Chapter Eight
Elliot
Marisol had him doing a shift-survival circuit at seven the next morning, which was exactly what he needed. Dead man burpees left zero space in your brain for thinking. By the time they wrapped, his chest was on fire, his hair was dripping, and he could barely walk.
He staggered to the bench to hydrate, and then to the locker room, where he stood under the shower with his head down and eyes closed.
He thought about Drew – her freckles and short hair, and her weird sense of humor.
He thought about the way his skin lit up as her lips touched his cheek.
How she’d sort of blindsided him, and he’d stood outside her apartment for so long last night that eventually the window opened above him and she called down, “Do you want me to send down a ladder?”
Which was embarrassing. He’d tried to play it off like he was looking for his phone as he practically ran away down the street.
And then he thought about Bennet. And something very different happened inside him.
A full-body heatwave came up from his toes and shook him so hard he actually shivered under the hot water.
He saw Bennet’s strong hand tented on the felt of the pool table.
His squint and his smirk, and the way he said alright, Amigo.
Elliot wanted to hear him say it a thousand different ways. He wanted him to always be saying it.
He did his best to think about Drew as he got himself off.
But he didn’t.
“And then she left,” Diego was saying. “Left, bro. Didn’t say a word, slammed the screen door–”
“Where was she going?”
“That’s what I’m saying! We don’t know! Could be the same dude, could be a different dude. She doesn’t have a car, so someone picked her up.”
Elliot put the phone on speaker and set it beside him on the bed.
Diego had been going off about his sister’s love life for what felt like forty-five minutes.
He bent his arm behind his head and watched the people walking around on the muted TV.
He’d never admit to anyone – not even Diego – that he was watching Golden Girls in his room at two in the afternoon on a Saturday, when he could’ve been day-drinking, like a normal person.
But he was so out of sorts about this Bennet situation, he couldn’t even get his head straight for booze.
“She gets dropped off at the curb like an Uber Eats!” Diego was saying.
On the TV, Golden Girl Sophia put her back to the living room door and mouthed, Fasten your seatbelt, slut-puppy. This ain’t gonna be no cakewalk. Elliot chuckled. Classic. One of Abuela’s favorite episodes. He knew it even without the sound.
“Hello?” said Diego. “Bro, are you even listening?”
“I’m listening. Sorry. Sorry.” He sat up and clicked off the TV. He swung his feet onto the floor, picking up the phone. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. I’m not an expert on this.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Diego sighed.
“Tell her to make the guy come to the door. Tell her he’s disrespecting you.”
“I did! Why do you think she stormed out?”
“Right.”
Diego covered the phone to talk to someone. He was at the Motor Enclave in the custom Honda Civic he’d spent pretty much all his savings on two years ago. The car was his pride and joy.
“Anyway, what’s up with you?” said Diego when he came back. “How’s Portland? How’s Bennet? You see him around? Like at the gym or whatever?”
Elliot remembered what he’d done in the shower that morning, and his face got so hot, he had to get up and go to the window. The blackouts were drawn for the Golden Girls, and when he flung one open, the sun made him squint. He closed it again and went back to the bed.
“Yeah, I see him,” he said.
“For real? What’s he like?”
For Diego, Elliot hanging out with Dustin Bennet during the off-season was a big deal. Diego was almost as big a fan of Bennet as Elliot was. Almost. He probably didn’t think about him in the shower.
“He’s fine,” said Elliot. “Actually, we – ah – went to a bar last night.”
“Dog, what? Are you serious? How was it?”
“He came up with this game…”
“Drinking game?”
“No, like…competing for chicks. We made a bet to see who can take down the most girls this summer.”
A small silence. Then Diego apparently lost his mind.
Elliot heard, “Whaaaaat?” and then Diego laughing, and then yelling at someone to come hear this.
It sounded like he wasn’t even talking to someone he knew.
He was so excited he was just flagging down a stranger: “Yo, yo! Listen to this. Listen to this. You. Yes, you! Come here. Ven aqui, Mano. Listen: my boy Elliot – my man, Elliot Rodriguez – is hanging with Dustin Bennet–”
“Diego–”
“Dustin Bennet!” A pause. “Bennet!” Another pause. “What do you mean ‘who’?!” Diego was outraged. “The Dust Buster? The Great Bendito? Hockey! Oh you don’t watch hockey.” A scoff. “Alright, walk on, my man. What?” A pause. “It’s a Honda Civic. Twenty seventeen. Tss, of course it does–”
“Diego.”
“Oh shit, I gotta go. Yeah, hit me up later, we’ll talk.” He came back to the phone. “That guy has a Ferrari four-eight-eight.”
Elliot pinched his eyes between his fingers.
“What were we talking about?” said Diego.
“The Great Bendito.”
“Oh snap. So what happened last night? You win?”
Elliot sighed. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t talked to Bennet. But…I hooked up with someone, so…”
“Damn, player.” Another pause while Diego covered the phone and spoke to someone else about his Honda. “Hey, I gotta go. Bro, you gotta keep me in the loop on this.”
“I will. Good luck with your sister.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Chao.”
“Chao.”
Elliot went into the bathroom to splash water on his face. Then he braced on the sink and looked at himself in the mirror for a long time.
He didn’t hear from Dustin all day. But around seven, a notification popped up from the Body Count app. Bennet had logged a takedown. Elliot was eating takeout pizza on his bed in the room. He tapped the phone beside him on the comforter.
They’d agreed not to share any identifying information about the women, beyond age.
He saw a tile with an empty profile picture and a name set to Day One.
When Elliot opened the profile, he saw the gender – female; age – 22; time – 12:45am, a Number of Sessions and Session Length, both of which Dustin had left blank, and a toggle that showed he’d used protection.
Elliot got a queasy feeling and pushed the phone away.
He’d never actually used the app, and hadn’t realized you could enter so much information.
Suddenly, he really didn’t want to know the details of what Bennet had been doing at precisely twelve forty-five last night.
He opened messenger and sent a thumbs-up.
There’s an option to rate them? Bennet sent back. But that seemed…truly depraved.
yeah, Elliot texted back. that feels gross
It all felt pretty gross, to be honest.
The dots bubbled, and Bennet sent, Where’s yours? and the emoji with the monocle, inspecting.
Elliot hadn’t logged Drew yet because, honestly, it felt weird. That didn’t feel like the kind of thing you should do to a girl you were maybe serious about.
I’m getting there, he sent, and his stomach dipped nervously as he added the smiling sweat emoji. Lotta sessions to track we did it like six times
A long pause. Then a wall of emojis laughing so hard they were crying. Then, Sure, little man
Elliot furiously threw the phone across the room and put Golden Girls back on.
Against the wall, the phone buzzed. Ignoring it, he turned up the TV. Blanche told Dorothy to eat dirt and die. He’d seen this one a thousand times at Abuela’s, but that felt like exactly what he needed right now.
The phone buzzed again, and he growled in frustration and put down his pizza. Brushing off his fingers, he climbed off the bed and went over.
Thinking about basketball tomorrow, Bennet had sent. And when Elliot hadn’t responded, he’d added, Interested?
Basketball? What the fuck was Bennet up to? Elliot stared for a long time, then sent back, Are you allowed to do that?
What?
Your knee?
Three dots. Yeah it’s fine. There’s a spot near my neighborhood called North Park Blocks. If you wanna come, I’ll be there around three.
Elliot sat with the phone in his hand, trying to put feelings into places he didn't know how to fit them. Then he closed messages and did something he hadn’t done in a long, long time.
He opened Instagram and looked at the picture of Bennet.
It was from six years ago, right after Dustin’s team won the playoffs.
He was in a locker room, holding the Stanley Cup, grinning and soaked in sweat, with his jersey off.
His hair had been a little longer back then, and he didn’t have the beard.
He had hair on his chest, though, and that was maybe what did it for Elliot.
As soon as his eyes landed on it, all the old feelings came back. His whole body went on fire, and as he let his eyes trail down the ridges of abs, ribs, and the steep angles that disappeared into his hockey pants, he felt a big, scary shift behind his naval.
He locked the phone and threw it onto the bed. He got up and went to the window, opened the curtains and put his forehead to the dark glass.
He didn’t respond to Bennet.