Page 68 of The Best Parts of Him
Dabbs:
There’s a European bakery in North Bay.
Ryland:
You suck.
Dabbs:
[laughing emoji] Hey, you were the one who wanted to play virtual Scrabble. You’re up next, by the way.
Dabbs:
“Jerk?” Really?
Ryland was somewhere in this building.
That thought floated in Dabbs’ head as he got ready for the Vermont Trailblazers versus Columbus Pilots game in Burlington’s Sport U Arena. They’d attempted to make plans to see each other before the game, but they’d both been tied up with other things—Ryland with his friend Denver from Maplewood, who’d arrived for a visit this afternoon, and Dabbs with a meeting with an illustrator for his book that had gone very, very well. His agent was putting a contract together, which would state that Dabbs would pay for her services, but she wouldn’t receive any of the royalties.
He’d looked deeper into the company he’d come across that offered services to authors for a fee, but they specialized in non-fiction. There were other companies, of course, but his agent had suggested working with his team’s public relations people on marketing his books if he wasn’t going to go the traditional publisher route. And since he had an illustrator on board who would also do his covers, all he had to do was figure out how to publish his books—as in the actual mechanics.
How did one get their books published to the big retailer sites anyway? Or get into bookstores?
A problem for another day.
The locker room buzzed with activity. Sandro Zanetti was in charge of the music today, which meant reggae and hip-hop mixed with the odd country song. Dabbs had been cleared to play, and this would be his first game back in several weeks.
Dabbs ignored the chatter around him and focused on getting ready. He needed to be on top of his game tonight and prove that he hadn’t lost his touch in the past few weeks. He needed to stay on his toes too—the Trailblazers had swept round two of the playoffs against the Pilots last season. The Pilots were no doubt feeling especially salty about that.
Understandable.
But it meant tonight’s game could get rowdy.
Coach Madolora, wearing a pinstriped suit with a purple pocket square, caught Dabbs’ eye from where he stood at the entrance to the locker room with a man who was vaguely familiar.
“Coach.” Dabbs approached him and nodded at the other man. Early to mid-thirties, tall and lean, dirty blond hair pulled into a bun at the back of his neck, a trim beard, cunning blue eyes that swept the room as though looking for someone in particular. He was dressed casually in jeans and a leather jacket, yet there was an air about him that announced he was here on business.
“This is Bennett Jackson,” Coach said to Dabbs. “One of the producers of the documentary we’ve been talking about. Bennett, this is Kyle Dabbs, team captain.”
“It’s official, then?” Dabbs asked, surprised he and his teammates hadn’t been told about it before springing a producer on the locker room. Coach had eventually told the team about the opportunity, but to Dabbs’ knowledge, they’d still been in discussion with the producer.
With Bennett Jackson, apparently.
And why did his name strike a chord of familiarity?
“Not yet,” Bennett Jackson said, his voice a timbre that reminded Dabbs of a cello. “We’re still ironing out a few details. But I wanted to come by and meet you all in person, see if I can address any doubts that are holding you back.”
Right before a game? Dabbs crossed his arms over his chest and prepared to tell Bennett Jackson to come back tomorrow.
“Not right this second,” Bennett said, accurately reading Dabbs’ expression. “Trust me, I know players’ pre-game rituals can be sacred. Your coach was just giving me a tour of the facilities. I’m not here to get in the way.”
Something about the way Bennett claimed to understand pre-game rituals clicked in Dabbs’ brain, and he snapped his fingers. “You’re a hockey player. Played for . . . ” Damn, it had been more than a decade ago. “Chicago?” To his recollection, Bennett had played only a single season before virtually disappearing off the face of the earth.
Bennett’s smile was strained. “Yeah. A long time ago.”
“Excuse me,” Zanetti said, squeezing past Bennett on his way into the locker room.
Bennett sucked in a sharp breath. “Sandy.”
