“You can try.”
“A bunch of us are heading to that bar down the street,” Bluemel said, following his teammate into the hallway. “Some of your boys are joining us. You should come.”
Sending Bennett a side-eyed glance, Sandro said, “Maybe next time. Good game, guys.”
Bluemel scoffed. “Says the guy who won by three fucking goals. Later, Zanetti.”
“Later.” Resuming his position against the doorjamb, Sandro watched as Bennett turned the camera off. “Interviewing players from rival teams now?”
“Sometimes they have some of the best stuff to say.” Bennett swung the camera off his shoulder, holding it by the . . . handle thingy? . . . that connected the digital display and the microphone to the actual camera. “I realized,” Bennett said, heading toward Coach Madolora’s office, where he usually stashed his camera bag, “while I was filming you guys on the road the last couple of weeks that I get the best content when I don’t script it. If I don’t try to control it and let it happen organically.”
Keeping pace next to him, Sandro cocked his head. “Do you often script it?”
“Believe it or not, there’s a significant amount of scripting that goes into documentaries. Plus, there are the interview questions.” Bennett flicked on the light in Madolora’s empty office, grabbed his camera bag, and set it and the camera on the desk.
Goddamn, he looked good. Half of his hair was tied back, the other half loose and wavy. His long-sleeved T-shirt clung to his shoulders and biceps. And the rip in those jeans, right at the thigh . . . that glimpse of skin was going to do Sandro in.
Bennett gripped the camera and looked over at him expectantly. “So? Your place or mine.”
To talk. About what had happened in the car earlier. What had happened fifteen years ago.
Sandro wanted to know all of it. Was finally ready to hear Bennett out.
But he was also done with this day. They could adult tomorrow.
“Doesn’t matter to me.” Lowering his voice in case anyone was nearby, he added, “Either way, I was planning to fuck you silly. If that’s okay.”
For a second, Bennett looked like he was about to object. Then he gave Sandro, in his tan suit from earlier, a visual inspection from head to toe and back up again, a flush rising up his neck.
And began packing up his camera.
The doorbell woke Sandro up with a gasp.
“What the fuck?” Bennett muttered sleepily from behind him.
Heart thumping with unexpected adrenaline, Sandro extracted himself from Bennett’s arms and moved the blinds aside to look out the window.
“Anyone there?” Bennett asked.
“Not that I can see.” Sandro’s neighborhood was as quiet as it always was in the dark of night. The park across the street was empty and there was nothing and no one moving on the sidewalk. If there was anyone on his porch, he couldn’t see them under the overhang.
There was a clatter behind him—Bennett picking his phone up off the nightstand and dropping it with a curse. “It’s twelve forty-five. Didn’t we just go to bed?”
“Twenty minutes ago,” Sandro acknowledged. “Do you think whoever it was left?”
As if his visitor had heard him, the doorbell rang again. Swearing, Sandro headed out of the room.
“Pants, Ro.”
Doubling back, Sandro grabbed Bennett’s jeans off the floor—the sexy ones with the rip in the thigh—dragged them up his legs, and stumbled his way down the stairs.
On his doorstep was a very drunk Eli who smelled very strongly of alcohol. His Christmas tie was long gone and his shirt was untucked as well as unbuttoned at the throat.
“Eli? What the hell? Did you drive like this?” Sandro peered past him, but there was no car at the curb.
“Nolan has a girlfriend,” Eli said pityingly.
“He . . . what?”
