“You missed a pass,” Sandbaker told him, venom dripping from his voice. “And it was all downhill from there.”
“Oh, fuck you, asswipe. You’re the one who?—”
“Hey!” Dabbs’ sharp bark split the air between them, silencing the room briefly before everyone else went back to undressing. “Knock it off. Take a shower, hit the workout room, I don’t care. But the next person who takes their frustration out on a teammate gets benched for the next three games.”
Sandbaker scoffed, and considering how he practically idolized their team captain, it spoke to his level of bitterness about how the game had turned out. “You don’t have the authority to do that.”
Dabbs yanked his helmet off, leaving his ginger hair in a riot of sweaty tangles, and raised one eyebrow. “Don’t I?”
Bennett, meanwhile, watched this all happen from a corner of the locker room. Camera hefted onto one shoulder, his expression was impassive to the point of boredom, as if he’d seen all of this before. He probably had, back when he’d played for Chicago. Teammates shitting on each other wasn’t unique to any one team. The Trailblazers might have a reputation for being what one reporter had termed “lovey-dovey,” but they weren’t perfect. They fought, just like any other family.
Sitting in front of his stall, Sandro unlaced his skates and watched Bennett watch the argument, which had devolved into Dabbs sending Sandbaker to shower and Deeley to the kitchen. What was going through Bennett’s mind? Was he reminded of his own NHL days? Reminded, maybe, of why he’d quit? Or perhaps of why he’d loved the sport in the first place?
Or maybe his thoughts were all about camera angles and juicy footage or whatever else a filmmaker looked for. His black jeans and green T-shirt blended in with the locker room’s color scheme, making him somewhat invisible. Sandro didn’t think anyone else had noticed him lurking.
Sandro would never not notice him though.
Hughes stepped into his line of sight, blocking Bennett from view. Getting back to the task at hand, Sandro tugged off his skates and stretched out his legs. He’d gotten a foot cramp early in the third period, and although he’d skated through it, it had left his lower leg feeling stiff.
Hell, everything felt stiff. He needed physio and maybe a massage before he went home.
He was massaging his right knee when a prickle of awareness zipped up his spine. Glancing up into the sea of chaos that was a post-game locker room, his gaze unerringly caught on Bennett’s.
Bennett’s expression wasn’t impassive anymore. His brows tugged low into a frown, and he seemed to have forgotten about the camera—it sagged on his shoulder, the lens angled toward the floor.
You okay? Bennett mouthed.
Sandro hated that his chest went all gooey at the concern. He gave Bennett a thumbs-up, then rose to strip off his uniform.
It was more than an hour later before he dressed and headed out. Physio, a massage, and a hot shower hadn’t cured him of the chronic pain that plagued his life like a bad toothache, but he wasn’t as stiff, so . . . yay?
On his way toward the exit, Sandro passed the workout room, where Deeley and Sandbaker were laughing like best friends, their earlier argument forgotten.
“Zanetti. Wait up.”
He turned, and there was Roman Kinsey jogging down the hallway toward him.
“What are you still doing here?” Sandro asked, holding out a hand for his friend to fist-bump. “I thought you went home hours ago.”
“Nah, I’ve been here all day,” Roman said. He looked it too, shirt rumpled and eyes tired. “Had a series of late afternoon meetings, so I stayed for the game, then I met with Madolora. I bumped into Bennett on my way out, and he wanted a quick interview.”
Bennett was still here? Sandro peered past Roman, but the hallway was quiet aside from the occasional laugh from Deeley and Sandbaker drifting out of the workout room.
Roman gave him a very knowing look. “He left twenty minutes ago.”
“Good,” Sandro said quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. He faced forward, heading for the exit and avoiding Roman’s gaze. “Great. Good for him. He’s had a long day too. I’m sure he’s eager to get home.”
“Uh-huh.” Roman fell into step beside him. “Speaking of home . . . do you need a lift?”
“No, I got my car back from the shop. But thanks.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“I don’t know. A bunch of lights were on on the dashboard.”
Roman pushed open the door to the parking garage. “They didn’t call you after they examined it?”
“They did, but listening to a mechanic is like trying to learn Greek.”
