“How did you handle it?”
Bennett’s gaze met Sandro’s, drawing Sandro in like there was a rope tied between them. Sandro stepped closer and gripped the back of the couch.
“I quit,” Bennett said.
Sandro sucked in a sharp breath as Eli scrambled onto his knees. Could it be that simple? Bennett had caved under the pressure and quit?
But that wasn’t right. College had been just as stressful as rookie season, if in a different way. And Bennett hadn’t quit college.
“But . . . but . . .” Eli sputtered. “I don’t want to quit.”
“So don’t,” Bennett returned simply. “Figure out a way to handle the stress so it doesn’t bowl you over.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Yeah. I know that too.”
Eli flopped onto his side. “Can I sleep on this couch? Why’s it so big? Can I sleep on it?”
“Why don’t you take Sandro’s bed?” Bennett offered. “He and I can take the couch.”
“Wha—Hey!” Sandro had to laugh. “My mattress isn’t that bad.”
“Says who?”
“I don’t want to sleep on Zanetti’s bed knowing you guys have done . . . things . . . on it.” Eli squirmed out of his blazer, looking like a dead fish flopping around on the couch. “Zanetti, get me a blanket. And bring me Mr. Wiggles. He can keep me company overnight.”
Bennett ran a hand over his mouth, clearly trying not to laugh.
Sandro saluted Eli crisply. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I could be a king,” Eli said as Sandro went upstairs to fetch a blanket out of the hall closet. “Don’t you think, Bennett?”
Sandro returned with a blanket, a pillow, Mr. Wiggles, a glass of water, and an empty garbage can in case Eli had to throw up and didn’t make it to the bathroom. “You remind me of my younger brother,” he said, recalling when Darcy had arrived home drunk after seeing his crush out with another guy. Sandro had had to hide Darcy’s inebriated state from their parents.
He handed Eli the water.
Eli bypassed it and took Mr. Wiggles out of his hands instead. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
Sandro placed the water on the coffee table and watched Eli snuggle deeper into the couch, Mr. Wiggles clutched to his chest, and something like familial love threatened to clog his throat. “You know, a few weeks ago, I would’ve said it was a bad thing. Now? Not so much. Good night, Eli. Let us know if you need anything.”
“Maybe make some noise if you come up the stairs,” Bennett said. “In case we’re busy.”
“Bleh” was Eli’s response to that.
Chuckling, Bennett gripped Sandro’s wrist and towed him upstairs.
In the bedroom, Bennett ran both hands back through his hair, wincing when his fingers caught on knots. He was almost sexier when he was half-dressed, hair tangled around his shoulders in loose waves in several different shades of blond. Sandro’s gut cramped when he thought of what Bennett had said—I quit—and he wished he could go back in time and reassure past Bennett that he didn’t have to go through it alone.
Wished he’d been a better person back then—good enough for Bennett to lean on.
“Is that why you quit?” Sandro asked, his throat burning with questions. He closed the door behind himself and leaned back against it. “Because of the pressure?”
Bennett sat on the bed, one leg tucked underneath him. “Not because of the pressure, but because of what the pressure made me realize.”
“And what was that?”
“That I didn’t want it.” Bennett jerked one shoulder in a shrug. “A highly regimented life that was at the whims of an organization that could trade me or send me down to the minors at any time. One where I had to act a certain way and look a certain way and speak a certain way. Roman and Eli were right about people putting athletes in boxes, and it made me feel—” He smiled wryly. “—for lack of a better expression, like I was trapped in a box. I spent my entire rookie season being told who I should be and who I couldn’t be and what to wear and where to go and what to say. And I hated it. I’d wake up every morning and dread the coming day.”
