The meeting continued on to more practical matters—the next day’s game against New Jersey. Bennett listened with half an ear, his gaze straying to Sandy, who’d—perhaps purposefully, perhaps by virtue of it being one of the few remaining seats when he’d sat down—chosen a chair that put his back to Bennett. Bennett stared at the back of Sandy’s head, willing him to turn and look at him, if only for a second.
No, wait. Sandro. Bennett had called him Sandy last year, when Coach Madolora had given him a tour of the arena, and gotten snapped at.
Don’t call me that. You lost the privilege a long time ago.
Bennett winced at the memory. Of course, Sandro wouldn’t want him to use his nickname for him. Losing that hurt, but Bennett should’ve expected it. Should’ve expected, too, for Sandro to otherwise ignore his very existence. He’d wanted to have a conversation; instead, Coach Madolora had concluded his tour, and the following day, Bennett had spoken with some of the players about their reservations about the docuseries.
But not Sandro, because of the aforementioned ignoring-his-very-existence thing. So Bennett had returned to Los Angeles, where he’d been prepping for the release of Chain of Command, and that had been that.
But now here he was, with what could possibly be a second chance at a second chance, and if he could get Sandy—Sandro, Christ—to sit down with him for five minutes, he’d call that a win.
Besides, Sandro couldn’t ignore him forever. Bennett would need to interview him for the docuseries at some point. Probably multiple some points. Bennett would be on hand until the Trailblazers’ last game of the season, whether or not that took them all the way to the playoffs. He’d be sitting down with every player, coach, and development staff member more than once.
Forcing his gaze off the back of Sandro’s head, Bennett took notes as the meeting dragged on. He’d jotted down a few questions for players and coaches alike, but he’d save them for later. He let the conversation happen around him, blending into the background as much as possible, a skill he’d learned as a kid that had served him well as a filmmaker, especially when he needed his subjects to forget he was there.
As the son of a single mom who’d worked three jobs to keep them afloat, Bennett had learned early on to remain unobtrusive. To keep his problems to himself—everything from schoolyard bullies to struggles in math class to confusion over his own sexuality—so that he didn’t place more of a burden on his mom than she already had. She was tired enough without him asking for help with his homework or a few extra dollars so he could go to the movies with his friends. If he could make her life just a little bit easier by keeping his shit to himself, all the better.
In the end, it had made him independent and resourceful.
The meeting adjourned and Coach Friedle gave the players instructions to suit up and be on the ice within fifteen minutes for practice. Bennett rose, his gut cramping when Sandro didn’t glance his way. “San?—”
“Let’s grab a seat in the stands,” Fowler said, forcing Bennett’s mind back on track.
Of course. He had work. Now wasn’t the time or place to have the conversation with Sandro that he wanted to have.
With that thought in mind, he focused on the other thing he wanted: access to the locker room. And he had a feeling the person he needed to talk to about that wasn’t Head Coach Madolora, but rather Team Captain Kyle Dabbs.
“You go on ahead,” Bennett said to Fowler. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”
Dabbs was the last player to leave the meeting room, as though waiting for his entire flock to depart before he followed. Bennett chuckled at the image that conjured in his head, then fell into step with Dabbs as he, too, finally headed out of the room.
“Welcome back,” Dabbs said, his voice deep and gravelly.
“Thanks. And thanks again for agreeing to this series.”
Dabbs’ wide shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It was a team decision.”
“That’s just . . . wild,” Bennett said. “Anywhere else and it would’ve been up to management.”
“That’s not how we roll here.”
“I’m aware. I’m also aware that you had reservations about allowing cameras into your safe spaces, which I completely understand. I appreciate you trusting me with this. I promise to do this series justice.”
A laughable promise given how Chain of Command had been received, but statistically speaking, he couldn’t have two flops in a row, right?
“Like I said.” Dabbs paused by the entrance to the locker room. “It was a team decision.”
“But as team captain, you hold a lot of sway. Which is why I wanted to ask . . . is there any chance you’ll reconsider your stance on letting cameras into the locker room? I recognize that it’s an invasion of privacy, but I need full access in order to make this a strong series. I need to be able to show—What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Dabbs’ expression had gone very huh? His ginger-colored eyebrows bunched together in a frown. “I was under the impression you do have access to the locker room.”
“Technically, that’s true, but the contract specifically states no cameras in the locker room. So while I’m allowed in, I can’t bring a camera, which defeats the whole purpose of me having access.”
Frown deepening, Dabbs scratched at his half inch of beard and called a “Hey, Coach?” over Bennett’s shoulder. “Do you know the details about the contract with Bennett’s production company?”
David’s production company, technically. Bennett’s title as associate producer was more of a formality than true managerial oversight.
Not that that was important in this moment.
