“Already did. See you there.”
Fowler hung up, and it was as Bennett was about to toss his phone onto the bed that he noticed the missed calls. David, Coach Madolora, the Trailblazers’ head of media relations, the team owner, David again. They’d all called before seven, which was when the Do Not Disturb on his phone was set to automatically turn off.
“Fuck.”
“Hey.” Sandro pulled the earbuds out of his ears. “What’s going on?”
“I have to go to a meeting,” Bennett said, yanking on yesterday’s jeans.
“Right now?”
“Yeah.” He swept past Sandro and into the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth quickly and tied his hair back into a bun.
“Can you slow down for a second and tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s nothing.” Bennett forced a smile for Sandro and grabbed his T-shirt off the armchair. It smelled like he’d been wearing it for two days, which he had—he’d packed light for the Trailblazers’ Seattle–Las Vegas–Los Angeles road trip. “Can I borrow a T-shirt?” His suitcase was in the room he’d been supposed to occupy with Fowler.
“Well, sure, but . . . B. Hey. Come on, talk to me. What’s the emergency?”
“It’s cool.” Bennett drew one of Sandro’s T-shirts out of his suitcase. In his urgency, he accidentally upended the entire thing onto the floor. “No emergency,” he said, setting the suitcase back to rights. “I’ll be back after the meeting and we can?—”
Shit. Would he be back?
Oh, fuck, he was so fired, wasn’t he? David might not have fired him over his and Sandro’s relationship, but this?
Truth was, David could still fire him. In the two weeks since Bennett had told David about them, they’d spoken several times, yet David hadn’t once brought their relationship up. In fact, he’d been the same David as always, exacting and demanding if a tad less micromanaging. Bennett hadn’t brought it up either—why would he remind David of something that could get him fired?
He and Sandro had talked about that possibility, and he was prepared for David to drop him—it would’ve sucked, but he was holding on to Sandro with both hands this time, no matter what. But being fired over leaked footage?
How the fuck had that even happened? And what kind of footage had been leaked?
That was probably what was in the link Fowler had sent him; he’d check it in the elevator.
Grabbing his phone, he shoved it in his pocket and opened the door.
“Wait. Bennett, wait, goddamn it.” Sandro sounded panicked now. “What’s going on? Is somebody hurt?”
“No. Nothing like that.” Bennett drummed up another smile for him and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, okay? I’ll be back soon.”
“Don’t worry?” Sandro repeated incredulously. “Oh, you did not just?—”
“I’m sorry. I have to go. I’ll see you in a bit.”
And he closed the door in Sandro’s face.
It wasn’t until he was halfway to the elevator that he fully registered what he was about to walk into. A meeting with . . . well, he didn’t know who. David, Coach Madolora, the Trailblazers’ head of media relations, and the team owner, judging by his missed calls. Maybe a lawyer? Maybe the team GM? He didn’t know, but he suspected things weren’t going to go well for him.
It was his footage that had been leaked.
Even though he hadn’t leaked it himself, the blame lay squarely on his shoulders.
The thought of walking into that room and having however-many pairs of eyes turned on him in accusation . . .
He thought of the rookies asking the vets for help at the dinner Sandro had organized. He thought of Eli leaning on Sandro. He thought of Sandro telling him that he was allowed to take up space in his life.
Bennett didn’t want to attend this meeting, and he most certainly didn’t want to attend it alone. Fowler would be there, but that wasn’t the same.
He wanted Sandro.
