Chapter 15
chapter fifteen
The way you kissed me earlier . . .
Sandro had gotten his points across, it turned out. Thank you and I appreciate you and never go away again. Maybe a little too well, because Bennett had solidified his commitment to him by outing them to his producer.
Sandro would be feeling all warm and fuzzy about that if Bennett hadn’t also signed his own ticket out of town. Surely David would send Bennett away to work on a project in, like, Japan or something, and that would be that.
Scratch that, he was definitely all warm and fuzzy, but the glow of happiness was mixed with fear.
And annoyance. Would’ve been nice if Bennett had spoken to him about how he felt before announcing their relationship to David.
Sandro had been quietly angsting about what he and Bennett were doing and what it meant and whether or not Bennett wanted a future or if this was simply a while-in-Vermont fling, all the while trying to remind himself that they didn’t have to repeat the past. And all this time, Bennett had been .
. . what? Secretly hoping for something more than a while-in-Vermont fling, just like Sandro?
Ugh. Roman had been right—he should’ve talked to Bennett a long time ago. At the very least defined what they were doing.
The game against Pittsburgh had been leaning in the Trailblazers’ favor since the first period, when Owen Cotton, CC, and Sandro scored within seven and a half minutes of each other.
Pittsburgh responded with a couple of goals in the second, but when the Trailblazers retaliated with two more in the third, Sandro knew in his gut that his team had this in the bag.
Still, his own game was a mixed bag. He struggled to concentrate, his mind on Bennett, who was somewhere in the building, probably interviewing some of the Trailblazers’ medical, equipment, or media staff.
Bennett had plans to interview fans at some point, though Sandro couldn’t remember if that was today or sometime in the near future.
And because his mind was on Bennett, his passes were sloppy and it was an effort to keep up with his teammates.
He wanted time to sit with what had happened in the car.
Digest it, overthink it. Overthink it some more.
Instead, he’d gone from a medical emergency to a non-medical emergency to Bennett not-so-subtly staking his claim and finally, to the game.
There’d been very little downtime to process any of it, and by the time the game ended, he wanted to fall into bed with Bennett.
They still needed to talk, but his brain was fried.
In fact, it was so fried that he tried putting his left dress shoe on the right foot after his post-game shower.
A few stalls to his right, Eli seemed to be having just as much trouble getting dressed.
He eyed a green tie with candy canes on it critically, then a red tie with floating Santa heads and Christmas trees.
“Getting into the holiday spirit?” Sandro asked.
Eli whipped toward him. “Which one? Green or red?”
“For the short walk from the exit to your car and the car to your apartment? I don’t think it matters, Eli.”
“Nolan invited me out for drinks. To catch up.”
“He’s still in town?” Sandro said, finally getting the correct shoes on the correct feet. “Well, wherever you’re going, you’ll be the best-dressed person there regardless of what your tie looks like.”
Wearing a slim-fitting royal blue suit, Eli looked handsome in a little-brother-attending-prom kind of way.
“Wait,” Sandro said, a thought occurring to him. “You’re not riding your bike there, are you?”
“Nah. I retired the bike until the spring since the weather’s been for shit. I’ve got my car, even though I hate driving it.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s a billionty-seventy years old, for starters. Like you.”
“Fuck you, Eli,” Sandro said, laughing.
“It’s rusted, the heat doesn’t work, the AC doesn’t work, the sunroof opens but doesn’t close, and it has a weird smell. So?” Eli waggled the ties at Sandro. “Green or red?”
“Red,” Bellamy Jordan said, heading past them toward the exit. “It’ll pop more against your suit.”
Eli held both ties up to his chest and turned to Sandro like this decision would haunt him if he didn’t make the right one.
God, Eli wasn’t still crushing on Nolan, was he?
“Red?” Eli asked.
He was definitely crushing on Nolan.
Sighing, Sandro nodded. “Red. And hey, Eli?” He didn’t know what he wanted to say here. Try not to get your heart broken? Be careful? Don’t get your hopes up?
“Yeah?” Eli prompted. He looped the tie around his neck.
“Just . . . have fun,” Sandro landed on.
“Thanks. We’re just going to a sports bar. Do you think I should order food?”
Oh, Jesus Christ.
Rising tiredly, Sandro shrugged into his wool coat. “I don’t know, Eli. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“Then order food.”
“But what if Nolan doesn’t order food?”
Sandro passed a weary hand down his face. “Why does that matter? Do you have a hang-up about eating in front of other people?”
“No.”
“Then order food,” Sandro repeated.
He couldn’t remember ever experiencing Eli’s level of nerves with anyone.
Not even Bennett. Not even when they’d first met, Sandro’s arms full of groceries and Bennett waving the hot sauce at him—because he had only gone into the store for one thing.
And not when they’d returned for their sophomore year, both of them single.
There’d been a connection there from that first moment, but it had never made Sandro nervous.
He and Bennett? They’d always felt like an inevitability.
Eli finished with his tie and smoothed it down his chest. “Right. Order food. So?” He spread his arms out. “Do I look like date material?”
Sandro raised his eyebrows. “Is this a date?”
“What? No. It’s just drinks with a friend. Nolan’s, like, a decade older than me. Probably thinks I’m a baby just like all of you ancient assholes. Plus, he dated my sister, so . . .” Eli pulled at the sleeves of his blazer. “Okay. I’m off. See you tomorrow, Zanetti.”
“Don’t drink too much,” Sandro called after him.
“I never do.”
Sandro sputtered a laugh. “Do you think I’ve forgotten about Thanksgiving?”
“I mean, you are ancient,” Eli teased. “I’m sure your memory’s starting to go.”
“Asshole.”
“Speaking of Thanksgiving,” CC said from behind him, making Sandro jump. “Where’s Mr. Wiggles?”
Sandro thought of the pink one-eyed bear with a half-chewed ear that was still sitting on his entrance table and blithely said, “Who?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Zanetti.” CC poked him in the chest, gaze narrowed. “If I find out Mr. Wiggles has been mistreated, you and I are going to have words.” He sauntered away, hips swaying, throwing Sandro the finger over his shoulder.
Shaking off his amusement, Sandro went to find his ride home.
Bennett was, of all places, in the visitor’s locker room. He had his camera on one shoulder, but instead of standing aside and letting the action happen around him, he was conversing with what appeared to be the last two Pittsburgh players remaining in the room.
“Okay, you’ve told me the best part of playing the Trailblazers,” Bennett was saying. “Now tell me the worst part.”
“Losing,” said Bluemel, a shaggy-haired guy with a sharp jaw.
“Hey.” His teammate, a defenseman who went by the nickname Hammerhead—like the shark, probably because he kind of looked like one—shoved him in the shoulder. “We won last time.”
“Oh good, one game.” Bluemel rolled his eyes. “How many times has Matty Coates shut us out?”
“Not today, though.”
“No, but we still lost.”
“Maybe we can bribe him away from this team.”
Lounging in the doorway, Sandro said, “You can’t have him. We’re kind of attached to him.”
Both players laughed.
“Yeah, fuck you, Zanetti, you smug prick.” Hammerhead tried to shove him on his way out of the locker room, but Sandro danced out of the way of those fists. “We’ll get you next time.”
“You can try.”
“A bunch of us are heading to that bar down the street,” Bluemel said, following his teammate into the hallway. “Some of your boys are joining us. You should come.”
Sending Bennett a side-eyed glance, Sandro said, “Maybe next time. Good game, guys.”
Bluemel scoffed. “Says the guy who won by three fucking goals. Later, Zanetti.”
“Later.” Resuming his position against the doorjamb, Sandro watched as Bennett turned the camera off. “Interviewing players from rival teams now?”
“Sometimes they have some of the best stuff to say.” Bennett swung the camera off his shoulder, holding it by the .
. . handle thingy? . . . that connected the digital display and the microphone to the actual camera.
“I realized,” Bennett said, heading toward Coach Madolora’s office, where he usually stashed his camera bag, “while I was filming you guys on the road the last couple of weeks that I get the best content when I don’t script it.
If I don’t try to control it and let it happen organically. ”
Keeping pace next to him, Sandro cocked his head. “Do you often script it?”
“Believe it or not, there’s a significant amount of scripting that goes into documentaries. Plus, there are the interview questions.” Bennett flicked on the light in Madolora’s empty office, grabbed his camera bag, and set it and the camera on the desk.
Goddamn, he looked good. Half of his hair was tied back, the other half loose and wavy. His long-sleeved T-shirt clung to his shoulders and biceps. And the rip in those jeans, right at the thigh . . . that glimpse of skin was going to do Sandro in.
Bennett gripped the camera and looked over at him expectantly. “So? Your place or mine.”
To talk. About what had happened in the car earlier. What had happened fifteen years ago.
Sandro wanted to know all of it. Was finally ready to hear Bennett out.
But he was also done with this day. They could adult tomorrow.
“Doesn’t matter to me.” Lowering his voice in case anyone was nearby, he added, “Either way, I was planning to fuck you silly. If that’s okay.”