“I . . .” Trailing off, Sandro sipped his latte to wet his dry throat. What was he supposed to say? That he and Bennett had gotten along so well that Bennett had his own nickname for him? That they’d danced around each other their freshman year because they’d both been seeing other people? That they’d arrived on campus for their sophomore year as single men and hadn’t hesitated to find out if there could be more between them? That they’d had their own place their junior and senior years until hockey had taken them in opposite directions after graduation—Sandro to Burlington and Bennett to Chicago.
That the long-distance had been hard but Sandro had never wavered in his commitment to Bennett? When he wasn’t needed in Burlington, he was in Chicago, and he couldn’t wait until the summer, when he and Bennett could spend every last second together before next season.
But Bennett had been . . . distant. Understandably distracted that first year after graduation, but also off in a way Sandro couldn’t describe. I can do it myself, I don’t need anyone’s help had morphed into I’m fine, I’m always fine, and no matter how many different ways Sandro asked if he was okay, Bennett seemed to pull further and further away.
And then Bennett quit hockey and quit him. Sandro had poured his heart and soul into their relationship, had given Bennett every piece of himself . . .
But it hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t been enough.
His parents had taught him that you showed up for the people you loved, and he’d shown up for Bennett even when he only had two hours to spend in Chicago before he had to catch a flight back to Burlington.
So when Bennett had dumped him, it had shaken his very foundation.
And when Bennett hadn’t answered any of his calls after that . . . when his apartment had been empty of personal belongings the day Sandro had dropped by the first chance he’d been able to . . .
It had shaken not just his foundation, but his very self. What had happened? Where had everything fallen apart? Was it him? Had their relationship simply been too much on top of a stressful rookie season?
But that was way too personal to share with his young teammate.
Sandro’s gaze drifted to Bennett again, and despite what had happened between them, he still wanted to go over there and smooth away the divot of concentration between his brows.
“What do you keep looking at back there?” Eli turned and—“Oh, it’s Bennett.” And before Sandro could stop him, he raised a hand in a wave. “Hey, Bennett.”
Bennett looked up from his tablet, his expression clearing when it landed on Eli.
And doing something a little more complicated when it landed on Sandro.
“What are you working on over there?” Eli asked him.
“Just some work stuff,” Bennett replied with a preoccupied smile.
“Cool,” Eli said, clearly undeterred by the non-answer. “How’s the work stuff going?”
“Good. Great.”
Well, he hadn’t gotten any better at lying in the past fifteen years, so that was one thing that hadn’t changed. Sandro snorted a laugh, drawing Bennett’s narrowed gaze.
“Take a break and come join us,” Eli said.
Sandro’s stomach went a little wonky at that. “He can’t,” he blurted. “He’s busy doing work stuff.”
He hadn’t meant it as a challenge, but Bennett obviously took it as one. He raised a single oh-you-think-so eyebrow and flipped his tablet case closed. “Sure, thanks.” He rose, coffee mug in one hand, tablet in the other, and joined them, choosing the seat to Sandro’s left.
Sandro wanted to both move away and move closer. Bennett smelled warm and inviting. Earthy, kind of. Whatever it was, Sandro could smell it over the pervasive scent of coffee and, much to his annoyance, wanted to bathe in it.
Bennett wore ripped jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt pulled up to his elbows, showing off sand-colored skin dusted with fine hairs that matched the blond hair on his head. He didn’t appear to have quite the same muscle definition as he’d had when he’d played hockey, but he was still fit, his T-shirt hugging defined biceps.
He met Sandro’s gaze with another raised eyebrow, this one a challenging I’m not too busy, don’t put words in my mouth, his blue eyes holding a glint to them that dared Sandro to send him away.
Christ, Sandro hated that he could still read him.
“When did you get into town?” Eli asked. “Did you come in from LA? Wait, do you even live in LA? Is that where all the cool filmmakers are based these days, or is it New York? Gotta say, I like New York, but I’m not a fan of winter, so if I had to choose between the two cities, I’d?—”
“Sorry to interrupt.” One of the baristas, wearing a half apron and a name tag that read Lizzie, lowered a tray between Eli and Bennett. “We’re sampling our sugar cookie latte today. Care to try one?”
The tray held plastic shot glasses filled with amber liquid.
“Ooh, yes please.” Eli took two, passed them to Sandro and Bennett, then took one for himself. “Tell me—how do you get the sugar cookie flavor? Is it a combination of multiple syrups or is there a sugar cookie one? Do you make it yourselves?”
