How could he not have known it existed? It seemed fundamental to . . . everything. Like he should’ve somehow known that a broken part of Sandro lived somewhere on a fucking server.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked.
“For what?” Sandro asked. “This?” He waved at Bennett’s phone. “That’s not your fault.”
“For fifteen years ago.”
But Sandro shook his head. “You’ve already apologized for that.”
“No, I know. Just . . .” Clasping Sandro’s wrist gently, Bennett pulled him closer. “That feeling of being cleaved down the middle?”
Sandro flinched.
“I will never ever make you feel like that again. Not ever.”
Leaning into him, Sandro pressed their foreheads together. “I know, B. So? This meeting?”
“Yeah. Will you come with me?”
Sandro drew back with a glare. “Obviously,” he said, and headed for the door.
Despite everything, Bennett couldn’t help but smile. “Put some pants on, will you? Those shorts are distracting.”
Sandro made a pfft sound but did as asked.
While they waited for the elevator, Bennett watched the reel again with a more clinical lens so he was fully armed for the meeting. Sandro called Deeley and Sandbaker, then Eli to make sure they were okay, and it was as they stepped off the elevator that Sandro chuckled and said, “Trust me, Eli, you are not the first athlete to shit-talk their coach. Not even the first one to do it on camera.” A brief pause, then, “It’s true. Look it up on YouTube. You’ll find all sorts of fun stuff.”
In front of the closed conference room doors, Bennett pocketed his phone and eyed the doors as if they were the entrance to Mount Doom. Voices drifted out from inside, some heated, some more modulated.
“You won’t think less of me if I get fired, right?”
“Why would you get fired?” Sandro asked. “Did you waste time splicing a thirty-second reel together and uploading it online?”
“No, but the content came from my camp, which still makes it my fault.”
“Bullshit,” Sandro stated, then walked into the conference room with his head held high.
Bennett had been right about the attendees. In the room were coaches Madolora and Friedle, one of the social media coordinators who traveled with the team, Fowler, and team captain Dabbs. Dialing in virtually was the team’s head of media relations, the general manager, and the team owner.
No David, though, which was surprising since he lived in LA.
“Finally,” the GM barked. Bennett expected him to jump down his throat about the leaked footage, but what he said was, “What are you playing at here, son?”
“Uh . . .” Bennett gripped the back of a chair. On the screen at the front of the room, the general manager’s face was splotchy with anger. “Pardon?”
“You’re supposed to be filming the team on the path to victory, not—” The GM waved a hand ineffectually. “—whatever this is.”
Bennett took a breath and forced himself not to become defensive. “Look. I understand we’re all feeling the heat right now, but?—”
“Have you seen the comments in response to the reel?” the team owner asked.
“No, I?—”
“The clips in the reel are out of context,” Dabbs jumped in. “So the comments are unimportant. Are they inconvenient? Sure. But there’s nothing damning in the reel. Nothing that a simple statement won’t fix.”
“Nothing damning?” The GM slammed a hand on his desk. “This made us look like assholes who can’t pull our heads out of our asses. Why is this the kind of stuff being filmed? This is a hockey series—I want to see some actual hockey.”
Bennett’s knuckles whitened on the back of the chair. “I?—”
