennett dropped a kiss on his unsmiling mouth. “How was practice otherwise?”
“Fine,” Sandro said, sounding annoyed that it’d been fine. “I didn’t have you to look at today, so it wasn’t as much fun.”
“You have a whole bunch of hot teammates to look at.”
Sandro scrunched his nose. “Ew. Gross. They’re like my brothers.”
“You’ve never been attracted to any of your teammates?” Bennett asked, cupping Sandro’s waist under his hoodie, where the skin was warm and smooth.
“No, god. Plus, Cotton has been married to Kas for, like, a million years, Hughes and CC have had a non-thing going forever that’ll eventually be an actual thing, Eli’s a child, Dabbs is .
. . Dabbs, and everyone else is as straight as they come.
” Sandro cocked his head. “Except maybe Matty Coates. Not sure about him.”
Bennett crept his hands higher, rewarded with an indrawn breath from Sandro. “Do you—”
Sandro’s phone rang. Bennett glared at where it sat on the coffee table and leaned over to check the caller ID. “It’s your brother.”
“Send him to voicemail.” Sandro dragged his hands up the backs of Bennett’s thighs to his ass. “What were you saying?”
“Do you—”
The phone rang a second time.
“It’s your brother again.”
A worried frown marred Sandro’s forehead.
Bennett grabbed the phone from the table even as Sandro said, “Pass it here.” He answered with a quick, “Darcy? What’s wrong?
” A beat later, he sat up quickly, spine ramrod straight.
“What? What kind of accident? What happened?” A few more beats, and he batted at Bennett. “Is he okay?”
Bennett rose off him. Sandro was up in the next breath, the ice pack melting on the couch.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Pacing away, Sandro ran his free hand through his hair and looked around as though the answers to his questions might be written on the walls.
Shit. Something had happened to one of his family members. The he in question could’ve been his other brother, one of his brothers-in-law, his dad, or a friend.
God, what would it do to Sandro if something happened to one of his loved ones? Watching him now, his breaths coming too fast, his palm pressed between his eyes, and his steps heavy, it was easy enough to imagine how wrecked he’d be.
Without thinking too much about it, Bennett took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, grabbed Sandro’s duffel bag from the closet, and started packing.
Underwear, socks, T-shirts, a pair of jeans, toiletries.
Then he did the same for himself. It took him only a few minutes, and once that was done, he checked for the earliest flight from Burlington to Toronto.
They’d have to rent a car from there, but—
The next flight out wasn’t until the following day. Fuck. That wouldn’t do.
“It’s my dad,” Sandro announced, racing into the room like a mob was chasing him. Chest heaving, he headed for the closet. “He was in an accident. Darcy doesn’t know how bad it is or—Where the fuck’s my bag?”
“Ro.” Bennett took him by the shoulders and forced him to face him. Keeping his voice calm, he said, “Your duffel’s on the bed. I’ve already packed it. The earliest flight isn’t until tomorrow, so we’ll leave right now and I’ll drive you, okay?”
Sandro was in no condition to be getting behind the wheel.