“How long does it take to get ready for a game?” Dolly asked as she pulled up to the unmarked doors Sandro indicated.
“Not long,” Sandro muttered, drumming his fingers on his knee. “It’s easy enough to suit up.”
Not as easy to get in the right headspace, mentally, but he kept that part to himself. His tardiness wasn’t Dolly’s fault.
As soon as she put the truck in park, Sandro was out of the car. He yanked his duffel out of the footwell, wincing when the zipper scraped against the glove compartment, but Dolly didn’t appear to notice or care. “Thank you so much. Bye.” He slammed the door shut and jogged toward the entrance.
“Hey!”
Gritting his teeth, he turned at Dolly’s call. She’d rolled down the passenger-side window. “I’ll have your car at the garage you told me about in the next half hour.” She grinned winningly. “Make sure you leave me a Google review!”
Under different circumstances, he would’ve cheerily agreed. As it was, it felt like ants were crawling under his skin. He waved to acknowledge the request, then continued toward the entrance.
The door opened as he approached it. Sandro was expecting the security guard Coach had said he’d send to let him in, but instead it was Kyle Dabbs. His team captain was fully dressed for tonight’s game except for his skates and helmet, his ginger hair bright in the arena’s overhead lights.
“Thanks,” Sandro said as the door closed behind them and they fast-walked toward the locker room. “And sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Dabbs said in his deep rumble. “Are you okay?”
The genuine concern in his voice had tears of frustration prickling the backs of Sandro’s eyes. “I’m fine. Just . . .” He let out a low groan. “There was a snowstorm as I was leaving Tobermory, and I had to drive at a fucking crawl. The traffic through the Montreal suburbs was a goddamn nightmare. Then I got pulled over for a random inspection at the border, which put me another two hours behind, then my car broke down outside of Colchester, and it took forever to get a tow truck out there because of the weather?—”
“Hey.” Dabbs stopped him, right there in the hallway, and took him gently by the shoulders. “Take a breath.”
“I don’t have time for a breath. The game’s starting in?—”
“Zanetti. Take a breath.”
Rolling his eyes, Sandro did so, inhaling for the count of four before exhaling for the count of four. When it loosened the anxiety knot in his chest, he took a second and a third. Noises drifted out to him—doors slamming and the murmur of voices—but he breathed in a fourth time and his shoulders relaxed.
Shaking out his hands, he paced away a step. “It’s been a fucking day.”
“You good to play?” Dabbs asked.
“After what it took to get here, there’s no way I’m not playing.”
“All right. Let’s go then.”
They started back down the hall at a fast clip, and as they neared the press room, Bennett stepped out of it, gaze on his ringing phone. Sandro’s heart shot into his throat, and he wanted nothing more than to step into him for a hug and let Bennett soothe the day away. He’d been gone less than forty-eight hours, and at least ninety percent of that time had been spent thinking about Bennett.
Bennett looked up at their approach, and he raked his gaze over Sandro, brow furrowing. “Are you just arriving?” he asked, silencing his phone.
“Yeah. Long story.” Sandro squeezed his wrist on his way past. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
Dabbs didn’t miss the gesture—of course he didn’t. They were steps away from the locker room when he said, “Something going on there?”
“Zanetti!” Deeley called as Sandro walked into the locker room, saving him from having to answer.
“My man!” Gaff added.
“We were beginning to think you wouldn’t make it,” CC said with a grin, offering Sandro his bag of ketchup chips.
Sandro waved it away and forced a grin for his friends. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re here now.” Hughes clapped a huge hand on his back. “Let’s get ’em tonight, yeah? Worst team in the league. This game’s a fucking shoe-in.”
Smiling weakly, Sandro turned away to get ready.
He struggled to get his head in the game during the warm-up. Going from the day he’d had right onto the ice without first going through his pre-game routine was like taking over a board game from another player without knowing the rules.
