“Then order food.”
“But what if Nolan doesn’t order food?”
Sandro passed a weary hand down his face. “Why does that matter? Do you have a hang-up about eating in front of other people?”
“No.”
“Then order food,” Sandro repeated.
He couldn’t remember ever experiencing Eli’s level of nerves with anyone. Not even Bennett. Not even when they’d first met, Sandro’s arms full of groceries and Bennett waving the hot sauce at him—because he had only gone into the store for one thing. And not when they’d returned for their sophomore year, both of them single. There’d been a connection there from that first moment, but it had never made Sandro nervous.
He and Bennett? They’d always felt like an inevitability.
Eli finished with his tie and smoothed it down his chest. “Right. Order food. So?” He spread his arms out. “Do I look like date material?”
Sandro raised his eyebrows. “Is this a date?”
“What? No. It’s just drinks with a friend. Nolan’s, like, a decade older than me. Probably thinks I’m a baby just like all of you ancient assholes. Plus, he dated my sister, so . . .” Eli pulled at the sleeves of his blazer. “Okay. I’m off. See you tomorrow, Zanetti.”
“Don’t drink too much,” Sandro called after him.
“I never do.”
Sandro sputtered a laugh. “Do you think I’ve forgotten about Thanksgiving?”
“I mean, you are ancient,” Eli teased. “I’m sure your memory’s starting to go.”
“Asshole.”
“Speaking of Thanksgiving,” CC said from behind him, making Sandro jump. “Where’s Mr. Wiggles?”
Sandro thought of the pink one-eyed bear with a half-chewed ear that was still sitting on his entrance table and blithely said, “Who?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Zanetti.” CC poked him in the chest, gaze narrowed. “If I find out Mr. Wiggles has been mistreated, you and I are going to have words.” He sauntered away, hips swaying, throwing Sandro the finger over his shoulder.
Shaking off his amusement, Sandro went to find his ride home.
Bennett was, of all places, in the visitor’s locker room. He had his camera on one shoulder, but instead of standing aside and letting the action happen around him, he was conversing with what appeared to be the last two Pittsburgh players remaining in the room.
“Okay, you’ve told me the best part of playing the Trailblazers,” Bennett was saying. “Now tell me the worst part.”
“Losing,” said Bluemel, a shaggy-haired guy with a sharp jaw.
“Hey.” His teammate, a defenseman who went by the nickname Hammerhead—like the shark, probably because he kind of looked like one—shoved him in the shoulder. “We won last time.”
“Oh good, one game.” Bluemel rolled his eyes. “How many times has Matty Coates shut us out?”
“Not today, though.”
“No, but we still lost.”
“Maybe we can bribe him away from this team.”
Lounging in the doorway, Sandro said, “You can’t have him. We’re kind of attached to him.”
Both players laughed.
“Yeah, fuck you, Zanetti, you smug prick.” Hammerhead tried to shove him on his way out of the locker room, but Sandro danced out of the way of those fists. “We’ll get you next time.”
