“Plus, you asked him if he wished it was you he’d almost married,” Eli said, amusement in his eyes. “If I hadn’t noticed you mentally wish death and dismemberment on his almost-husband, I would’ve noticed that and figured there was something between you. Or had been.”
“Had been,” Sandro confirmed. “It’s in the past.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” Sandro gritted out. “Are we jogging or what?” He started to cross the street, Eli’s footsteps behind him.
“Oh, now you want to jog, huh? Why’s that? Trying to run away from this conversation?”
Sandro ground to a halt on the other side of the road. “What the fuck, Eli?”
“Just . . .” Coming to a stop in front of him, Eli waved a hand. “You never talk about yourself. You’re supposed to be my mentor and I’m trying to get to know you, but you never answer a question directly unless it’s about hockey.”
Offended, Sandro planted his hands on his hips. “That’s not true. I’m an open book.”
Eli’s snort of laughter morphed into full-on guffaws.
“An open book.” Eli sniggered, holding his stomach like his intestines would burst forth and laugh at Sandro too. “Sure. Okay, Zanetti. God, the fact that you believe that is honestly hilarious.”
“You do know I’m about to murder you, right?”
“Oh yeah?” Jogging backward, Eli smirked. “You’ll have to catch me first. Think you can keep up, old man?” He took off at a dead sprint.
Sandro, annoyed again but also more amused than he wanted to admit, ran after him.
There were fifteen hockey games this evening, which meant most of the teams in the league were playing. The Trailblazers were one of the lucky few who didn’t have a game the day after Thanksgiving, but that didn’t mean they got the day off. Matty Coates and CC were looking a little green around the gills during practice, though, which made Sandro feel better about his own hungover state.
His stomach had begun to feel better after coffee, so there was that at least. He was a little sluggish, a fact Coach Madolora wasn’t shy about pointing out, but considering CC had had to step away to throw up, Sandro wasn’t performing too badly.
Not that CC had set the bar all that high.
Even Dabbs was flagging, and the team captain never flagged. Sandro didn’t know what his excuse was, though—he hadn’t been at Hughes Thanksgiving.
Bennett’s camera guy, Fowler, was filming practice from near the crease, and two of his crew floated around on skates with their own cameras. Skates and cameras seemed like a precarious combination to Sandro, but they seemed steady on their feet, so what did he know?
Usually Fowler’s presence meant Bennett wasn’t far, but Bennett wasn’t in the arena today. Sandro had checked.
Often.
“All right, pack it in, everyone,” Assistant Coach Friedle called. “Hit the showers and go home. I expect a better performance from you all at tomorrow’s game. If I never see another practice like this one, it’ll be too soon.”
“I don’t think he likes us much today,” Hughes pointed out.
“Yeah?” Sandro followed him down the chute. “And whose fault is that?”
Hughes eyed him over his shoulder. “I didn’t pour the alcohol down your throat.”
Sandro opened his mouth to argue, but . . . damn it, it was true. He blamed Bennett, with his . . . his . . . his presence.
Of course, that presence had been Sandro’s fault—he’d been the one to invite Bennett to Thanksgiving. But what was he supposed to do? Let Bennett spend the day alone with his frozen pizza and work?
Fuck that.
Inside the locker room, he nodded at Deeley. “Hey, man. You get home okay last night?”
“Yup.” Like Eli, Deeley didn’t look any worse for the wear.
Sandro missed being twenty-five, able to drink all night and be totally fine the next morning.
