“According to her, the color’s all wrong for you.”
“Oh. Really? Huh. All right, then.” Sandro fished around for something in the freezer. “Maybe I’ll see if someone else wants it. I think CC is more or less my size.”
“That’s it? My mom tells you not to wear it, so you won’t wear it?”
“Obviously.”
Grinning now, Bennett said, “How often do you text with my mom?”
“Twice a year.” Sandro retrieved an ice pack and wrapped it in a towel. “For my birthday and hers.”
Concern replaced Bennett’s mirth when Sandro rounded the island and settled on the couch in the living room. He wedged the towel-wrapped ice pack underneath his lower back with a wince.
“Ro?” Rising, Bennett joined him. “You okay?”
Sandro grunted. “My back fucking hurts. Our athletic therapist says I’m old.” He pouted adorably. “I don’t know why everyone feels like they have to remind me of that. As if I don’t know.”
Bennett was about to crack a joke about him being ancient, which he was in hockey years, but he could read a room better than anyone—Sandro wouldn’t appreciate the joke at the moment.
Sandro had one of those extra-deep couches that was almost as wide as a double bed. Lying on it all sad-faced made him look puny, which was not an adjective Bennett would’ve previously associated with him. Puny and cute and in need of a hug.
Carefully, Bennett swung a leg over Sandro’s hips, squeezing a knee between Sandro’s body and the back of the couch, and sat on his thighs. He nudged Sandro’s hair off his forehead. “Do you think maybe it’s your mattress making your back hurt?”
Sandro scowled. “What do you mean? It’s brand-new. It was delivered two months ago.”
“But . . . it’s so hard.”
“It’s called a firm mattress, B.”
“It’s like sleeping on a rock.”
“Seriously, why does everyone feel the need to insult me today?”
Chuckling, Bennett dropped a kiss on his unsmiling mouth. “How was practice otherwise?”
“Fine,” Sandro said, sounding annoyed that it’d been fine. “I didn’t have you to look at today, so it wasn’t as much fun.”
“You have a whole bunch of hot teammates to look at.”
Sandro scrunched his nose. “Ew. Gross. They’re like my brothers.”
“You’ve never been attracted to any of your teammates?” Bennett asked, cupping Sandro’s waist under his hoodie, where the skin was warm and smooth.
“No, god. Plus, Cotton has been married to Kas for, like, a million years, Hughes and CC have had a non-thing going forever that’ll eventually be an actual thing, Eli’s a child, Dabbs is . . . Dabbs, and everyone else is as straight as they come.” Sandro cocked his head. “Except maybe Matty Coates. Not sure about him.”
Bennett crept his hands higher, rewarded with an indrawn breath from Sandro. “Do you?—”
Sandro’s phone rang. Bennett glared at where it sat on the coffee table and leaned over to check the caller ID. “It’s your brother.”
“Send him to voicemail.” Sandro dragged his hands up the backs of Bennett’s thighs to his ass. “What were you saying?”
“Do you?—”
The phone rang a second time.
“It’s your brother again.”
A worried frown marred Sandro’s forehead. Bennett grabbed the phone from the table even as Sandro said, “Pass it here.” He answered with a quick, “Darcy? What’s wrong?” A beat later, he sat up quickly, spine ramrod straight. “What? What kind of accident? What happened?” A few more beats, and he batted at Bennett. “Is he okay?”
