“Uh . . .” Looking up from where he had been taking notes, Bennett frowned, not having expected to be called on. “Why are you the wrong person, exactly?”
“Because . . . Because.” Sandro waved both hands like the answer was obvious. “I’m not a psychologist, and I have no idea how to organize this kind of thing.”
“I don’t need you to be a psychologist,” Roman countered. “We already have one of those.”
“You have the lived experience,” Bennett pointed out.
“That’s what I said,” Roman muttered.
“Maybe not the experience coordinating this type of program,” Bennett continued, “but that can be learned. You have the experience that matters. And if you put it together, your teammates will participate. They look up to you.”
“They look up to Dabbs,” Sandro countered.
“Yes, but in a different way,” Bennett said, because it was his job to pay attention. “He’s the team captain—they treat him like the older brother they want to impress. It’s you they come to for help or for a sympathetic ear.”
“Exactly.” Roman jabbed the marker in Bennett’s direction. “Who else would sit quietly with Prinnie for ten minutes while he got his shit together?”
Sandro stared at him. “How do you know that? It just happened.”
“I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere.”
Snorting a laugh, Sandro faced the whiteboard, which put his back to Bennett.
Quietly, Roman recapped the marker and stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited Sandro out.
Did he notice that Sandro’s shoulders lost a bit of their tension the longer he looked at the board? Did he notice that Sandro rubbed his jaw in that I-have-ideas way he had? Did he notice Sandro’s quiet “Goddamn it, fine” sigh that signaled reluctant acceptance of the situation?
Bennett wasn’t sure if he had, but he didn’t react when Sandro nabbed the marker out of his hand and wrote 4. Career Transition on the board.
Wearing a smug smile he was lucky Sandro didn’t notice, Roman asked, “Why that one?”
“Because apparently seventy percent of marriages among professional athletes end in divorce,” Sandro said. “And of those, fifty percent happen after the athlete retires. There’s got to be something to that, right? Plus, a lot of athletes don’t know what they’ll do after they retire. Look at Kas—he’s been retired a few years, and he spends his time playing golf. And when I asked Cotton the other day, he said he doesn’t have a plan for after he retires. Hell, I don’t have a plan for after I retire in a few years.”
Bennett raised both eyebrows and couldn’t help but insert himself into the conversation. “A few years?”
“Two or three, yeah.”
Roman met Bennett’s gaze and tipped his head in Sandro’s direction. “He thinks his body’s going to last that long.”
Sandro narrowed his gaze on him. “You’re seriously the worst, you know that?”
“You’re welcome for giving you a job that’ll take you post-retirement.”
“I hate you sometimes,” Sandro grumbled, fondness ringing clear in his voice. “Smug bastard.”
So maybe Sandro had noticed Roman’s smile.
Ignoring the jab, Roman stole the marker back. “Where do you want to start?”
The meeting went on for another thirty minutes, with Sandro and Roman debating initiative priorities. Sandro claimed that initiatives one and three—identity beyond hockey and public narrative versus private reality—were similar enough that they could be combined into one, leaving them with three initiatives instead of four. But while Roman argued that emotional literacy should be priority number one, Sandro insisted it had to be career transition.
When it was clear they wouldn’t reach a consensus, Roman called a halt to the meeting. “We can regroup on Monday morning.”
“Can’t.” Sandro grabbed his leather jacket off the back of a chair and slipped it on. “I’ll be driving back from Tobermory.”
“What are you heading home for this time?”
“Brother’s birthday dinner on Sunday night. I’ll leave after the game on Saturday.”
