Page 67 of Wingmen

He picked up the bottle and read the back label.

Not that he needed to read the back label. There was no ‘recommended dose’ of opioids for people who weren’t supposed to be taking them anymore. The recommended dose in that case was zero, and people who took more than that tended to get into trouble.

He cracked open the bottle and shook one into his palm. He took that to the kitchen and got a glass of water to take to the couch, where he put his feet on the coffee table and opened the laptop. He spent ten minutes Googling to reassure himself that what he was about to do was fine, because he didn’t have any of the factors that would put him at risk of addiction, and then he took the pill and drank the water and closed the laptop and went to get in the shower.

By the time he went to bed, he felt much, much better.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Elliot

“Two point nine seven.” Marisol clicked off the stopwatch. “Good.”

“It’s notgood.” Scowling, Elliot shook out his shoulders and cracked his neck. “It’s worse than the last one.”

“Elliot, we’ve been running these for ten minutes. You passed the point that you were going to make gains a long time ago. I don’t even know what we’re doing anymore.”

“We’re training.”

“No: you’re grinding.” She tucked away the watch and knelt to roll up the ladder. “Go get on the elliptical and then ice in the recovery room if you need to.”

Elliot glared at the end of the ladder as it jerked away across the floor; he was no closer to hitting Bennet’s PR than he had been a month ago. How thefuckhad Bennet done it? There was no way he was theonlyguy in the league who could put up that number.

As he scooped up his water bottle and went across the room to the elliptical, he saw the owner of the gym watching from hisoffice. Elliot ignored him and got on the machine, and as he traipsed toward the recovery room afterward, the guy appeared in the doorway.

“Rodriguez,” he said, and waved him over.

Mildly suspicious, Elliot went.

“Pretty impressive numbers you’re putting up out there,” the guy said, pushing his glasses to the top of his bald head and settling into a chair at his desk.

“I guess.” Elliot leaned one shoulder on the doorframe.

“Reminds me of someone. What’s his name? Dustin Somebody.”

“Uh huh.”

“That’s his number you wear on your jersey, isn’t it?”

Elliot held his gaze. “Is it?”

The bald guy studied him a moment longer. Then unfolded his arms, returned the glasses to his nose, and went back to his computer. “You’re good, Rodriguez. You have a lot of talent. But it takes more than that to be Dustin Bennet.”

“I know what it takes,” said Elliot. He watched the guy clicking around. The thing he’d said yesterday popped into his head, and he thought about saying it again. It was good practice for the press. He took his shoulder off the door jamb.

“I’m not trying to be Dustin Bennet,” he said. “I’m trying to be Elliot Rodriguez.”

He got backto the hotel around eleven AM and found a notification from Dustin when he tossed his phone on the bed. A picture of something – the preview didn’t show what. Elliot tapped it open to a plate of scrambled eggs, and underneath,Brunch?

Frowning, he sat on the edge of the bed.what is that

Denver omelet. I think?

I thought you didn’t cook

I don’t. This is my first attempt.A break.Well, second: last night’s stuck to the pan

Elliot checked the time.You don’t have physio today?