“That’s offensive,” Sandro muttered, but his eyes were dancing.
“And Hughes is the grouchy one and Cotton is the nice one and Matty Coates is the one all the kids love at events because he can do the splits and Gaff is the one who looks like everyone’s cousin and CC has the best smile.”
Hughes crossed his arms over his chest. “Goddamn right.”
They all stared at him.
Unperturbed, he said, “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
Bennett rolled his lips inward so he wouldn’t laugh.
“It’s just,” Eli went on, and he was laughing, “there are so many people who want something from me that I get lost in all of that, which distracts me from what I’m here for—to play hockey and help this team get to the playoffs.”
“Okay.” Hughes propped both elbows on the table. “I’m going to tell you something that probably nobody’s told you. Ready? You’re allowed to say no. If things get to be too much, if someone wants you to make an appearance somewhere or someone else wants you to film a ‘how well do you know me’ video with another player for Instagram and the thought of either just makes you feel exhausted . . . you can say no. Nobody talks about it, which is a crying shame, but your mental health is important. Push back if you need to. Okay?”
The rookies stared at him as if the word no wasn’t in their vocabulary. Bennett had quietly shifted while Hughes had been talking, so he could point the camera at him, but now he changed angles again to get Eli and DeShawn’s reactions.
“My biggest struggle is probably the team culture,” DeShawn said. “The Trailblazers are notorious for being inclusive and respectful and, I don’t know, just a team. You’re all about open communication and airing out your problems and talking shit through and being there for each other, but, like . . .” The kid, so achingly young at only nineteen, passed a hand over his face. “For a lot of people, that’s not easy, and there’s no handbook on how to adapt to that kind of culture. I came from a team where it was all, keep your head down, do as you’re told, show up when you’re supposed to, and for fuck’s sake, win games. To go from that to this . . . it’s like playing left-wing when you’ve played right-wing your whole life.”
Swallowing hard, Bennett retreated into the corner with his camera. He felt for the kid. DeShawn’s previous team was very much like playing for Chicago, and Bennett didn’t miss it one bit. The Trailblazers, by comparison, were like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Of course, they hadn’t been sixteen years ago when Bennett had played in Chicago, but Roman Kinsey was as famous for the team culture he’d created as he was for winning this team two Stanley Cups as captain before he’d retired.
Would Bennett’s career have taken a different trajectory if he’d played for a team like the Trailblazers right out of college?
Maybe. He’d never know.
In all his years in hockey, he’d never witnessed players leaning on each other the way the Trailblazers did. The rookies weren’t giving their problems to the vets. Instead, they were inviting them into their world, sharing in a way that was foreign to Bennett. As someone who was used to blending into the wall to get the best footage and who had kept his problems close to the vest so he didn’t put more pressure on his overworked mom, it was both refreshing and alien to watch these guys ask for help in a way Bennett had never been able to.
“That’s a tricky one,” Hughes said with a nod. “I got traded to this team mid-season several years ago, and the culture was one of the things I worried about too. But over time, I’ve found that most of that culture is grounded in being a good person. And you’re all good people, so you’re halfway there.”
“What do you think?” Cotton asked Sandro. “Would Roman be willing to put together a team culture handbook?”
“Probably,” Sandro said, kicking his legs out under the table. “Roman’s going to be the director of player engagement until the day he dies, which means he’s going to stress team culture until the day he dies. If he knew how much of a struggle it was for rookies to adapt to it, he would’ve created that handbook a long time ago or at least provided more information about what it means to be on this team. Or hell, he would’ve given us—” He waved a thumb between himself, Cotton, and Hughes. “—the responsibility to properly explain what the team culture means. Because the truth is, you guys are the ones who are going to be carrying it on. Us older guys, we’re going to be retiring in the next few years. We’ll be passing the baton to you, so to speak.”
It clicked then, less like a lightbulb in Bennett’s head and more like the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler, brightly blinding. Legacy. That was the story his series needed to tell, the overarching theme behind every episode. The culture was what held this team together. It was how the Trailblazers had made it to the playoffs so many times. It was the glue underpinning each and every player.
Legacy.
He just had to sell it to his producer.
David was unconvinced.
“Ben . . .”
“No, listen,” Bennett said into the phone, too hyped up on endorphins as he paced a path between the bed and the dresser in Sandro’s hotel room after dinner to bother correcting David about his name. “This is exactly what this series needs.”
“It can be part of it,” David said in his ear. “But the story is that they’re defending Stanley Cup champions.”
“No, that’s part of the story,” Bennett insisted, jabbing a finger into the air for emphasis even though David couldn’t see him.
Lounging on the bed, Sandro smirked and jabbed at the air.
Refusing to be amused, Bennett flipped him off, which only sent Sandro into a round of silent laughter.
“There’s no way we can talk about that without talking about the team culture,” he went on. “It’s the very foundation that this team is built on. It directs almost everything they do. There’s even a handbook.”
Sandro blew a raspberry.
“Or there will be,” Bennett amended, stretching the truth a tad.
