“Good to meet you, Eli.” Bennett gestured at Fowler. “This is Fowler, my new director of photography.”
“Nice. We were wondering who was going to replace Trish. We’re just this way, by the way.” Eli nodded toward the hallway on the right. He bounced ahead of them, all elbows. “Have you had breakfast? There are breakfast sandwiches and smoothie bowls in the meeting room. Muffins too, but they’re kinda dry. Don’t tell Sandbaker I said that, though. I think he has a crush on the baker at the bakery down the street—he keeps buying muffins from there by the dozen even though they’re not that good. Hey, question.” He turned and walked backward, facing them as they rounded a corner. “You’re starting player interviews soon, right?”
“That’s right,” Bennett replied. “You’re one of the first, if I recall.”
“So . . . what should I wear? Is this a suit-and-tie kind of deal? Jeans and my jersey? Should we all be wearing, like, black or something so we all look uniform?”
“The idea is for you to be comfortable. If a suit and tie will make you feel too stiff, then definitely not that. Check with your PR people to make sure they don’t want a certain look, but I’d say whatever makes you feel most like you.”
“Jeans and a hoodie? Is that too informal?”
Bennett shook his head. “What I want for this series is honesty. If jeans and a hoodie will put you at ease, that’s fine.”
“Cool. So, second question. Can I have the questions in advance so I can prepare?”
Bennett had to laugh. “Fuck no. I don’t want you prepared. I want you honest.”
“Eh.” Eli shrugged, an easy smile on his face. “Worth a shot.”
They rounded another corner, and the smell of ice as they walked deeper into the arena hit Bennett with a bolt of nostalgia he hadn’t expected. Although his own hockey days were fifteen years behind him and he didn’t regret leaving the sport when he had—hell, he’d been younger than Eli when he’d quit after his first and only season playing for Chicago—that didn’t mean part of him didn’t look at Eli and wonder what could’ve been.
And not just with hockey.
Eli led them into the meeting room, and as if Bennett had conjured him, there was Sandro Zanetti, standing by a table that held about eight thousand Gatorades.
His Sandy.
As Sandro laughed with one of his teammates, his head tilted back, his stubbled cheeks creased, white teeth reflecting the overhead lights, and laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, the force of his happiness nearly bowled Bennett over. He’d never been sucker-punched, but he assumed this was what it would feel like: all the air leaving his lungs at once, the unexpectedness of the hit leaving him disoriented and unable to think clearly.
Except it wasn’t unexpected. He’d known Sandro would be here. Known it even as he’d been pitching a Vermont Trailblazers docuseries to David a year and a half ago. And not because they were Stanley Cup champions—that was awesome and all, but not the reason Bennett had advocated for this series.
It was the team. The culture. Their reputation for a welcoming and inclusive environment. The fact that they focused on player development instead of trading troublesome or underperforming players. The team unity they were rumored to foster. The emphasis on team and not on select players carrying the whole.
That was the angle. Where the story lay, Bennett still wasn’t sure, but it sure as fuck wasn’t that they were defending champions like David thought.
The fact that Sandro was on this team had only made Bennett push harder for David to green light this project.
Now that Bennett was here, though . . .
Christ.
He pulled up player stats in his head to distract himself from the mix of shame, regret, and what-ifs swirling in his stomach like a bad cocktail.
Kyle Dabbs. Team captain. Thirty-three. Six foot four. Two hundred and nineteen pounds. Born and raised in North Bay, Ontario. Traded to the Trailblazers from Florida four years ago. Was dating Ryland Zervudachi, forward for the rival Columbus Pilots.
Bellamy Jordan. Forward. Thirty-one. Six feet tall. A hundred and ninety-two pounds. Born and raised in . . . in . . .
At the Gatorade table, Sandro and his teammate were chuckling over something on his phone.
Sandro Zanetti. Forward. Thirty-eight years old. Six feet. A hundred and eighty-six pounds. Had been a Trailblazer since the team’s first season. Born and raised in Tobermory, Ontario, to Danica and Teo Zanetti, two of the sweetest people Bennett had ever met. One of four siblings and twenty-two cousins. Consistently walked into a grocery store for one item and came out with more than a dozen. Had made Bennett and his study group a selection of gourmet sandwiches for their contemporary film theory exam study session their junior year at the University of Michigan. Could recite the alphabet backward, but, oddly, only when he was drunk. Had gifted Bennett a fake potted tree for their two-year anniversary that he’d purchased at the dollar store because they’d agreed on a five-dollar spending limit for the occasion, given they’d been broke college students.
“It’s kinda scraggly,” Sandy said, laughter in his dark eyes. “Like you. All arms and legs.”
Heart a pile of mush, Bennett hugged the plant to his chest, the fake pine needles poking him in the neck, and pretended to be annoyed. “Why do you always have to roast me?”
“It’s my love language.”
Bennett still had that potted plant. Every year at the holidays, he hung little plastic Christmas ornaments on it.
