Chapter Three #2
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 a prodigy. No.”
“I’m a prodigy,” Dustin said, before he could stop himself. So fucking stupid: shut up. “I’m sixteen weeks post-op.”
Tom looked up. He had a tiny pair of glasses on his nose, and when he took them off, there were lines in the side of his head.
He fixed Dustin with a long, hard look, and Dustin did his best to look fit and vibrant and ready to run an agility ladder – however you did that while standing in a doorway.
“How does the knee feel?” said Tom.
“Good.” Dustin nodded. It really did. The only thing that had bothered him recently was standing around for three hours at that charity thing, and that would make anyone hurt.
Tom put the glasses back on and went back to the computer. “Three runs. Rehab runs. Not a fucking two-feet-in. Don’t time it. Get Marisol to watch your form.”
Dustin’s heart leapt. As he turned from the door, Tom added, “And if I see anything that remotely looks like a dick-swing, you are barred from this gym for life.”
He went out to the floor.
Marisol had set Elliot up on the elliptical and come back to roll up the ladder. Dustin stopped her and explained he was going to run it: he was warm, the knee felt good, just a rehab march, nothing crazy, Tom said it was fine.
She stepped back and Dustin did not glance at the elliptical, where Rodriguez was probably pretending not to watch. He went to the first rung. Don’t make a moment of it. This was for form, not speed. He wasn’t even being timed. He shook out his arms. Took a breath. Went.
It felt really fucking good.
Marisol nodded when he got to the end. “Good. Your left side looked like it flagged?”
Dustin nodded; he’d felt it. It hadn’t been conscious – on the third rung it was like his foot stayed up a half-second longer than he meant it to. He tried not to think about it and went back to the start of the ladder. “Tom said three. Do you mind watching again?”
Round two was slightly worse. His foot did the same thing, and he swallowed a groan of frustration as he felt it happen and could do nothing about it.
“Left side still flagging a little on the third rung,” Marisol said, kindly. “Was that the side?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s subconscious. You think you’re pushing but your body is protecting itself.”
He went back to the start. He took a moment longer to set up and fixed his gaze on the end, blew out a breath and said, “Okay, ready.” And then added, casually, “Hey, can you time it? Just so I have a baseline.”
Marisol gave him a look like she was sure that hadn’t been authorized, but said, with a small smile, “Fine.”
He put his gaze back on the end, trying not to think of the number two point three nine.
That was ten years ago. He was four months post-op.
Anything around eight would be good for what he was doing.
What he wanted to do was four, but he suspected Tom might hack his literal nuts off if he caught him trying that.
He heard Rodriguez stop the elliptical, and could feel the weight of his eyes. Dustin didn’t make a thing of it. He shook out his arms. Did the breath. Went.
Marisol clicked the watch. “Ten nine six.”
Dustin almost said, “What?”
Ten nine six was unbelievably slow. But fighting your trainer was exactly what Rodriguez had done, and it was tacky and not what you did. He swallowed the number and nodded.
“Alright.”
Marisol smiled brightly and tucked away the watch. “Not bad for a first run. Form looked good! Seems like you worked out that kink on the last one.” She moved to roll up the ladder, and Dustin put out his arm.
“Just – ah… You know what? Lemme do one more.”
Marisol tilted her head. “Didn’t he say three…”
“Oh, was that three?” Dustin made his face look surprised.
“Maybe you should clear it with Tom,” she said, obviously not buying that. Dustin took a moment to weigh it, and decided that talking to Tom wasn’t the route.
He stepped back up to the ladder. “I don’t think we need to bug him. He’s busy, I’m sure he’d say it was fine.”
Marisol pursed her lips and sighed unhappily through her nose while she surveyed him. Then she put up her hands like, Not my client. Not my problem, and stepped back. One more run wasn’t going to hurt him. Tom might hurt him. But that was fine.
“Alright,” she said. “You want me to time it?”
“Yes, please,” said Dustin, cracking his neck.
He had the slightly unsettling feeling that it was more than just Rodriguez watching him now. The gym had gone suspiciously quiet – just the whir of a treadmill in the corner, and music coming down from the speaker.
He didn’t remember getting there, but he found himself at the end of the ladder. That was good: that was exactly what he wanted. He turned to Marisol, a little breathless. “Time?”
A small silence. “Ten nine nine.”
His stomach dipped with disappointment. “Okay,” he said, “no problem. Warming up.” He nodded and went back to the top. “Ready?”
Marisol looked at him. “I think that was three, Bennet.”
“I got one more in me.”
“Uh huh, and you’re not my client, but–”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“I just think you should–”
“Come on, it’s–”
“Bennet.”
Dustin’s spine jolted into a perfectly vertical column, the way it always had when his dad used that voice at practice.
He turned, and could’ve sworn he felt every eye in the room do the same.
Tom stood outside the office with his arms folded.
He didn’t look mad. He just looked at Dustin across the room, and Dustin felt like he was seven years old.
“Stop,” said Tom, and shut the door behind him.
He heard Rodriguez start up the elliptical.
Ten minutes later, Dustin sat with his knee hooked up to the ice machine in the recovery room. It didn’t hurt and he was quietly relieved about that, but he was also furious with himself. Ten nine nine? What he needed was an ice wrap for his pride.
The door opened and Elliot came in with headphones on and a towel around his neck. He sat two stations down, pulled his right jogger up to the knee, set an ice pack on the bench and his calf on top of it, and took out his phone.
Dustin narrowed his gaze. All the kid had done was run the ladder, fifteen minutes on the elliptical, and then bounced over to the blue mat to do five aggravatingly beautiful sun salutations.
He was twenty-one. There was nothing wrong with that leg.
So what the hell was he doing icing it? Trying to one-up Dustin at recovery?
Elliot’s thumb paused mid-flick, and he sighed, tapped the phone, and lifted it to his ear.
“Hey Mamá.” He fixed his gaze on some point just below the floor. “No, I’m not doing anything. Uh huh. No. Sí. Sí, Mamá.” He picked at the knee of his joggers. “No, porque es– Uh huh.”
Dustin shut his eyes and tipped his head to the wall behind him. Sometimes you just had to sit through a guy’s awkward conversation. The best he could do was shut his eyes and pretend that made him invisible.
Across the room, Elliot sighed. “?Porque no me quiero quedar en tu casa toda la vida, Mamá! Uh huh.” Another sigh. “Sí, okay. Okay. Gracias, Mamá. Te escucho tamb– Okay, well, I’m trying to hear you. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know before I decided. Okay. Te amo también. Okay. Bye.”
Dustin kept his eyes closed as the music started up in Elliot’s headphones. Sounded like Rodriguez hadn’t told his mother he was staying in Portland. He couldn’t deny it was a little satisfying hearing the guy who’d undressed his team getting dressed down by his mommy.
They stayed like that until the timer on Dustin’s watch went, and he beeped it off, took off the wrap, and stood up.
Elliot looked up as he walked out, but Dustin pretended not to notice.