Fowler nodded once. “Good. And you’re sure there’s nothing going on with that?”
Bennett followed his gaze to Sandro, where he was chatting with Eli Parker near the boards. Something to do with Eli’s skates, maybe, given they were both gesturing at his feet.
What was going on with them? They’d been at the coffee shop together, but it hadn’t been a date. The vibe had been all wrong. Teammates grabbing an afternoon coffee?
Maybe, although from Bennett’s experience, veteran players didn’t interact much with rookies.
Of course, he only had one season of professional hockey to base that on, so what did he know? Besides, the Trailblazers were different. That was the entire reason he was here.
Well, it was ninety percent of the reason he was here.
Several dozen feet away, Sandro smiled at Eli, and Bennett’s stomach jumped.
Okay, it was seventy percent of the reason he was here.
“Because he keeps looking over here,” Fowler added.
“What?” Bennett whipped his head in Fowler’s direction, hope mingling with disbelief. “No, he doesn’t.”
His tolerance for bullshit always somewhere around nonexistent, Fowler just looked at him like he was the gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Hefting the camera back onto his shoulder, he said, “Where to next?”
Moving Sandro to the deal-with-later category of his mind—something he was finding himself doing more of the longer he spent with this team—Bennett got to work.
Everything hurt as Sandro dressed after practice. The shower had helped, but watching his younger teammates go about their post-practice activities as if they had the knees and backs of four-year-olds, Sandro felt his age.
He’d recently been named one of the oldest active players in the league. In a way, it had been flattering—thirty-eight years old and he still had it. In another, it had reminded him that he was ancient in hockey years and his time was coming to an end. Maybe this year, maybe next, maybe the one after that if he was lucky enough to get a few more seasons in.
The more he thought about his eventual and inevitable retirement, the more he wondered what came next. How could he stay in hockey without actually playing hockey? Roman Kinsey had created the role of director of player engagement for himself upon retirement because he’d been the drive behind changing the Trailblazers’ culture when he’d been team captain, but there wasn’t anything Sandro was good at that could lead to a non-player position.
“You okay?” Owen Cotton asked, nodding at Sandro’s wrist as he sat in front of his stall next to Sandro’s.
Sandro rotated his wrist once more—even that hurt—and gave his friend a smile. “I’m great. Hey, question. What’s your plan after you retire?”
“You mean after I sleep for a week?” Cotton pulled on socks. “I’ll have more time to illustrate children’s books, so that’ll be cool. Kas and I will probably do some traveling, visit family more. Other than that, I don’t really have plans.”
“It doesn’t bother you, not knowing what comes next?”
“Not really, but let’s face it, Zanetti—we make the kind of money that means we don’t need to have a plan right away. There’s time to figure it out, even after retirement.” Cocking his head, Cotton added, “Does it bother you?”
It hadn’t used to, but the more Sandro thought about it, the more he wondered what his purpose here was. For most of his life, he’d gotten to play a sport he loved and make a career out of it. He’d won the Stanley Cup four times with the Trailblazers.
But what was the point of it all? What legacy would he leave behind when he retired? He was no Roman Kinsey, leaving behind a team culture based on communication, trust, and respect.
He was just Sandro Zanetti.
“Nah,” Sandro said, answering Cotton’s question. “I’ll probably do like you: sleep for a week and travel. Maybe visit my parents in Tobermory for more than a few days at a time.”
“Not a bad gig, right?” Cotton rose and slipped his jacket on. “How’s the mentorship with Eli going, by the way?”
“We haven’t had a chance to get started yet. We met earlier this week, but Eli had to leave early. You’re mentoring DeShawn, right?”
“Yeah. I’ve mentored a rookie for the past four years.” Cotton headed out of the locker room and Sandro fell into step beside him.
“Got any tips? I haven’t mentored anyone in years, and I’m not sure where to start.”
“I’d say the first thing you want to do is find common ground. Hockey is an obvious one, but outside of that . . . what do you have in common that could help establish a rapport and foster a comfortable connection? After that . . .” Cotton shrugged. “Figure out what kind of mentor you want to be. Will you be the guy Eli calls when he’s drunk at the bar with his friends at one in the morning and he needs a lift home? Will you be the guy he comes to when he’s homesick and wants to sleep on your couch? Or is this strictly about hockey? And beyond that,” he continued while Sandro mentally took notes, “establish goals. Find out what Eli’s long-term goals are, but also what his goals are for this mentorship. What does he want out of it? What do you want out of it? And you’re going to want to set expectations?—”
“Jesus, Cotton, I need a notebook to write all this down.”
