There was more he wanted to say, but he couldn’t figure out where to start.
Go back to LA?
Never leave again?
Why are you really here?
But he needed time to get his thoughts in order, so he splashed out into the downpour.
To his surprise, Bennett met him on the sidewalk and, using his own jacket, held it over the both of them as they jogged up to the covered porch.
“You didn’t . . .” The words got stuck in Sandro’s throat as Bennett shook the rain off his jacket. Strands of blond hair had escaped his bun and hung loose around his face, beginning to go frizzy from the moisture in the air. Sandro curled his hands into fists in the material of his jacket, hanging wetly in front of him, to stop himself from reaching out and tucking one behind Bennett’s ear. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Tell me again how chivalry is dead?”
A laugh escaped him again, and his gaze snagged on Bennett’s.
There’d been times those eyes had squinted in annoyance or flashed with anger or heated in desire. Right now, as Bennett slowly lost his smile, they were none of those things.
Just vulnerable in their desperation.
Sandro’s chest squeezed tight, and with a sudden clarity, he knew he didn’t want to hear whatever Bennett wanted to tell him.
“Sandy—”
“Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”
“San—”
“No.” Heart pounding, Sandro took a step back. “It’s ancient history. It doesn’t matter anymore. We need to move forward, not back.”
That vulnerable desperation turned to naked hope that broke something in Sandro.
Bennett swallowed audibly and said, “As friends?”
Obviously not, Sandro meant to say. There’s too much history between us. But what came out was, “Maybe.”
“Maybe,” Bennett repeated with a nod. “I can live with maybe.” He shrugged his jacket back on and looked out across the yard to his car at the curb. “Got an umbrella?”
Amusement crawled up the back of Sandro’s throat. “Fuck no.”
He went inside and closed the door on Bennett’s booming laugh.
chapter four
“When did you know you were good at hockey?”
“Oh god.” Chuckling, Bellamy Jordan, one of the Trailblazers’ forwards, shot the puck to one of his teammates before skating a circle around Bennett. “Never? I don’t mean to sound self-deprecating, but I wasn’t one of those kids who was constantly told he was a hockey phenom, you know?” He came to a stop in front of Bennett, looking enormous in his hockey pads, helmet, and practice uniform, especially compared to Bennett, who was in boots, jeans, and a hoodie.
At six feet, it wasn’t often Bennett felt short. But dressed in civilian clothing in the middle of a hockey rink with two dozen players participating in practice around him, he felt a bit like a fly caught in a spider’s web.
Fowler stood to his left, camera focused on Bellamy while two of Fowler’s crew filmed practice from opposite sides of the rink. Coach Madolora had allowed them onto the ice today, but Bennett was experienced enough to understand that wouldn’t be the case every time.
And hovering nearby was one of the team’s PR people, making sure that the players didn’t say anything they shouldn’t.
Or maybe making sure Bennett didn’t ask anything he shouldn’t.
“Even when I got recruited to play for the University of Maine,” Bellamy continued, “I didn’t truly think I could make something of this hobby. And then scouts started coming around, and my coaches told me I had a real shot at being a pro hockey player.”
