Sandro’s smile went charmingly sweet. “Did I rattle your brain?”
“You always do.”
“Aw. Just for that, you get to come.”
“Was I not going to come before?”
“You were,” Sandro said. “But I was going to tease it out of you. But since you said nice things about me, I think I’ll let you come now instead.”
His mouth was back on Bennett’s erection in the next second, and Bennett’s knees went weak.
“Oh my god.” Bennett let out a long moan, his toes curling in his shoes. “Ro. I’m gonna?—”
Sandro pulled off and jacked him, and when he came, he saw enough stars to light up a room, spilling all over Sandro’s fist. Spent, he sank against the wall, his head floating somewhere beyond the here and now.
Sandro rose and nipped his chin. “How do you feel? Still nervous?”
“About what?” Bennett muttered, his softening dick still in Sandro’s hand.
Sandro pretended to wipe dust off his shoulder. “Mission accomplished.”
“You’re very proud of yourself.”
“Uh, yeah.” Sandro grabbed a towel from one of the nearby shelves and wiped them both off before tossing the towel into a laundry hamper.
Convenient, this supply closet he’d secreted them into.
Bennett tucked himself away. He brought Sandro in for a quick kiss, then patted his hair down. “You look like you’ve been doing exactly what you’ve been doing.”
Sandro pumped his eyebrows. “Let’s see if anyone else notices. Come on.” And circling his fingers around Bennett’s wrist, he led them out of the closet.
The lobby of Burlington’s Flynn Theater was packed with people for the premiere of Bennett’s new series. They were premiering the first episode today to the Trailblazers’ organization, family and friends, the crew, and select hockey podcasters, bloggers, and reporters. Influencers and members of the media would get a sneak peek at the rest of the series before every episode went live at once on a major streaming platform next week.
Bennett was still pinching himself.
Sandro muttered that he was heading to the restroom to wash his hands, leaving Bennett among his peers in the Art Deco lobby. So much for Sandro’s quick escape to the supply closet—Bennett’s nerves returned tenfold, making his hands tingly.
This series was the biggest project he’d ever worked on. After months of . . . well, trailing the Trailblazers around, interviewing them and then reinterviewing them, horning in on team outings and private moments, sitting in on meetings, watching how dedicated every member of the organization was and how the players pushed past pain, and then spending a few months after that in post-production . . .
By the time he’d had six episodes he was happy enough with to show David, he’d been exhausted, but in a way that made his soul feel lighter. Exhausted but happy and excited and proud . . .
And so goddamn nervous.
This was no Chain of Command—critics wouldn’t pan it. Deep down, he knew that. But he was still nervous as hell for the world to see what he’d created. He’d left a part of himself on this project, and giving that part to friends, colleagues, and strangers alike felt a bit like asking a crush on a date and hoping not to be shut down.
“There you are.”
Bennett smiled as his mom emerged from behind Eli Parker, who was talking to one of the podcasters. He nodded at the champagne flute in her hand. “Where’d you get that?”
“At the bar over there. Want one?”
“More like a dozen.”
She smiled, and it reminded him of all the times he’d handed her crappy school artwork and she’d smiled like he was the next Picasso. “Nervous?”
“No, I’m—” He shook his head and forced himself not to hide. If he was allowed to take up space in Sandro’s life, he was allowed to take up space in his mom’s. “Yeah, actually. I want everyone to watch the series, but at the same time, I don’t want them to watch it. Because what if they hate it? Then I have to live with that.”
“Hate to break it to you, sweetie, but some people will hate it. You can’t please everyone.”
