Chapter Ten
Kayleigh [off-screen]: Best seat partner on a road trip?
Breezy: I like to mix it up, sit with different people. I think I’ve sat next to everyone. [laughs] Except Luca because he’d murder me in my sleep.
Luca: Breezy never sleeps on the plane. He just talks. For hours. Or plays video games. Loudly.
Kayleigh: And you’ve never been tempted to join in?
Luca: [long pause] No.
Tom: I usually sit with Phil. He’s good company. Knows when to chat and when to let me do my own thing.
Jax: Yeah, since Phil’s been out, he’s been stuck with me.
Top comments:
1682rox: [eyes emoji] Stuck with Jax, huh? Tom seems fine with that.
stickstickpuck: Methinks Mazetti doth protest too much.
(From “San Francisco Sea Lions Call Each Other Out For Fun, Part 2,” posted to YouTube, 11/20/2024)
Road trips were awful.
Why did people aspire to this career? Hockey players had to work out six days a week, couldn’t eat what they wanted, spent half the year on planes and buses, and most of them had joint replacements before they turned fifty.
Their careers lasted five, maybe ten years, in which they had to earn as much as they could off contract negotiations and sponsorship deals.
And then, they were either done for life or had to find a new career, assuming they hadn’t had too many catastrophic head injuries.
Sure, some luxuries associated with professional sports were tempting. The NHL shelled out for charter planes, but all that did was hasten the climate catastrophe in exchange for slightly more leg room. Even a charter plane couldn’t make takeoff or landing comfortable.
Ben might be a little bitter.
At forty-two, he had no interest in sitting in a rooftop bar he was at least fifteen years too old for, drinking the least expensive thing on the menu (house wine, which tasted of vinegar), waiting for a man who was nominally his subordinate to get to the point.
It was past 10:00 p.m. He had to be up and in a freezing-cold skating rink at 7:00, and even if he left the bar now, he’d have to knock on the hotel room doors of twenty-odd grown men to make sure they were in bed.
“Power play’s looking a little weak.” Trout sipped from his whiskey after an unnecessarily long talk with the waiter about which to order, revealing he had extensive knowledge on the topic and his own collection at home.
Ben grunted in affirmation.
“You sure about keeping Mazetti up there?”
Ben couldn’t give the slightest shit about Mazetti and the power play. “I’m giving him a fair chance. Crowler and Grant are convinced he’s a perfect fit.”
Trout snorted. “Players trying to decide on the lines. In my day, that’d make you a healthy scratch.”
Ah yes, the three and a half years Trout had spent in the NHL as a bruiser for the Minnesota Fury. Ben had looked him up again before this informal meeting. His penalty minutes had easily tripled his scoring record.
“Well, we’ll see how they do on this trip,” Ben said.
“Hm.” Trout took another long sip of his whiskey. “So. Trouble with your bookie, eh?”
Thankfully, on the plane, Ben had invested five minutes thinking about his cover story while pretending to nap. “Mm,” he said. “Had a run of bad bets. NFL, of course, not—” He lowered his voice. “—our guys.”
“Of course,” Trout said with a wink.
“I just need a lucky break. One good bet, and I’m out of the red. Always comes around at some point.”
Trout nodded seriously. “What if I told you I could help you find a good bet?”
Ben sipped at his own drink. “I’d be all ears.”
“Good man. I can’t cut you in right away. Gotta talk to my guys first, but I’ll set something up when we’re back in the Bay Area.”
“Appreciate it.”
Trout surveyed him, looking slightly less bad-tempered than usual. A drop of whiskey clung to his mustache. “You know, I wasn’t sure about you when you started here. Thought you might be more Edward’s type, all wishy-washy. Glad you’re not.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Ben said.
The wine sat sour in his belly afterward. Investigative journalism sounded like a romantic, dangerous job, but on the whole, he’d found it to mostly involve a lot of interviews, a lot of patience, tight deadlines, and no stability.
There’d been only a handful of times when Ben needed to pretend to be someone he wasn’t.
Sure, one of those times had been a twenty-five-year stint as a devout, heterosexual Mormon, but he didn’t consider it as part of his skill set.
Progress was progress though. And the closer Ben got to finishing this job the better. Charlie had sent him a picture of his room, decked out with lights, new furniture, books, school supplies, and a goddamn desktop computer, accompanied by the caption, Phil took me shopping.
And Phil had sexted him.
Sort of.
Did it count as sexting if the sexter sent one question and a picture?
Ben knew he’d totally overdone it, overplayed his hand and revealed way too much about how badly he wanted Phil.
Phil had to know it after the thing with the leg press and how Ben had kissed him, no holds barred and desperate, on three separate occasions now.
But Phil had sent the first picture, a mouthwatering glimpse of his practically naked legs and the barest hint of a swell under the fabric of his shorts.
Ben had no idea what Phil was angling for.
What if Phil thought he could fuck his way into a contract renewal?
Ben discarded the thought as soon as he’d had it. Phil wasn’t mercenary, nor was he stupid.
Then Ben had to laugh at the idea that anyone would try to seduce him for personal gain.
Especially Phil, who would only complicate his own life by pursuing this.
Still, Ben needed to address the issue head-on, preferably by moving out as soon as possible.
He could only resist temptation for so long.
Anyway, CPS had announced a mandated visit to establish whether Ben would be a suitable guardian next week. Ben highly doubted they would look kindly upon a prospective guardian in temporary living and working situations.
The thought made him ache.
He liked Phil’s big, empty house, and he liked the smile on Charlie’s face in the picture he’d sent of his newly personalized room.
In a black mood, Ben pressed the elevator button for the hotel floor occupied by the players.
He’d timed it just right for the team’s eleven-thirty curfew, having parted ways with Trout half an hour ago.
Trout had suggested a surprise early curfew to fuck with the team.
He’d even offered to enforce it himself.
Ben had turned him down on the grounds that he owed Trout a favor, but the truth was, he thought curfews for grown men were ridiculous.
Knocking on doors made Ben feel like a middle school teacher on a class trip. He had a list of rooms and a list of players, and the whole thing felt silly. What was he supposed to do if someone wasn’t in their room? Call their parents?
The standard punishment for a truant player would be a healthy scratch from the next game, a suitably middle-school punishment for a middle-school crime.
Barred from PE for tardiness. He could not be asked to care.
The elevator came to a stop on the right floor, and Ben walked out onto the plush red carpet with a sigh.
Movement in the corner of his eye alerted him to a figure in a Sea Lions hoodie furtively using a key card on a door and slipping inside.
Ben frowned down at his list. Why did Jax Grant have a key to Tom Crowler’s room? And why was he acting as if using it made him part of a heist?
If he did his fake job and knocked on all the doors, Ben would probably find out.
The thought was summarily unappealing. From a few doors down in the other direction, Breezy’s booming laugh gave away his position.
Ben checked his list. Breezy’s laughter had emanated from the wrong side of the floor to be in his room.
Did it matter? They were in the hotel.
What was the worst that would come of it? They would lose a hockey game.
Ben turned on his heel and went back into the elevator.
They lost both games in Los Angeles.
Sitting in the plane headed home, Ben tried to feel bad about it; he really did. He thought about Phil’s disappointed expression and managed for about a minute before he remembered Phil’s face after he’d been kissed within an inch of his life.
Ben had gotten a lot accomplished during the trip. He’d sat through a second heavy-handed drinking session with Trout and had made loose plans to meet his “guy” in a few weeks. It wasn’t fast enough, but Ben had made more progress on this road trip than in the entire season preceding it.
Phil hadn’t texted again.
Or, well, he had, but it had only been about Charlie and how Charlie was doing at school, whether Phil was allowed to take him to the gym in the rink, and whether it was normal for teenage boys to spend so much time in their rooms. His messages were as frustrating as they were heartwarming, and gratitude joined the pile of other emotions Ben felt about Phil.
Ben spent the flight home arranging apartment viewings for the next day. And by the time the team had returned to San Francisco, he’d found a few options. He hadn’t counted on the one snag in his plan: Charlie’s lack of cooperation.
“Phil said we could stay,” he said around a mouthful of Cheerios. His new haircut revealed more of his face; he and Ben both had the family’s distinctive round cheeks and slightly tipped-up nose. But his bangs still fell across his forehead, and he used them now to hide his eyes.
“It’s a temporary solution,” Ben told him as Phil remained silent.
Ben had been banking on his support, but when Ben had raised the topic, he’d gotten up from the table and begun cleaning the coffeemaker even though his service was coming in a few days.
His back was turned, and as far as Ben could tell, he couldn’t hear a word they said.
“We need somewhere stable,” Ben explained. “Somewhere we can stay, if we want CPS to give us the go-ahead.”