Chapter 18
chapter eighteen
The call came way too early in the morning on New Year’s Eve.
“Some of the footage was leaked.”
His mind still trying to wake up, Bennett lifted himself onto his elbows in Sandro’s hotel bed in Los Angeles and managed a drowsy, “Huh?”
“Some of the footage was leaked,” Fowler repeated.
Footage? What was he on about?
“Gimme a sec,” Bennett said hoarsely. He was still stuck in a weird dream where he was flying through his high school hallways wearing Superman’s cape—brains were weird.
As if he’d ever want to go back to high school, even if only in his dreams. He dropped the phone on the bed and scrubbed both hands over his face.
“What’s going on?”
He looked over and found Sandro sitting on the other side of the bed, tying his shoelaces. He wore running gear and his phone was tucked into an armband strapped snugly around his bicep.
Damn, he was sexy all bedheady and wearing those tight shorts.
Ignoring Sandro’s question, Bennett lifted himself onto his knees, the blankets pooling around him, then fell onto his ass. “What time is it?”
“Just after seven.” Sandro nodded at Bennett’s phone. “Who’s calling so early?”
“Fowler. He said—” Shit. Footage. As in footage from the series. His fucking footage. He snatched the phone off the bed, suddenly finding himself wide awake. “Fowler? What’s going on?”
“You haven’t seen the link I sent you?” was Fowler’s terse response. “What have you been doing all morning?”
“Sleeping. Give me a second, I’ll look at it now.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Fowler said. “There’s a meeting being organized in one of the hotel’s conference rooms. You’re needed there.”
Bennett tossed the covers off. “What time does it start?”
“Now, basically.”
“Damn it. Text me the location.”
“Already did. See you there.”
Fowler hung up, and it was as Bennett was about to toss his phone onto the bed that he noticed the missed calls.
David, Coach Madolora, the Trailblazers’ head of media relations, the team owner, David again.
They’d all called before seven, which was when the Do Not Disturb on his phone was set to automatically turn off.
“Fuck.”
“Hey.” Sandro pulled the earbuds out of his ears. “What’s going on?”
“I have to go to a meeting,” Bennett said, yanking on yesterday’s jeans.
“Right now?”
“Yeah.” He swept past Sandro and into the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth quickly and tied his hair back into a bun.
“Can you slow down for a second and tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s nothing.” Bennett forced a smile for Sandro and grabbed his T-shirt off the armchair.
It smelled like he’d been wearing it for two days, which he had—he’d packed light for the Trailblazers’ Seattle–Las Vegas–Los Angeles road trip.
“Can I borrow a T-shirt?” His suitcase was in the room he’d been supposed to occupy with Fowler.
“Well, sure, but . . . B. Hey. Come on, talk to me. What’s the emergency?”
“It’s cool.” Bennett drew one of Sandro’s T-shirts out of his suitcase. In his urgency, he accidentally upended the entire thing onto the floor. “No emergency,” he said, setting the suitcase back to rights. “I’ll be back after the meeting and we can—”
Shit. Would he be back?
Oh, fuck, he was so fired, wasn’t he? David might not have fired him over his and Sandro’s relationship, but this?
Truth was, David could still fire him. In the two weeks since Bennett had told David about them, they’d spoken several times, yet David hadn’t once brought their relationship up.
In fact, he’d been the same David as always, exacting and demanding if a tad less micromanaging.
Bennett hadn’t brought it up either—why would he remind David of something that could get him fired?
He and Sandro had talked about that possibility, and he was prepared for David to drop him—it would’ve sucked, but he was holding on to Sandro with both hands this time, no matter what. But being fired over leaked footage?
How the fuck had that even happened? And what kind of footage had been leaked?
That was probably what was in the link Fowler had sent him; he’d check it in the elevator.
Grabbing his phone, he shoved it in his pocket and opened the door.
“Wait. Bennett, wait, goddamn it.” Sandro sounded panicked now. “What’s going on? Is somebody hurt?”
“No. Nothing like that.” Bennett drummed up another smile for him and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, okay? I’ll be back soon.”
“Don’t worry?” Sandro repeated incredulously. “Oh, you did not just—”
“I’m sorry. I have to go. I’ll see you in a bit.”
And he closed the door in Sandro’s face.
It wasn’t until he was halfway to the elevator that he fully registered what he was about to walk into.
A meeting with . . . well, he didn’t know who.
David, Coach Madolora, the Trailblazers’ head of media relations, and the team owner, judging by his missed calls.
Maybe a lawyer? Maybe the team GM? He didn’t know, but he suspected things weren’t going to go well for him.
It was his footage that had been leaked.
Even though he hadn’t leaked it himself, the blame lay squarely on his shoulders.
The thought of walking into that room and having however-many pairs of eyes turned on him in accusation . . .
He thought of the rookies asking the vets for help at the dinner Sandro had organized. He thought of Eli leaning on Sandro. He thought of Sandro telling him that he was allowed to take up space in his life.
Bennett didn’t want to attend this meeting, and he most certainly didn’t want to attend it alone. Fowler would be there, but that wasn’t the same.
He wanted Sandro.
He needed Sandro.
And that . . . was okay. If he’d learned anything from watching the Trailblazers over the past several weeks, it was that love—any kind of love—could survive need.
Wincing as he recalled rushing out of Sandro’s room and slamming the door on him, he turned around, and because he didn’t have a key to Sandro’s room, shamefully knocked on his door. “I’m sorry,” he said as soon as Sandro whipped it open. “I shouldn’t have shut the door in your face.”
Sandro’s eyes flashed. “Ya think? What the hell, B?”
“Someone leaked footage,” Bennett said, stepping into the room when Sandro opened the door wider. “And there’s a meeting about it that I need to get to.”
“Footage of what? Wait, your footage? Jesus Christ, that’s why you ran out of here so fast?” Sandro passed a hand through his hair. “And here I thought someone had died.”
Bennett cringed. “Sorry, I . . . Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“Okay, so . . .” Sandro shook out his arms, like he was physically shedding the tension off his skin. “What kind of footage got leaked? It can’t be that bad, right? Wait, is it a sex tape?”
“A sex . . . ?” Bennett’s jaw dropped. “No, it’s not a sex tape, Jesus. When would I have . . . ? Who would I have . . . ?”
“I don’t know,” Sandro said, laughing at him. “If it’s not a sex tape, then . . .” He groaned. “Fuck, please tell me it’s not any of my teammates doing something illegal. Or immoral.”
“We haven’t recorded any illegal or immoral shit. What kind of things do you think your teammates are doing in their spare time?”
“I try not to think about it.”
Bennett snorted a laugh at the deadpan delivery. Taking his phone out, he said, “Fowler sent me a link. We can look at it together.”
The link directed him to a social media reel someone had labeled with Guess the Trailblazers aren’t so perfect after all.
“We’ve never said we’re perfect,” Sandro muttered.
The reel began with the headline The Real Trailblazers in all caps before it floated off the page and a video of Sandro and Eli in the Trailblazers’ kitchen replaced it.
They were both in hockey gear sans helmets and skates, and those were their home-game uniforms, so this must’ve been before or after a game, or possibly during intermission.
Sandro-on-the-screen slammed a bottle of Gatorade onto the counter as he let out a hard laugh that cut Bennett off at the knees.
“You want to know what my first season was like, Eli?” Sandro’s voice was hard through the phone’s speakers.
“Professionally, it was a dream. I joined this team for their first season, and no, we weren’t the best, but we certainly weren’t the worst either.
Nobody truly believed we could fill seats in this arena—hell, they were talking about moving us to a different city—but we did.
Were things perfect? God, no. But it was fun and the guys on this team clicked like we’d been friends for years. Personally?”
The reel cut to Eli tossing his gloves onto one of the couches in the Trailblazers’ kitchen. “Fuck, I’m so tired of Coach breathing down my neck.”
Back to Sandro. “Personally, life was a fucking nightmare.” His voice cracked, and Bennett inhaled shakily.
“I was here while my boyfriend was playing for a midwestern team, and after three amazing years together, suddenly he wouldn’t talk to me.
He wasn’t okay, but he wouldn’t admit it, and trying to speak to him was like shouting into the void.
My personal life was falling apart while my professional one was shooting for the stars, and it felt like I was being cleaved down the middle. ”
Bennett let out a pained gasp, but he didn’t have time to process Sandro-on-the-screen’s words before the reel cut to Deeley clomping into the locker room. He tossed his stick aside. “What the fuck? How did we lose to fucking Montreal?”
“You missed a pass,” Sandbaker barked at him. “And it was all downhill from there.”
“Oh, fuck you, asswipe.”