Page 9 of Wingmen

He was so ticked off by Bennet stealing his girl that by the time they got back to Leah’s, he no longer wanted to fuck her. He kept seeing Bennet’s stupid smug face in his head, and it was massively killing his boner. He made an excuse and left her atthe door, and went down the street to wait for an Uber somewhere else.

In the Uber, he pulled out his phone to check the American Airlinesapp. He still hadn’t booked a flight home. Sighing, he looked out the window at the sleeping city. His driver was listening to bachata very quietly, and Elliot hummed a line he recognized. It took him straight back to Miami – to his uncle’s house where he stayed during summers in the JHL.

And suddenly he thought,I could just spend the summer here.

It was a totally random flash of an idea, and Elliot blinked as it came to him. Was that crazy? Bennet did it, which meant there were vetted facilities. He’d already missed his flight. His mom would be disappointed, but she’d understand. And he liked it here. It was funky and the weather was good and the girls wanted to fuck him.

He opened Instagram and searchedDustin Bennet. The profile had a blue checkmark and three point six million followers. Rolling his eyes to indicate he was not impressed, Elliot tapped the profile, followed it, wondered briefly if this would even work, because Bennet probably didn’t manage his own social media, and sent a DM anyway:

@ElliotTheKingOfHockey: what’s the name of the gym here?

CHAPTER THREE

Dustin

Force Elite Hockey Lab was run by a six-foot-five bald Swede called Tom Jonasson, who seemed to think if an athlete wasn’t throwing up by the end of a session then he wasn’t doing his job right.

Which was why Dustin came here: it reminded him of Dad.

“You look like crap,” said Tom, as Dustin came in from the parking lot, “did you sleep at all last night?”

“You look like an asshole,” Dustin said back, “did you shit at all this morning?”

Tom grunted, and Dustin went to the locker room to put on his shorts. He hadn’t slept enough: he and Katie fell asleep around two, and he woke up at six when she left for work. He was welcome to stay and sleep in, she said, but Dustin had never been able to do that.

On the way back out to Tom, his phone dinged, and he pulled it out and put it on silent as he read the text. Hannah, his social media manager.

Hey D. Elliot Rodriguez reached out on IG. He wants thename of a gym? You can give me the name and I’ll pass it along, or I can get in touch with his people for contact info.

Dustin laughed through his nose. Rodriguez DM’d him. Like he thought Dustin would actually check it. He had no idea what gym Hannah was talking about, but his interest was piqued enough that he told her to send him Rodriguez’s number.

When the number came through he texted Rodriguez –My social media gal said you reached out on IG? Cute. Like you think a legend with four million followers manages his own account– and put the phone down on a bench.

He usually reported to Tom in July, but he’d been here since April this year because of the knee. When they’d started, all he was allowed to do was slowly ride the stationary bike, which was exasperating. He wasn’t even going to be starting the regular season in September – he’d be going into Injured Reserve. Everything he was doing now was just mechanics. Getting in shape to do evenoneshift in an actual hockey game would take until early next year.

Which was excruciating.

But the team’s physician, Dr. Wu, had been explicit that Dustin wasn’t to move faster than what she prescribed, and under absolutelyno circumstancewas he to push through any pain. To Dustin, this was incomprehensible. He’d spent his life pushing through pain. That’s what you did during hockey.

He warmed up and started with Spanish squats. They had the place to themselves, and Tom circled with his arms folded – reallyusingall that empty space. Usually, that was exactly what Dustin wanted, but today he was tired and hungover, and he didn’t appreciate being appraised like a racehorse that might need to be taken out back and shot.

At the end of an hour, Tom threw him a towel and he went to the bench where his phone and water bottle waited. He satdown harder than he’d meant to and blew out a long breath as he buried his face in the towel.

“You didn’t sleep,” said Tom.

Dustin toweled his neck. “Not enough.”

Tom gave this the look it deserved, then retreated to get rollers and tennis balls. The phone buzzed on the bench beside Dustin and a text popped up.

take it easy, abuelo. you only got 4 million followers because you been doin this a hundred years. anyway it’s 3.6 million

Smirking, Dustin picked up the phone.

Aw you memorized the number? So you do have a crush on me? Did you take a screenshot?

Three dots. Then:you gonna tell me the name of your gym or what

Tom came back with a wicker basket full of foam rollers and therapy balls – which lookedlike toys until you put the weight of your entire quadricep on one and realized it was actually a torture device. Dustin went to the middle of the blue mat and sat down with one under his hamstring, grit his teeth and kept himself busy with the phone.