For fifteen years, Sandro had kept himself contained, worried that if he let someone in again, they’d crush his heart like Bennett had.
But here was this twenty-five-year-old almost begging him to do just that. Hell, this twenty-five-year-old had leaned on him more than once and hadn’t hesitated to tell him his own problems or how he was feeling. Eli was proof that strength didn’t come from closing oneself off—it came from vulnerability, and more than that, authenticity.
He was about to tell Eli that he’d do better when Eli gasped. “Is that . . . Is that Nolan?”
Ahead of them, Coach stood with Nolan and the team’s equipment manager, who nodded at something Coach said and headed off at a jog down an adjacent hallway.
Nolan spotted Sandro and Eli and grinned. “Hey, Eli.”
Eli made a sound not unlike a deflating balloon that made Sandro squint at him.
“Nolan,” Eli said, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Hey. Hi. Hey.”
“It’s been a while, huh?” Nolan said as Sandro and Eli approached. “How’s your sister?”
“Oh. You know.” A little tentatively, Eli said, “She’s, uh, engaged?”
Nolan chuckled. “Good for her.”
“Yeah. Right. Good for her. I’m not, though,” Eli said with a hopeful smile. “Engaged, I mean.”
“Ah, that’s okay. Maybe one day, right?”
Eli’s shoulders slumped. “Right. One day. Heh.”
“Ready to go, Nolan?” Coach asked, glancing up from where he’d been doing whatever on his phone. “Zanetti, Eli. Get home safe, okay?”
They left, and Eli sent Sandro a wan smile. “That was Nolan.”
“Yes,” Sandro said, biting back a laugh. “I know who he is.”
“He dated my sister.”
“I got that impression.”
“The year Madolora was my coach,” Eli added, talking right over Sandro.
“But you wished he’d dated you instead, right?”
“Oh my god.” Eli brought his hands up, possibly to cover his eyes with them, but he was still holding an empty yogurt cup in one hand and a spoon in the other. He let his arms drop back to his sides. “Was I that obvious?”
Sandro did laugh now. “Yes. But I don’t think he realized.”
“Well, there’s that, at least.” Tossing his yogurt cup into a nearby trash bin, Eli pocketed the spoon and said, “Can I have a ride home? I rode my bike here, but now it’s snowing.”
“Yeah, sure, I—aw, fuck.” Sandro groaned up at the ceiling. “My car died on the way here.” How could he have forgotten? “Let me call us an Uber.”
“I can take you.”
Sandro turned, and there was Bennett, wearing jeans stylishly ripped on one thigh—why was that tiny peek of skin so goddamn sexy?—and a black parka with a furred hood over a dark gray T-shirt. His hair was tied back, and he looked as exhausted as Sandro felt, but he was beautiful, even under the harsh overhead lights. Sandro’s heart lurched in Bennett’s direction.
“Hey.” He smiled and instinctively held an arm out for Bennett to snuggle into his side. “How come you’re still here?”
“I was interviewing a couple of the sports reporters.”
“Huh. Bet they loved having the tables turned.”
“You know, I think they did.”
