Page 88 of Wingmen

This was the last thing either of them said for a while. Elliot took off his hat and scrubbed his hair and put it back on.

“You should probably just go,” said Dustin.

He nodded, swallowing, and stared at Dustin for a long time with his eyes red and rimmed with tears. “You know how I told you I used to watch you growing up?” he said. “And when I had to do something difficult, I used to think, ‘What would Dustin Bennet do?’” Dustin flinched. “I didn’t think it would be this.”

Elliot

Elliot Rodriguez Sanchez had cried three times in the last year, which was more than he’d ever cried in his life.

Once when Uncle Sal died. Once with Dustin Bennet’s dick in his ass. And once outside Dustin Bennet’s penthouse, although gracias a Dios, he made it to the elevator first.

Anyone looking at that would say it was pretty obvious thatDustin Bennet just kept making him cry. None of those times, though, was he actually crying about Dustin. He was always crying about Uncle Sal.

He sat on the floor with his back to the wall and his knees up, sobbing as the floors ticked by. When the elevator reached the bottom, he got up and went out to the street. He stood on the sidewalk, looking left and right, because he was so upset he couldn’t remember how to get back to the hotel. Then he called his mom.

Dustin

His phone buzzed on the coffee table an hour after Elliot left. He lifted his arm off his face and looked under it, but from the couch, he couldn’t see the screen. He thought about leaving it. But it could have been Jordan.

He sat up and picked up the phone. A text from his agent.

Dustin’s heart seized and his spine jolted into that vertical column usually reserved for Dad or Tom.

How did his agent know?

Did theleaguealreadyknow? Had Jordan told them? Did he call Dr. Wu? Dustin had explicitly asked him not to do that, becauseDustinwas going to call Dr. Wu. He hadn’t done it yet…but he was getting there.

He tapped open the message.

Hey D. Got a reachout from Camila Sánchez, who would like to get in touch with you about a matter regarding her son. Okay if I pass on your number?

Dustin stared at it. Not a word of it made sense.

I don’t know a Camila Sánchez, he sent back.What is this about?

Oh, sorry: Elliot Rodriguez. She says he’s also doing his off-season in Portland and wants to ask you a question about the facilities there.

As if his spine couldpossiblyachieve a more rigid, terrified position. Elliot Rodriguez’smotherwanted to speak to him. And probably not about facilities. Elliot must’ve called her. At least she was discreet.

The phone buzzed again.

Oh shoot, I’m so sorry! I just realized I spaced on the timezone. It’s late for you there huh?

Mentally bracing, he sent back,It’s fine.Send her my number

The phone rang three minutes later. He picked it up with his heart in his ears. “Hello?”

“Is this Dustin Bennet?”

“It is.”

“Hello Dustin, my name is Camila. I’m Elliot’s mother.”

“Hi Camila.” One of the most awkward pauses on record for Dustin. “How can I help you?”

He expected her to read him the riot act. He’d witnessed a version of that already – when Elliot took her call in the recovery room that day. Instead, she said, “How are you feeling?”

“Bad,” he said.