The fridge was equally barren, he discovered when Bennett opened it. In addition to the tub of cream cheese he pulled out, he had fast-food ketchup packets, eggs, a carton of milk, and a jar of strawberry jam.
“Are you on the world’s worst diet?” Sandro asked. “Or do you get a lot of takeout?”
“Takeout and Trailblazers’ food.” The bagel popped out of the toaster. Bennett plated the two halves and handed them over along with the cream cheese and a knife. “Most of my days are spent with your team, so I’m usually eating what you’re eating. And you guys eat very well.”
“Our team chef looks after us.”
“So the bagel’s probably subpar, huh?”
Sandro spread cream cheese on each half. “It’ll do in a pinch.” He took a bite and looked around, taking in the naked walls and lack of any real personal effects aside from a couple of receipts on the kitchen table and their shoes and jackets by the front door. Bennett sure traveled light, didn’t he?
“What’s your place like in LA?”
“It’s nothing fancy,” Bennett said, sitting next to Sandro. He tugged Sandro’s barstool closer, grabbed Sandro’s legs at the knees, and draped them over his lap. Some of his hair had come loose out of his hair tie, and it hung around his face in wavy strands that made him look temptingly debauched. “A one-bedroom apartment in Hollywood Heights.”
“Is that near the ocean?” Sandro asked, his skin prickling where Bennett ran a thumb over his kneecap.
“Not even close.”
“And since when are you an LA hockey fan?” Sandro nodded at Bennett’s hoodie, which proudly displayed the LA Waves’ logo.
“Eh, you know what they say—when in Rome and all that.”
It was a nice hoodie, black with silver accents and the silver logo on the front. But the irritation that flared at seeing another team’s logo on Bennett’s chest made Sandro want to tear it off him.
Bennett’s fingers lightly traced the back of his knee, and Sandro’s entire body erupted in goosebumps. His dick twitched, a fact Bennett didn’t miss, judging by his very self-satisfied smirk.
“You need a Trailblazers hoodie,” Sandro announced. He finished off his bagel and set his plate aside.
“I have a Trailblazers hoodie.”
“Why haven’t you been wearing it?”
Bennett scoffed. “To the arena? You don’t think that’s coming on a little thick? Your teammates would think I was trying to butter them up.”
“Which one is it?” Sandro demanded.
“Huh?”
“Which hoodie? We’ve got several different versions.”
“I don’t know. The one your organization gave me when the contract for the series got signed.”
“Show me.”
Bennett’s hand wrapped around Sandro’s thigh. “Right now?”
“Yes, right now.” Ignoring his slowly hardening dick, Sandro swung his legs off Bennett’s lap and nudged his barstool back. “Go get it.”
“Jesus Christ, fine.” Rolling his eyes, Bennett disappeared upstairs, muttering about annoying hockey players and who cared about stupid hoodies?
Once he was gone, Sandro dropped his head back and crossed his arms over his eyes with a low groan. He inhaled a bracing breath and tried to multiply 18 by 32 in his head to calm his body down. Of course, since he was shit at math, he didn’t get far before the sound of Bennett walking around upstairs distracted him.
But along with anticipating what more the evening would bring were doubts that crept in the longer Bennett was gone. Fucking fuck, what was Sandro doing? Sex with Bennett couldn’t possibly be a good idea, yet here he was, raring for a second round, his body thrumming as though someone was playing him like a guitar.
He shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want Bennett, not after everything. But his body hadn’t gotten that memo.
Neither had his heart, apparently.
