Sandro was about to say something else when he caught Eli’s gaze going from the way Bennett leaned into him to the arm Sandro had around his waist. Eyebrow raised, Eli met Sandro’s gaze and said, “You’re not kids anymore.”
Sighing, Sandro turned to Bennett. “Got duct tape for that mouth of his?”
“Ha!” Eli danced away, cackling. “You can’t catch me.” He bolted out the exit to the parking garage.
“Unfortunately, that’s probably true.” Sandro placed a quick kiss on Bennett’s lips. “Hi.”
Bennett’s smile was delightfully pleased, and his blue eyes regarded him as though nothing else existed. “Hi. How was the drive back from Tobermory?”
“Oh god. Let me count the ways it was an utter disaster. Drive me home and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Bennett kissed him again. “Done.”
chapter thirteen
Bennett didn’t know how Sandro had done it, but he’d managed to book a private room last minute at one of the top-rated restaurants in Winnipeg, where the Trailblazers had a game the following evening. He’d brought the two rookies who were traveling with the team for this eleven-day, five-game Canadian road trip—Eli Parker and DeShawn James—as well as two other vets: Owen Cotton, who, like Sandro, had been with the team since its first season, and Michael Hughes, who hadn’t, but who, at thirty-four years old, had been playing professionally long enough to know what was what.
CC had accompanied Hughes down to the lobby of the hotel, pouting when Sandro told him he’d be invited next time. CC hadn’t seemed annoyed that he wasn’t invited, though. He’d seemed to be irritated that Hughes was going somewhere he was not.
It was cute, if a little co-dependent.
Sandro had asked Bennett to come along with his camera because, as he’d put it, “This is the kind of thing that might be good for the docuseries.”
What this kind of thing was, though, Sandro had refused to tell him, instead wanting Bennett to watch and record without any preconceived notions. So he’d sat with the players in the private room, dining on smoked fish dip and steak tartare and shrimp dumplings. Once dinner had been consumed and they were waiting on dessert to arrive, he’d eventually gotten up to tuck himself unobtrusively in a corner with his camera.
He was beginning to think Sandro wanted him to film a casual evening between the rookies and vets—not bad content by any means, but why this evening?—when the conversation quieted naturally, the way it did when the same few people had spent a couple of hours together.
Sandro leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table, and regarded the rookies. “Okay, so don’t get mad, but I kind of brought you here under false pretenses.”
DeShawn James, the rookie from Tennessee, looked down at the table, which had been cleared of their dinner dishes. “We’re not getting a free meal?”
“No, you are,” Sandro said. He glanced at Eli quickly and said, “It came to my attention recently that life as a rookie can be . . . difficult. I know this, of course, but after a few seasons in the NHL, you tend to forget about that. And we vets haven’t done a very good job of helping you acclimate.”
Eli’s expression turned to one of absolute horror. “Oh my god, Zanetti, no. That’s not what I meant at all. I didn’t mean to make you feel like?—”
“I know,” Sandro jumped in. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not true. And I brought Cotton and Hughes along tonight because, between the three of us, we’ve got, like, forty-five years of professional hockey under our belts. So if you’ve got questions or concerns or you need advice, ask away. We’re open books.”
Eli shot him a disbelieving look.
“Shut up,” Sandro muttered at him. “I’m working on it.”
Interesting. Sandro had organized an intimate focus group of sorts so the rookies could pick the brains of the vets. And he’d done it over dinner, making the entire experience less formal than if he’d led this type of thing around a conference room table.
Sandro had been right—this was definitely content that would be good for the series.
“So,” Sandro said. “Who wants to go first?”
Predictably, neither rookie volunteered.
Bennett’s stomach dropped to his toes the longer the silence went on. He knew exactly what was about to happen—Eli and DeShawn would feel intimidated or pressured or they’d worry about saying the wrong thing, and ultimately this whole evening will have been for nothing.
That was exactly how this scenario would’ve gone when Bennett had played for Chicago.
But then Eli tentatively lifted a hand. “Um, I’ll go.”
Owen Cotton smiled at him. “Go for it. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, uh . . .” Eli glanced around, and as he clocked his fellow teammates looking at him, his shoulders straightened and he cleared his throat. “I think the biggest thing I’m struggling with is the pressure. Not just the pressure to win, but the pressure from fans, the pressure from the engagement staff to do more community activities, from the media relations team to participate in more fun social media videos. Then there’s pressure to fit into a box.” He made the shape of a box with his hands. “You know? Like, Dabbs is the cool one?—”
