Page 2 of The Best Parts of Him
Once all the kids had gone, Dabbs waved goodbye to the arena’s staff and joined his roommate for the short walk to his vehicle.
“So?” Bellamy bumped their shoulders. “Still coming with me to Maplewood tonight?”
“Are you sure I won’t be intruding?”
Bellamy scoffed. “It’s a campout in Jason’s backyard with his siblings, niece, and nephew. There’s nothing to intrude on.”
Jason, Bellamy’s boyfriend, was from the small town of Maplewood, which was, according to Bellamy, the queerest town in Vermont. Dabbs had never been—had never heard of it until Bellamy had been traded to the Trailblazers earlier this year. Bellamy’s grandparents had retired there, and it had been on a visit to see them that he’d met Jason in town. He spent most of his available free time in Maplewood. Sometimes Dabbs forgot he had a roommate other than his dogs.
Tugging open the driver’s side door of his SUV, Dabbs said, “I thought you didn’t do camping.”
“I don’t,” Bellamy confirmed, hopping into the passenger seat. “But a tent pitched in someone’s backyard? That, I can handle. I figure we pack an overnight bag when we get home, drop the dogs off at Hughes’, and head out by . . . five-ish?”
“Sounds good.”
Up until a month ago, Dabbs and Bellamy had been living in separate units of the same building owned by their organization. Those units, while large, fully furnished, and offering gorgeous views of Lake Champlain, weren’t meant for long-term stays; they were for housing newly traded players or visiting stakeholders. Bellamy had been there because he’d been a recent trade from Nevada, and Dabbs because he’d gotten kicked out of his old place when his landlord had found out about his dogs. Cue neither of them being interested in—or having the energy for—looking for a more permanent place to live, so when Zanetti had casually mentioned that there was an available two-bedroom townhouse-style unit in his building, they’d jumped on it.
Half the time, having Bellamy home meant Jason was there too, but Dabbs didn’t mind. Their rooms were on opposite ends of the second floor, so whatever Bellamy and Jason got up to in the privacy of their bedroom, Dabbs couldn’t hear it.
Usually. There was that time when?—
Nope. Not going there. There wasn’t enough brain bleach in the world to un-hear that.
His phone rang, showing Head Coach Madolora’s name on the screen on his dashboard. He tapped the button on his steering wheel to answer the call as he navigated out of the parking lot. “Hey, Coach. What’s up?”
“Dabbs, got a minute? I want to run something by you.”
“Sure, but I’m driving, so I’ve got you on speaker, and Bellamy’s in the car with me.”
Bellamy waved, even though Coach couldn’t see him. “Hey, Coach. I can pretend not to hear whatever you’re about to discuss if it’s for Dabbs’ ears only.”
It wouldn’t be the first time Dabbs had taken a call from Coach that was for his ears only. As captain, he was often privy to information before the rest of the team.
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind getting your opinion,” Coach said. “But this all stays between us for now. Understood?”
“Copy that,” Dabbs murmured over Bellamy’s “You got it.”
“We’ve been approached by a producer interested in a Trailblazers documentary. They’re talking a six-part limited series with each episode focused on a different topic or aspect of the game.”
“Cool,” Bellamy said, wide-eyed, while Dabbs’ stomach dropped to his toes.
“Cool, in theory,” Coach agreed. “But they want to document training camp all the way to the playoffs. It’ll mean giving cameras access to the locker room, the players, players’ homes, the arena.”
“Nowhere would be sacred,” Dabbs muttered.
“Now, that’s not entirely true. We’d have agreements in place outlining what they would and wouldn’t have access to.”
Dabbs turned onto Main Street, his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Filming would begin this year?”
“Oh, hell no.” Coach made a derisive sound. “We’re still in preliminary talks with the producer, and we have a thousand questions about a thousand different things before we sign on the dotted line. If anything, filming would start at the beginning of next season. But before any decisions are made, I wanted to get your general feel for the idea.”
Dabbs’ general feel was that of a colony of ants crawling up his spine.
After growing up with a father who couldn’t find a kind word for anyone—including his children—the thought of being in the spotlight, where he could be ridiculed or talked down to or harshly criticized for the smallest perceived error, was about as appealing as bashing himself over the head with his own hockey stick.
He couldn’t avoid the spotlight entirely. He was team captain—avoiding the spotlight would be like trying to avoid a late-summer swarm of gnats while walking his dogs. But he could minimize it, and, in turn, minimize the negativity in his life.
It was why he’d chosen a pseudonym under which he’d publish the middle-grade books he’d written over the past few years. They’d been a labor of love and passion, and he planned on donating the royalties to a charity that specialized in providing resources to kids who struggled in their home life.
