“Fuck, I’m so tired of Coach breathing down my neck,” Eli blurted, frustration bleeding out of his every pore. He tossed his gloves onto one of the leather couches. “I know you can do better, Eli,” Eli said in what was clearly supposed to be Coach Madolora’s voice. “Don’t let me down, Eli.” He rolled his eyes. “Yes, because that’s exactly what I’ve set out to do tonight, Coach—let you down. God.”
“Is there a reason he thinks you can do better? Were your parents all-star players in their day or something and he expects you to play at their level?”
“What? No. My parents are regular people. Madolora was my coach in the juniors. He used to say that I could do great things.” Eli waved his hands around almost sarcastically. “And he’s still saying I can do great things.” More hand-waving. “But, like . . . fuck. It’s not just the hockey, you know. It’s the appearances and the endorsements and the pressure and the community initiatives and five thousand other things that are required of an NHL player. At least in the AHL I could mostly coast by. This is . . .” He finished with a low growl that had Sandro eyeing him warily.
“How did you deal with all this pressure and outside noise your rookie season?” Eli asked.
Sandro leaned back against the counter next to the fridge and almost groaned. Not this again. “I don’t remember, Eli, it was a zillion years ago. I just did.”
“But how? There’s no way your first NHL season was all pinecones and rainbows. Or hell, maybe it was, I don’t know. Everything just rolls off you.”
“Seriously?” Sandro barked out a hard laugh and slammed his Gatorade onto the counter. “You want to know what my first season was like, Eli? Professionally, it was a dream. I joined this team for their first season, and no, we weren’t the best, but we certainly weren’t the worst either. Nobody truly believed we could fill seats in this arena—hell, they were talking about moving us to a different city—but we did. Were things perfect? God, no. But it was fun and the guys on this team clicked like we’d been friends for years. Personally?” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, avoiding Eli’s wide-eyed gaze. “Personally, life was a fucking nightmare. I was here while my boyfriend was playing for a midwestern team, and after three amazing years together, suddenly he wouldn’t talk to me. He wasn’t okay, but he wouldn’t admit it, and trying to speak to him was like shouting into the void. My personal life was falling apart while my professional one was shooting for the stars, and it felt like I was being cleaved down the middle.” Suddenly more exhausted than he’d ever been in his life, he rested his head back against the cabinets and closed his eyes. “I dealt with it by playing good hockey, showing up for my teammates, and pretending everything was okay even though it wasn’t. I gave hockey all of my attention because giving it to my boyfriend and getting nothing back made me fucking sad. Was that the right decision? I don’t know. Probably not, considering I got dumped just before the season ended. But short of quitting everything and going to Chicago to be with him, I didn’t know what to do. So I played hockey and hoped everything would fix itself in time. But it didn’t.”
Grabbing the Gatorade, he swallowed the last few sips and tossed the bottle into the recycling bin. “So no, Eli, my first season wasn’t all pinecones and rainbows, but I sure tried to pretend it was.”
Eli was staring at him, his eyes incredibly sad. “I’m sorry, Zanetti. I didn’t know any of that.”
Of course he hadn’t. Sandro had never told anyone what his rookie season had been like. Not even Roman and Kas knew the extent of it.
“I don’t think it’s your fault, though,” Eli added. “You and your man were so far away from each other. Sometimes the distance just doesn’t work.”
That was nice of him to say, but Sandro could’ve done more. He’d always blamed Bennett for the end of their relationship. Truth was, as more and more time went on without Bennett confiding in him, Sandro had buried his head further and further into hockey. With the advantage of fifteen years of distance behind him—and with the reappearance of Bennett in his life—he put himself in Bennett’s shoes and didn’t like what he saw.
A boyfriend who’d retreated.
Was it possible Bennett had felt like Sandro wasn’t there for him?
“Thanks for saying that,” he said to Eli. “But I’m pretty sure we’re both at fault.”
“You were just kids,” Eli said kindly. “Maybe you weren’t ready for what came next.”
Sandro couldn’t help but chuckle. “Kids, huh? We would’ve been only a couple of years younger than you are now.”
“Yeah,” Eli said, a duh in his voice. “And weren’t you the one who called me a baby recently?”
“That was Kas.”
“I’m sure it was you.”
“Nope,” Sandro said. “It was Kas.”
Eli waved a hand. “Eh. You old vets are all interchangeable.”
Jaw dropping at the audacity, Sandro threw his sandwich wrapper at him. “I’m telling Roman to find you a new mentor.”
“Liar,” Eli said, cackling.
Dabbs knocked on the kitchen doorjamb and tipped his head in the direction of the locker room. “You guys coming? Coach wants to say a few words before the start of the second period.”
“Come on,” Eli said. “Let’s go win this thing.”
“Yeah.” Feeling lighter than he had in a long time, Sandro followed him out. “Let’s.”
“Coach.” Sandro jogged down the hallway to catch up with his coach after his post-game shower. “Got a second?”
Coach paused in front of his office. “Come to apologize again for earlier?”
That gave Sandro pause. “Ah, no? Did you want another apology? Because?—”
