Chapter 15 #2
For a second, Bennett looked like he was about to object. Then he gave Sandro, in his tan suit from earlier, a visual inspection from head to toe and back up again, a flush rising up his neck.
And began packing up his camera.
The doorbell woke Sandro up with a gasp.
“What the fuck?” Bennett muttered sleepily from behind him.
Heart thumping with unexpected adrenaline, Sandro extracted himself from Bennett’s arms and moved the blinds aside to look out the window.
“Anyone there?” Bennett asked.
“Not that I can see.” Sandro’s neighborhood was as quiet as it always was in the dark of night. The park across the street was empty and there was nothing and no one moving on the sidewalk. If there was anyone on his porch, he couldn’t see them under the overhang.
There was a clatter behind him—Bennett picking his phone up off the nightstand and dropping it with a curse. “It’s twelve forty-five. Didn’t we just go to bed?”
“Twenty minutes ago,” Sandro acknowledged. “Do you think whoever it was left?”
As if his visitor had heard him, the doorbell rang again. Swearing, Sandro headed out of the room.
“Pants, Ro.”
Doubling back, Sandro grabbed Bennett’s jeans off the floor—the sexy ones with the rip in the thigh—dragged them up his legs, and stumbled his way down the stairs.
On his doorstep was a very drunk Eli who smelled very strongly of alcohol. His Christmas tie was long gone and his shirt was untucked as well as unbuttoned at the throat.
“Eli? What the hell? Did you drive like this?” Sandro peered past him, but there was no car at the curb.
“Nolan has a girlfriend,” Eli said pityingly.
“He . . . what?”
“He has a girlfriend.” Eli slumped his way inside, left his boots by the front door like a housetrained Canadian boy, trudged his way through the house like he owned it, and dropped face-first onto the couch. “Why is your couch so big?”
“Eli.” Sandro shook his shoulder. “Did you drive here?”
“I walked.”
“From the bar?”
“From my apartment. Nolan dropped me off.”
“Was he drunk?”
“No.” Eli sounded adorably petulant. “He only had one stupid beer that he nursed for, like, two hours.”
“And how many did you have?”
“Not enough to not notice Mr. Wiggles over there. Hi, Mr. Wiggles. Did you run away from CC?”
“Oh my fucking god.” Hanging his head back, Sandro didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Not going to find any answers up there,” Bennett murmured, coming up behind him in a pair of Sandro’s sweatpants.
Sandro snorted a laugh.
Eli levered himself up onto his elbows and squinted at Bennett. “What are you doing here?”
“Sleeping, up until two minutes ago.”
Gaze going from Bennett to Sandro, Eli made a pfft sound and face-planted back onto the couch. “At least someone’s love life is going well.”
Sandro pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m so not equipped for this.”
“What’s happening right now?” Bennett asked.
Sandro leaned into him. “Eli has a crush on Nolan.”
“Who’s Nolan?”
“I do not have a crush,” Eli picked his face up to say. “A crush implies I’m fifteen.”
“You practically are,” Sandro told him.
“I have feelings,” Eli went on, ignoring him. Or maybe not hearing him. “And lust. Lots and lots of lust. And feelings,” he finished, somewhat pathetically.
Taking pity on him, Bennett sat on the coffee table and patted Eli’s shoulder. “I’m guessing Nolan doesn’t have lust and feelings back.”
“He does, just not for me. He has a girlfriend. A stupid girlfriend who teaches stupid astrophysics at stupid Sanford. I’m smart. I could do astrophysics. I just choose not to because who actually wants to do astrophysics?”
Sandro had never tried so hard not to laugh in his life. “Do you mean Stanford?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
Sandro nearly lost the battle then, and he had to look away from the amusement on Bennett’s face before he burst into inappropriate laughter Eli certainly wouldn’t appreciate.
“Look at it this way,” Bennett said. “Maybe your love life isn’t what you want it to be, but your hockey’s been amazing this season.”
Eli moaned into the couch. “Has it? Because it feels like I’m still trying to get a handle on everything.
Appearances and more appearances and commercials for sponsors and emails from sponsors—why weren’t you wearing our dress shirt, Eli?
—and more appearances and fans thinking they own you and .
. .” Letting out a long sigh, he turned his head, resting his cheek against the couch, and blinked at Bennett. “I just wanna play hockey.”
“Yeah.” It was Bennett’s turn to sigh. “I hear you, kid. The pressure during rookie season is no joke.”
“How did you handle it?”
Bennett’s gaze met Sandro’s, drawing Sandro in like there was a rope tied between them. Sandro stepped closer and gripped the back of the couch.
“I quit,” Bennett said.
Sandro sucked in a sharp breath as Eli scrambled onto his knees. Could it be that simple? Bennett had caved under the pressure and quit?
But that wasn’t right. College had been just as stressful as rookie season, if in a different way. And Bennett hadn’t quit college.
“But . . . but . . .” Eli sputtered. “I don’t want to quit.”
“So don’t,” Bennett returned simply. “Figure out a way to handle the stress so it doesn’t bowl you over.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Yeah. I know that too.”
Eli flopped onto his side. “Can I sleep on this couch? Why’s it so big? Can I sleep on it?”
“Why don’t you take Sandro’s bed?” Bennett offered. “He and I can take the couch.”
“Wha—Hey!” Sandro had to laugh. “My mattress isn’t that bad.”
“Says who?”
“I don’t want to sleep on Zanetti’s bed knowing you guys have done . . . things . . . on it.” Eli squirmed out of his blazer, looking like a dead fish flopping around on the couch. “Zanetti, get me a blanket. And bring me Mr. Wiggles. He can keep me company overnight.”
Bennett ran a hand over his mouth, clearly trying not to laugh.
Sandro saluted Eli crisply. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I could be a king,” Eli said as Sandro went upstairs to fetch a blanket out of the hall closet. “Don’t you think, Bennett?”
Sandro returned with a blanket, a pillow, Mr. Wiggles, a glass of water, and an empty garbage can in case Eli had to throw up and didn’t make it to the bathroom.
“You remind me of my younger brother,” he said, recalling when Darcy had arrived home drunk after seeing his crush out with another guy.
Sandro had had to hide Darcy’s inebriated state from their parents.
He handed Eli the water.
Eli bypassed it and took Mr. Wiggles out of his hands instead. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
Sandro placed the water on the coffee table and watched Eli snuggle deeper into the couch, Mr. Wiggles clutched to his chest, and something like familial love threatened to clog his throat.
“You know, a few weeks ago, I would’ve said it was a bad thing.
Now? Not so much. Good night, Eli. Let us know if you need anything. ”
“Maybe make some noise if you come up the stairs,” Bennett said. “In case we’re busy.”
“Bleh” was Eli’s response to that.
Chuckling, Bennett gripped Sandro’s wrist and towed him upstairs.
In the bedroom, Bennett ran both hands back through his hair, wincing when his fingers caught on knots.
He was almost sexier when he was half-dressed, hair tangled around his shoulders in loose waves in several different shades of blond.
Sandro’s gut cramped when he thought of what Bennett had said—I quit—and he wished he could go back in time and reassure past Bennett that he didn’t have to go through it alone.
Wished he’d been a better person back then—good enough for Bennett to lean on.
“Is that why you quit?” Sandro asked, his throat burning with questions. He closed the door behind himself and leaned back against it. “Because of the pressure?”
Bennett sat on the bed, one leg tucked underneath him. “Not because of the pressure, but because of what the pressure made me realize.”
“And what was that?”
“That I didn’t want it.” Bennett jerked one shoulder in a shrug.
“A highly regimented life that was at the whims of an organization that could trade me or send me down to the minors at any time. One where I had to act a certain way and look a certain way and speak a certain way. Roman and Eli were right about people putting athletes in boxes, and it made me feel—” He smiled wryly.
“—for lack of a better expression, like I was trapped in a box. I spent my entire rookie season being told who I should be and who I couldn’t be and what to wear and where to go and what to say.
And I hated it. I’d wake up every morning and dread the coming day. ”
Sandro’s stomach cramped sharply. He could imagine Bennett’s alarm going off in the morning. Could imagine Bennett slapping it off and cocooning himself in bed all alone, trying to motivate himself to get up. The image brought tears to his eyes that he blinked away.
“I loved hockey,” Bennett continued. “And I loved playing hockey, but not the NHL brand of hockey. The longer the season went on, the more it felt like I was drowning under the pressure. Being here, filming you and your team, it’s reminded me of all the reasons I both hate and love the sport.
” The way he spoke, all matter-of-fact and calm, it almost sounded like Bennett was telling a story about someone else.
But maybe he was unaffected now because he was fifteen years removed from it.
“So at the end of the season, I quit. Because the thought of doing another season of the exact same thing . . .”
Sandro deflated against the door. If he’d been butter, he would’ve melted right into it. “I’m sorry. That . . . That sucks, B.”
If Sandro could kick his own ass, he would. The one time Bennett had tried talking to him, partway through their rookie seasons, Sandro had responded by telling him to wait it out.
Once you’ve got your NHL legs under you and you’ve adjusted to this life, you’ll be fine.