Bennett willed the frustration out of his voice. “Understood.”
David hung up, but his lack of faith still lingered in the air.
“He sure likes to remind you about how much of a fuckup you are,” Fowler commented.
“Stop.”
“I’m just saying?—”
Bennett stepped out of the car so he didn’t have to hear what else Fowler was just saying. Bad enough that David kept reminding him about what a flop his previous documentary had been, but Fowler’s criticisms of David’s criticisms of him were beginning to turn into a cycle that would lead to impostor syndrome if he let it.
“I’m just saying,” Fowler repeated, catching up to him, “that you’re not the first person with a project under your belt that’s gotten panned by critics and viewers. Besides, David approved the final version of Chain of Command, so it’s partly his fault.”
“But it was my vision.”
“Well, sure, but?—”
“Fowl.” Shoving his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, Bennett turned to him. “I appreciate you having my back. Truly. But can we pretend Chain of Command doesn’t exist? It’ll be like starting fresh.”
Fowler’s expression turned skeptical, which . . . fair. Considering this was Bennett’s last shot before David dropped him as his go-to filmmaker and he had to find funding for his projects elsewhere, there was a lot on the line, not the least of which was his reputation.
He tugged the door open and waved Fowler inside, where a security guard checked their credentials before they stepped through a metal detector.
“You know,” Fowler continued when the guard waved them off, “you could be a little less agreeable.”
“I’m not being agreeable,” Bennett said, heading down a long hallway. “I’m doing my job.”
“All ‘yes, sir,’ and ‘no problem, David,’ and ‘understood,’ and?—”
Hands on his hips, Bennett rounded on him, more exasperated than anything. “Look. The next time your reputation is on the line, feel free to tell the person who holds the purse strings exactly what you think of them. In the meantime, we’ve got work to do.” He turned in a circle, taking in their location. Were the meeting rooms straight ahead or to the right?
“We’re lost, aren’t we?” Fowler said, his deep voice echoing in the empty hallway.
“What? No.” The first time Bennett had been here, Head Coach Madolora had given him a tour of the facilities. But that had been more than a year ago, and while he’d been back since, the GM’s assistant had always met him at the entrance. But Jennie was out sick today, according to an email from the GM, and although the GM had said he’d try to get someone else to meet them and take them where they needed to go, he hadn’t been able to guarantee it. “It’s this way,” Bennett said, nodding at where the hallway curved ahead of them with more confidence than he felt.
“You still need to use the GPS to get from the airport to your mom’s house, don’t you?” Fowler asked flatly.
“She moved to a new city.”
“Yeah. Four years ago.”
“You’re very annoying today.”
Fowler grunted, his shoulders taking up ninety percent of the space in the hallway as he turned to—presumably—determine which direction they needed to go. “I’d think you’d be a little nicer to the man who came out here last minute to help you on this project.”
“I’d be nicer if you weren’t so annoying.”
Fowler let out a sound Bennett had learned a long time ago was a reluctant laugh. Bennett had first worked with Fowler over a decade ago, and although he was often grouchy and always opinionated, there was no one Bennett trusted more to get the footage he needed. He was lucky to count Fowler as a friend as well as a colleague.
That he’d agreed to come out here to replace the previous director of photography, who’d had to quit unexpectedly to attend to a family matter, meant Bennett owed him big time.
“Hey, guys.”
As one, they glanced up at the voice, to where a man was jogging toward them.
Eli Parker, Bennett’s mind supplied. Right-winger. Twenty-five. Six foot one. A hundred and eighty-eight pounds. Born and raised in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. He’d put up sixty-three points for the Trailblazers’ affiliate AHL team last season and had done well enough for himself during training camp this summer to earn himself a place on the Trailblazers’ roster.
“Hey,” Eli repeated with a smile, hand outstretched for a shake. Blond, blue-eyed, and freckle-faced, he looked as cornfed as they came—or whatever the equivalent was in Saskatchewan. The freckles continued down his arms and over the backs of his hands like a galaxy of stars. “You must be Bennett Jackson. I’m Eli. I’m supposed to take you to the meeting.”
