Page 29 of The Best Parts of Him
“Not that I’m aware of at the moment,” Dabbs replied, which was technically the truth.
Zanetti made a sound in the back of his throat. “Bummer.”
Turning halfway around in his seat, Dabbs said, “You want to be the subject of a documentary?”
“Me personally? No. Me as part of the team? Sure. It’d bring in tons of new fans.”
“See?" It was Bellamy's turn to poke Dabbs. “That’s what I said.”
“But more than that,” Zanetti continued, “it’d showcase how hard we work. Remember a couple of years ago when we just missed winning the cup and we got all sorts of flack about it? A documentary would help offset that.”
Both excellent points, and they were something to consider whenever Coach finally met with the producer.
Bellamy parked at the arena a moment later, and they trooped inside. Dabbs lagged behind as Zanetti asked Bellamy how his kitten—which had been a recent gift from Jason—was settling in.
Inside the meeting room, Dabbs did a quick headcount. Almost everyone was here, sitting around a massive oval table. Someone—probably their director of player engagement, Roman Kinsey—had thought to bring Gatorade, protein bars, yogurt cups, sandwiches, and various types of smoothie bowls.
Dabbs grabbed an açai bowl and sat on Michael Hughes’ left.
Hughes, partway through a smoked meat sandwich, rotated his seat toward him and narrowed his dark-eyed gaze. “You okay? You look . . . ill.”
“I feel ill,” Dabbs confirmed.
“If it’s the flu, get the fuck out of here.”
“I think it’s indigestion.”
“Indigestion make you look like you haven’t slept in a week?”
Dabbs removed the lid from his smoothie and dug in. “I’ve done nothing but sleep. Can’t seem to keep my eyes open.”
“Yeah, bro, that’s not indigestion.”
“Hey, Dabbs. Check this out.” Sean Gaffney sat on Dabbs’ other side and shoved his phone in Dabbs’ face.
“Is that . . . ” Dabbs leaned closer to the phone and squinted. “Tenor Jones?”
“Cool, right?” Gaff took the phone back and swiped through more images. “I posted on Insta that I was at his concert, and his husband saw it. You know Emery Stanton, right? Used to play for Vancouver? Anyway, he messaged me and brought me and my girl backstage to meet Tenor Jones after the concert.”
“Where was he playing?”
“In Montreal. Me and Sonia drove up yesterday and came back this morning.”
“I’ve got a celebrity photo too.” Deeley slid his phone across the table. “Check that out, Dabbs.”
Dabbs set his smoothie bowl aside—it wasn’t sitting right in his stomach anyway—and peered at the image on Deeley’s phone. “Who is that?”
Deeley’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean who is that? He plays the dad on that new show everyone’s talking about.”
“What new show?”
“You think that’s cool?” Sandbaker hovered between Dabbs’ and Hughes’ chairs and gave Dabbs his phone. “Check that out, Cap. Caught that this summer.”
In the photo, Sandbaker was pictured standing on a dock, a lake stretching out behind him. He held a foot-long fish in his arms.
“What is that?” Hughes asked as Dabbs handed the phone back. “Trout?”
“Rainbow trout,” Sandbaker said, moving around Hughes. He pulled the empty chair on Hughes’ other side back from the table, but before his butt could hit the seat, Hughes sent a squinty-eyed scowl his way. “That chair’s not for you.”
