“Jesus Christ, now what?” Coach grumbled. “Why haven’t you all gone home yet?”
Sandro could only laugh, but when Coach told the knocker to come in, it wasn’t another player—it was his own son.
“Nolan!” Coach rose and rounded the desk. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Nolan said, hugging his dad. “Thought I’d drop in. Hey, Zanetti.”
Sandro sent him an up-nod as he stood. “Hey, man. How’s it going?”
“Not bad. Trying to survive the winter.”
“It’s not even technically winter yet.”
Nolan groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
Sandro had only met Nolan a handful of times since Coach Madolora had gotten the gig as their head coach three seasons back. He lived in Toronto, doing something finance-related, though Sandro couldn’t remember what exactly. Nolan was only a few years younger than him, and he looked like one of those boy-next-door types, slender-framed and shaggy-haired and baggy jeans-wearing—not at all like a finance bro—and Sandro knew there were tattoos covering both arms under the sleeves of his Trailblazers hoodie; he’d seen them at a team event Nolan had attended during the summer. Nolan didn’t resemble his dad at all—Coach looked a bit like someone’s godfather but also like he could be the Godfather.
“Coach,” Sandro said. “Have a good night. Good to see you again, Nolan.”
“You too, Zanetti.”
Sandro used the facilities quickly, then grabbed his peacoat out of the dressing room on his way out, only to bump into Eli coming out of the kitchen with a carton of yogurt and a spoon in hand.
“Oh, hey,” Eli said, falling into step with him. “Didn’t know you were still here.”
“I’m just heading out.”
“Same.” Eli peeled the top of the yogurt. “Good game tonight.”
“Yeah. It wasn’t bad.”
They walked toward the exit in silence for a minute, Eli happily spooning yogurt into his mouth before he said, “Thanks for earlier, by the way.”
Sandro nearly stumbled a step. Did Eli know about his conversation with Coach?
“I know it was a billionty-seventy years ago for you, but it helps to know that you struggled in your rookie season too, even if it wasn’t for the same reasons.”
Billionty-seventy?
“I’m not that old.”
Eli side-eyed him. “Uh-huh. What hurts worse today? Your knees or your lower back?”
Sandro laughed. “Fuck you.”
“Seriously, though.” Eli bumped their elbows. “Thank you.”
Sobering, Sandro shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “I don’t talk about that time of my life a lot.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
“Don’t be a smartass.”
“It’s just . . .” Eli scraped the carton clean, then popped the spoon in his mouth. “A lot of times, we rookies have no idea what we’re doing,” he said, slightly garbled with his mouth full. He swallowed quickly and added, “We’re just doing what we’re told and going where we’re told and following the examples of the billionty-seventy-year-old players, but you guys act like you have all your shit together.”
“Because we have the experience behind us. We know what to expect.”
“Right. That’s my point. We rookies don’t. So to hear from you guys about some of your rookie-days struggles . . .” Eli shrugged. “It helps. It made me feel less alone.”
