Something warm swept through Bennett at the typical answer. Sandro wasn’t an “I can do it myself because I don’t need help” kind of guy. His reluctance to hire a professional for the lights had everything to do with his upbringing—he, like Bennett, had been raised by parents who didn’t believe in spending money on tasks they could do themselves.
Except Sandro was sixteen years into a lucrative and very successful NHL career. Bennett had googled his net worth—it was a lot. Like, a lot. Set-me-up-for-life a lot. The kind of money people like Bennett, who’d been raised by a single mom who worked three jobs, had only ever dreamed about.
The fact that Sandro still insisted on doing things himself if he could was charming as hell.
Bennett glanced over his shoulder, toward Sandro’s house. An older-model SUV was in the driveway, along with four tires—in addition to the ones on the car—and various tools spread around as if Sandro had dropped them there in surrender.
“What’s wrong with your car?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Sandro replied. “At the moment, anyway.”
“What’s with the tools then?”
“I thought I’d try DIYing it and swap my all-season tires for the winter ones myself. Then I remembered I know fuck all about cars and don’t care to learn.”
Bennett laughed, his breath pluming in front of him.
“I hope your rental has winter tires,” Sandro added.
“I never thought to ask.”
Sandro grunted as he climbed down the ladder. “That’s the West Coast in you.”
“Probably.”
“So,” Sandro said, moving the ladder a couple of feet. “You never told me what your plans are for today.”
“For Thanksgiving?” Bennett blew on his hands to warm them. “Fowler doesn’t believe in Thanksgiving, and he paid for his crew to fly home to be with their families, so it’s just me. I’ll probably make a frozen pizza and work.”
“Sounds terrible” was Sandro’s opinion on that. “You’ll come with me to Hughes’ place.”
“Uh . . . what?”
“He’s hosting for all the single players today. Nothing fancy. Just takeout. You’ll come with me. We’ll leave once I’m done.”
“Why? You just said it’s not your Thanksgiving.”
Sandro sent him a who-the-fuck-cares look. “So? It’s really just an excuse to eat and drink too much. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
“Okay. Sure.” As if Bennett was going to argue about spending more time with Sandro. He was smarter than that.
Sandro dug into the box for another string of lights—probably the last one for this house. Bennett eyed the gloves on his hands. They were nice. Looked like wool. Thick enough to block the wind and cold but thin enough that Sandro could still handle the lights.
“Let me borrow your gloves.”
“No,” Sandro said, laughing. “Fuck you. Get your own.”
“Selfish asshole,” Bennett teased.
Sandro just laughed.
Spending the afternoon with Sandro’s teammates wasn’t how Bennett had seen his day going, but he couldn’t say he hated it. In fact, he wished he had his camera so he could record the complete debauchery that was Thanksgiving with the single guys. The contract with the Trailblazers gave him carte blanche to film downtime, but only at the arena. Outside of the arena, he needed the players’ permission.
And since Sandro had invited him here—as a friend, maybe?—stepping into work mode would feel wrong.
Besides, Deeley was filming this clusterfuck waiting to happen with his phone. If anything, Bennett could ask him to forward him the video.
Hughes had set up his schoolyard-sized backyard with an obstacle course for two. Now that everyone had gone, the two guys with the best times were about to compete for the title of Obstacle Course Master. The prize was a gift card for a nearby golf course, a case of locally brewed craft beer, and for some reason, a pink, one-eyed stuffed bear with a half-chewed ear.
