Page 11 of Wingmen

“Okay, okay,tranquila, Nena.” Rodriguez grinned as he went back to the top. “We’re warming up, you don’t need to be spicy.”

He stepped into position, shaking out his hair and flinging sweat, and Dustin made a face and turned around. He sat with his legs out, flexing and pointing his toes, and heard Elliot’s sneakers go like a jackhammer as he ran the drill again.

Marisol called, “Ten point five nine. Slower.”

“What?” Elliot sounded outraged.

Dustin smiled privately and slowly circled his ankles.

“Ten point five nine,” repeated Marisol. “Do you need it in Spanish?”

Silence. Dustin looked over his shoulder. Rodriguez was resetting, looking furious, and Marisol was standing close to him, saying something in his ear that Dustin couldn’t hear, which was probably along the lines of, “Ten point whatever is fine for your first ladder of the day forwards and backwards.”

Rodriguez looked like he didn’t want to hear it. Dustin could’ve sworn he saw him glance in his direction.

“Did you hear me?” said Marisol. Elliot stared at the top of the ladder. “Rodriguez.”

“Yes, I’m gonna do what you said.”

She stepped back and lifted the stopwatch. “Just go one way,” she said, firmly. Then waited. “Okay?” Silence. “Okay?”

“Okay!Yes! One way!”

Dustin watched his chest rise and fall, and then his lips moved, and he went.

He was, Dustin would never have said out loud, a beautiful athlete. Every muscle in him was wholly committed to where his foot was landing – not that Dustin couldseehis feet, because they were a blur. Yeah, he was fast as hell. The fastest Dustin had ever run a ladder one-way was two point three nine. The time was still posted on the record wall at a gym in Denver.

Rodriguez looked…faster. Which wasn’t humanly possible.

Marisol clicked the watch. There was a small pause, then, “Two point four six.”

Elliot whistled. “Yes, my little coneja, that’s more likeit.”

Dustin’s stomach dipped. He turned around again and bent his knees into butterfly and closed his eyes. Two point four six was unsettlingly close to two point three nine. But there was no way Rodriguez was about to smoke his PR.

No fucking way.

He heard sneakers pounding again and felt his whole body tense as he waited for the readout.

“Two point four five.”

“Okay. Okay. Now we’re cooking.”

They ran a few more. Dustin felt like he was waiting for his execution. He tried not to, but he listened to Marisol call out the number after every run, and every time he was certain Rodriguez was about to dust him.

Thankfully, Marisol called it before he could. Rodriguez protested – he was going for a personal record, and he hadn’t hit it yet – but her voice had the non-negotiable firmness of a trainer moving on.

Dustin caught a breath and got up, thanking the hockey gods for not making him sit there while some toddler smashed his ladder PR. He went to his water bottle and hauled on it. The ladder was still out on the floor.

He hadn’t run one since February. But he was at about the point in his recovery timeline that he could start. He obviously wouldn’t want to go for a PR like Rodriguez had been doing, but…

He went to the office where Tom sat at the computer, and put his head in the door. “Hey, so I was thinking–”

“It’s your day off,” said Tom. He didn’t even look up.

A stab of irritation. “You don’t even know what I–”

“You’re about to get into a dick-swinging competition with aprodigy. No.”