“I don’t know about ever,” Sandro said, rotating his beer on the tabletop. “But definitely not right now.”
“Okay.”
Bennett sipped his beer to wet his dry throat, licking his lips as he lowered the bottle. Sandro’s gaze dropped to his mouth, lingering for longer than was polite and sending Bennett’s pulse skyrocketing. That gaze drifted lazily upward and met his. Bennett held it, his muscles tensing with desire when Sandro’s lips quirked in an equally lazy smile.
“What have you got planned for the rest of the day?” Sandro asked, and was it Bennett’s imagination, or had his voice gone a touch husky?
“Not much. Work.”
“Hm.” Sandro nodded slowly. “You seeing anyone these days?”
There went Bennett’s pulse again. “No. There’s been nobody since I almost got married in Vegas,” he said, just to see the anger darken Sandro’s face like it had at Thanksgiving.
“Uh-huh,” Sandro practically growled. “The model. That what you’re into now? Sleek and perfect and flawless?”
“That was a passing phase. I’ve always been into darkly handsome hockey players who don’t know how to say no.”
Instant scowl from Sandro. “I know how to say no.”
“That why you’re attending your brother’s birthday dinner on Sunday?”
“What’s wrong with that? I’ve got the time.”
“You have forty-eight hours between Saturday night’s game and Monday night’s, and now twenty-four of those will be spent driving.”
“Which gives me twenty-four hours at home.”
“Several of which will be spent sleeping. Is that really worth the trip? Worth you not being at a hundred percent for Monday’s game?”
Sandro shrugged. “It’s worth it for me. I used to do it for you, too, when we were together. Remember?”
Bennett opened his mouth to argue . . .
But couldn’t.
Because Sandro had done that for him. And the drive from Burlington to Chicago was two to three hours longer than the Burlington-Tobermory drive.
That was Sandro, though. Always showing up for the people he loved.
Which was no doubt why he was so insistent that he had another two to three years left with the Trailblazers. They were his family too. Retiring from hockey would no doubt make him feel like he was abandoning that family.
Had Sandro recognized that in himself? His body was beginning to fail him—Bennett had been around the team long enough now to notice which players were the most in pain, and Sandro made the top of the list—yet Sandro refused to acknowledge it.
“You’re not in your twenties anymore, though,” Bennett pointed out. “And your teammates are counting on you.”
“Oh, fuck you.” A splash of anger darkened Sandro’s cheeks. “I’ve never let them down.”
“You will if you’re not at your best on Monday. And your family will understand if you don’t show up. They know what you do for a living—I’m sure this wouldn’t be the first event you haven’t been able to attend.”
“It’s not.” Sandro swallowed the last of his beer. “Which is why I try to make it for the ones I can attend.”
“Even if it means you’ll be exhausted for the game?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Jesus, you’re stubborn.”
“Seriously?” A genuine laugh burst out of Sandro. “Says the guy who insisted—for our entire rookie season—that he was fine when he clearly wasn’t?”
