“And now?”
“Now?” Bellamy looked around the arena and shrugged. “Sometimes I feel like I’m walking in someone else’s shoes. You ever get everything you want and not know what to do with it? That’s scarier than it has any right to be.”
As Bellamy was called away, his statement settled between Bennett’s ribs, clinging with sticky fingers. He, too, knew what it was like to get everything he wanted and not know what to do with it. He’d squandered his own opportunity, shoving away two things he loved—hockey and Sandro—because he hadn’t known how to handle it when those two things had become diametrically opposed.
He’d wanted to keep Sandro, but how could he when his life as an NHL player had been nothing at all like he’d expected? Right from training camp, it had been like waking up in a nightmare. Everything from his schedule to his social media posts to his diet to how he presented himself was regimented and monitored, and he’d chafed against the rules and the constant pressure to perform and be better.
And he’d broken. He’d lasted a single season before quitting hockey and pushing Sandro away. Because how could he tell Sandro what was going on when Sandro was having an exceptional rookie season and was thriving as a Trailblazer? Bennett had been drowning in his own angst as he’d slowly and inevitably realized professional hockey wasn’t for him. And as he’d struggled to come to terms with that and the unavoidable questions of what came next, he’d refused to bring Sandro down with him.
Fifteen years later, with a little more wisdom on his shoulders and much more life experience under his belt, he wished he could remind his younger self that he and Sandro had been a team and he’d owed it to him to be honest. To give him the option of supporting Bennett through his shit or not.
If there was one thing Bennett hated, it was having his choices taken away from him. And he’d done exactly that to Sandro, though it had taken his mother pointing it out for him to realize it.
But by that time, months had gone by since their breakup, and Bennett hadn’t felt settled enough to reach out to him. He’d been living with his mom in Washington, doing odd jobs at a small local dairy farm nearby just to keep busy while he figured out his next steps. Meanwhile, Sandro had been killing it during his second professional hockey season.
And then there’d been the photo. A snapshot of Sandro and the up-and-coming country music star du jour—Natalie something—posing together at . . . a music awards ceremony? Something hockey-related? Bennett couldn’t remember now, but that picture had been the ass kick he’d needed to shed the stress and melancholy and general feeling of blah-ness that had plagued him for months, quit his job, and head south to California to see what kind of gigs he could get in the film industry.
Sandro had clearly moved on; it had been time for Bennett to do the same.
“Hey, Hughes,” Bennett called as the defenseman skated past him. “Who’s your favorite team to play?”
“Tampa Bay,” Hughes said instantly.
“The team that’s only two points behind you in your division?”
Hughes’ smile was a little evil. “We keep each other on our toes. Tell him, Zanetti.”
“You always rack up a shit-ton of penalty minutes when we play Tampa,” Sandro pointed out.
“Worth it,” Hughes called over his shoulder, skating away.
“Hey,” Bennett said to Sandro, his heart skipping in his chest.
Sandro gave him an up-nod, a flash of emotion passing behind his eyes.
The same flash that had appeared three days ago while they’d stood on Sandro’s porch steps, the rain coming down hard enough to almost drown out Sandro’s whispered “Maybe” when he’d responded to Bennett’s question about moving on as friends.
Vulnerability.
Uncertainty.
Apprehension.
Bennett couldn’t even blame him, but he’d take maybe over no. It was, at the very least, a step in the right direction.
Fowler side-eyed him from behind the camera. On most productions, the director of photography didn’t operate a camera, but Fowler had a preference for being hands-on.
“Something I need to know about that?” he asked as Sandro followed Hughes to the other end of the arena, where Friedle was running drills.
“Nope,” Bennett said.
Fowler’s grunt didn’t sound convinced. He stopped recording and shifted the camera off his shoulder. “Can I offer a suggestion?”
“Please do.” At almost two decades older than Bennett, Fowler also had almost two decades more experience in the film industry. If he had a suggestion, a comment, a piece of advice, constructive criticism—Bennett wanted to hear it.
“You’d get more from the players if you sat them down for interviews instead of trying to talk to them at practice.”
Bennett swallowed back a sigh of frustration. “We were supposed to start them today, but the practice schedule changed.” It had been a last-minute change, but it had thrown off Bennett’s own schedule, and he’d spent most of the afternoon yesterday rearranging things. “We’ll start those next week.”
