Fucking fuck. A weight sat on his chest, constricting his lungs, and he?—
“You okay, man?” Eli Parker asked, exiting the locker room in full gear.
“Fine,” Bennett murmured, because he was always fine.
This wasn’t the end of the world. It was still early in the season; he could still salvage his project.
With that thought in mind, he went to find Fowler in the stands.
chapter three
The coffee shop Eli had chosen for their first mentoring session was in a brown brick building on Main Street about halfway between the Church Street Marketplace and the University of Vermont. Sandro sat at a table for two and stretched out one leg to massage his aching knee—he’d have to ice his lower back too, but that was a problem for later—and waited for Eli to return with their drinks.
Because of the coffee shop’s location to UVM, there were always college students typing away on laptops or laughing over lattes. Maybe that was why Eli liked it so much—the clientele was close to his age. Plus, he was completing an online certificate program through UVM, so from Sandro’s perspective, he had as much in common with college students as he did with his teammates.
Sandro didn’t much care where they got their coffee, but he was familiar with this building. The offices above the coffee shop belonged to the Sport U Foundation’s Burlington satellite office. The Trailblazers’ arena was named after Sport U Apparel, the biggest sports equipment and apparel company in the country, and the foundation was their charitable arm that provided equitable access to sports for youth from the East Coast to the West. Every Trailblazer had volunteered for one of their programs at some point in their career.
The coffee shop was all wooden beams and exposed brick. Rough-hewn tables and chairs cluttered the cavernous space, and hand-drawn sketches hung on the walls and on the hefty wooden support posts. Large-bulbed string lights hung from the rafters, and touches of Christmas already populated the space: a twinkle-lighted garland running the length of the order counter, holiday-themed drinks, a festive wreath on the front door, and two squat Christmas trees on opposite sides of the space.
And sitting at a table for two next to one of those trees, clear on the other side of the room from Sandro and Eli, was none other than Bennett Jackson. The new director of photography he’d introduced to the team earlier sat across from him, and they had their heads bent over a tablet and a notepad. Fowler was gray-haired and gray-bearded and barrel-chested, and he had the air of someone who’d seen a thing or two. Bennett’s hair was tied into a messy bun at the back of his head, strands escaping the hair tie to frame his heart-shaped face. His eyebrows were a darker blond than his hair, matching the two-day-old scruff on his cheeks and jaw.
Sandro wanted to touch that scruff.
And really hated that he wanted to touch that scruff.
He wasn’t still in love with the guy, but he could admit that Bennett had aged really, really well. Like aged cheese. Just . . . yum.
Sandro had spotted Bennett and Fowler as soon as he and Eli had walked through the door and tried—and failed—to ignore Bennett’s presence. Eli, reminiscing about how New Jersey’s defense had fallen apart when the Trailblazers had last played them, hadn’t noticed Bennett on the far side of the coffee shop . . .
Or how Sandro had nearly walked into a potted Christmas flower arrangement by the entrance.
Sandro was not a fan of how Bennett kept popping up wherever he happened to be.
Today, it was the arena and the coffee shop.
A few months ago, it had been in the Trailblazers’ office, where Bennett had met with management on final contract negotiations for the docuseries. Sandro had left before Bennett had seen him.
A year ago, it had been in the Trailblazers’ locker room, where Bennett had just suddenly been there, without any warning whatsoever. Sandro hadn’t heard from him in more than a decade, and then boom! There he was. All the old feelings had come rushing back, the hurt from Bennett’s breakup battering at him like a series of pucks to the chest without any padding. All he’d felt in that moment was anger.
How dare Bennett intrude on his space?
But ever since the docuseries had gotten the green light, Sandro had known that Bennett would be in his space a lot more this season. So he wasn’t going to let old hurts drive his actions—the past didn’t matter anyway. He was going to be professional. Cordial.
Emotions were persona non grata.
Not that he had any emotions when it came to Bennett Jackson. Not anymore.
“Here we go,” Eli said, returning from the order counter with two bowl-shaped mugs. “A flat white for me, and an extra-hot gingerbread latte with non-fat milk, no foam, and cinnamon topping for you. That’s a very specific order, by the way.”
“They only have the gingerbread latte for a few weeks at the holidays. I’ve perfected my order over the years.”
Over Eli’s shoulder, Sandro watched as Fowler rose from the table and slipped into a battered leather jacket. Bennett smiled as he waved him off, but once Fowler had departed, Bennett’s brow furrowed as he tugged the tablet closer.
Sandro recognized that expression. That I-can-do-it-myself, I-don’t-need-anyone’s-help expression that had annoyed Sandro to hell and back when they’d been together. Prying Bennett’s troubles out of him had often been a source of frustration when Bennett insisted on staying stubbornly silent. But it had also often been a source of pleasure when Sandro teased it out of him with whispered kisses and soft touches and dorm-room blow jobs.
“Hello. Zanetti.”
“Huh?” He turned back to Eli. “Sorry, what?”
