Chapter Nine
Dustin
The kid was funny, Dustin had to give him that. It wasn’t always intentional, but Dustin got a kick out of it.
It was eight AM and he was at Force, doing sled drags with Tom. The knee felt weird. He’d had to take an ibuprofen this morning for the first time in a few months. It wasn’t too bad though. Probably just went a little hard at that ladder.
After the gym, he went to Elaine’s for his smoothie, and then drove across the river to the farmer’s market. He’d been doing gym, Elaine’s, farmer’s market on Sunday every summer since he started coming to Portland, and it was basically his church at this point.
Not that he knew what church was like. He’d never been inside one.
He went to the bench under the big oak tree he liked, and pulled out his phone as he sat to watch kids in the park. The Body Count app had a red notification dot on it. Rodriguez had put up his takedown last night, and Dustin still hadn’t looked at it.
He’d intended to, but when the phone had pinged, he got a weird feeling.
Suddenly, it felt like he didn’t want to know that.
He hadn’t figured the nitty-gritty into all this.
Typing Fatima’s age into that app last night made him feel like a pig.
How many details was he supposed to supply?
They hadn’t talked about it, so he just had to make a call.
Using protection – that seemed like a good thing to model. But session length? That was too much.
What was he teaching the kid by doing that? Nothing healthy, that was for sure.
He silenced notifications on Body Count, then texted Fatima a quick thank you, and put the phone away.
Hopefully, Rodriguez went for the basketball thing he’d proposed.
That was fun, and outdoors, and neither of them played, so ideally, it wouldn’t get too competitive.
Maybe they could slowly transition to that and eventually wind the wingmen thing down.
Basketball was like a classic mentoring thing, anyway, right?
Dr. Wu hadn’t technically cleared him for it, but he wasn’t planning to go full-out.
He linked his fingers and stretched, feeling the sun. Then he got up and walked back to the loft.
By the time he got back, showered, and had lunch at the cafe down the street, it was two PM, and Rodriguez still hadn’t texted him back to let him know if he was coming.
He stood at the big window with his phone and thought about texting again.
Was that needy? Why did he feel like it was needy?
This new mentoring responsibility was starting to stress him out.
He put the phone away and went to the couch with his laptop and put his feet on the coffee table as he pulled up the kid’s Wikipedia page.
He didn’t know a lot about him, apart from what he had to know for hockey.
He scrolled past statistics and performance highlights and looked at the ‘Personal Life’ section.
It was pretty thin. Most sophomore players’ personal sections were.
He was the only child of Juan Rodriguez Morales and Camila Sánchez Rivera, born in Tampa, started out in the Lightning Foundation, got flagged early for triple-A and the USHL, drafted by Tampa during his second NHL Entry Draft.
It was a pretty standard pipeline. He’d just done it fast.
He opened a browser and Googled Elliot Rodriguez, and was presented with a link to his Instagram.
He opened it and scrolled through the pictures: shots on the ice, staged promotional stuff, some candid things with friends.
His gaze snagged on a shirtless picture with some other guys in front of a pool, and he flicked it away and kept scrolling.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He opened a few of the shots with family, but those didn’t tell him much.
He went back and clicked open the shirtless pool shot.
It was…borderline acceptable for the NHL.
Technically, shirtless on social media was fine.
Dustin had a shirtless locker room shot with the Stanley Cup trophy on his own Instagram from years ago.
Beach and vacation shots were okay, but the unspoken rule was that the context was: we’re all having a good time here, and this is very wholesome. Volleyball. That kind of thing.
This picture was not that. This was a guy who knew exactly what he was working with, and how to pose it.
It was smooth, and oiled, and even though he was with two other guys – Reef and someone Dustin didn’t recognize – Rodriguez stood out like a peacock in a chicken coop.
He was lean and tapered. He had a catholic cross and a pair of wings tattooed across the whole breadth of his chest, and a word on his ribs that Dustin couldn’t read.
The way he was eye-fucking the camera over his sunglasses could have been accidental.
The outline of his junk could have just been a shadow. But this was clearly a thirst trap.
And it was probably working.
Dustin felt weirdly hot, and he snapped the laptop shut and went back to the window. Still no reply from Rodriguez. He typed out a message, deleted, re-typed it, and stood with his thumb over Send.
Why was he nervous? He felt like a teenager, waiting for his crush to call back.
“Christ, Bennet, just send the message,” he said out loud, and did.
Rodriguez rocked up to basketball ten minutes late, with no prior warning he was coming.
He sauntered across the court in a pair of mauve basketball shorts, a Miami Heat jersey, and a bright pink pair of mirrored sunglasses, with a duffel bag over one shoulder and an iced coffee dripping in his hand.
Behind him, the old folks were playing bocce ball under the elm trees, and some kids were actually using the playground equipment.
It was a good time of day to be here – things tended to get rough as the sun went down.
Dustin had been practicing shots around the key. He caught the ball as Elliot walked up and tucked it under his arm. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Rodriguez gave him the sassiest look he’d ever seen as he took off his sunglasses. “You invited me?”
He dropped his duffel bag beside the court and sat to pull off his Converse. Dustin watched him pull a pair of brand new, bright red Air Jordans out of the duffel bag, and put those on instead. He was beginning to feel under dressed.
Elliot cast a disparaging look over Dustin’s t-shirt, gym shorts and beat up running shoes as he laced his sneakers. “Is that what you’re wearing?” he said.
“Yes? Is that what you’re wearing?”
“What’s Rush?”
Dustin looked down at his t-shirt. He looked at Rodriguez. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Elliot finished and got to his feet. He bounced on his toes to test the shoes. “Fine, don’t tell me. So what are we doing?”
Dustin spread his hands with the ball in one of them. “What do you feel like?”
Elliot shrugged. He looked sulky and like he didn’t want to be there. “I dunno, this was your idea.”
Taking a small breath, Dustin said, “Why don’t we just practice shooting? You ever played horse?”
“Horse?” Elliot’s face was incredulous. “Not since I was like, twelve.”
“So, last year?”
Elliot rolled his eyes and skulked to the bottom of the key.
“Fine. Horse.” He put up his hands for the ball.
Dustin tossed it to him, and he bounced it once, scooped it up, prepped, and put it in the hoop.
He did it all so casually he could’ve been holding his iced coffee still.
It was beautiful; the ball didn’t even touch the sides.
He captured it one-handed and sent it to Dustin in a single motion.
“Your turn.”
Goddammit the kid was so fucking…cool.
Dustin’s face heated, and he turned away quickly as he caught the ball. He took Elliot’s place at the bottom left corner of the key, bounced, scooped, prepped, and shot. Mercifully, it went in. As Elliot moved along to the next position, Dustin said, “Where’d you learn to shoot?”
Elliot caught the ball. “Tell me what your t-shirt means.”
Dustin scoffed and shook his head as the kid made a second shot. He watched his wrist flick at the top of the arc, then stepped forward to catch the ball and tucked it under his arm.
“How about this? If you win, I’ll tell you about Rush. If I win, you tell me where you learned to shoot.”
Rodriguez folded his arms at the top of the key. Dustin could see him trying to work out the game. What does Bennet want? Why does Bennet want that? What’s the angle? Eventually, he shrugged.
“Fine.”
He let Elliot lead. Followed him into position and took each shot. It didn’t take them too long, and Dustin somehow managed to come out ahead.
Elliot snagged the ball on the bounce, spun it once on his fingertip, then tucked it under his arm. He faced Dustin square on and said, “Alright, you win. My friend Diego and I used to go to the court at the park near my house. That’s where I learned to shoot.”
Dustin nodded. “Rush is a band,” he said. “The greatest of all time.” He wasn’t obligated to tell Rodriguez that, but for some reason, he wanted the kid to know.
Elliot turned his eyes down and Dustin thought he caught a smile as he bounced the ball a couple of times. Dustin noticed the way one of the dark curls at the front of his head hid his eyes as he did, and wondered why the fuck he was noticing that.
“Real game now,” said Elliot. “First to eleven.”
Dustin hesitated. Dr. Wu would not approve. But he’d taken his rest days, the gym session this morning had felt solid, and the ibuprofen he’d taken before he came was working. He rolled his shoulder and shrugged. “Fine by me. But I’m handicapped, so take it easy.”
Elliot was faster than he was. He blew past on the first possession and laid it up off the backboard before Dustin could rotate.
But Dustin was bigger. He caught it and answered with a hard shoulder into Elliot’s chest, backing him down the paint, using every pound of his two-ten frame to muscle inside.
“Thought we were taking it easy,” Elliot grunted.
Mm. Dustin had never been very good at that.
The game ramped up even as he tried not to let it. No calls. No mercy. Just elbows on ribs and hips on hips. The sun hammered the blacktop. Heat shimmered up in visible waves. When Elliot spun and jumped and put it in next, the light gleamed off his arms.
He drove back, faster than Dustin could slide, and floated another one in at the other end.
Dustin came right back, using his forearm to clear space.
They collided at full speed – knees on thighs, the smack of sweat-slick shoulders.
Dustin’s lungs burned. His quads screamed from the cuts and stops.
This was fucking stupid – he was definitely not allowed to be doing this – but Elliot’s breath came hot and fast against his neck on every close guard and Dustin wasn’t sure if he was elbowing him backward down the court because he wanted to win, or because the feel of that was weirdly electrifying.
He hadn’t played a real, physical game in a really long time. It felt good to be moving again.
After a fast break that left him gasping, he peeled off his shirt between points, balled it, and tossed it at his bag.
Elliot glanced over, then kept dribbling.
Two possessions later his shirt came off too.
Dustin’s eyes skated over the wings and cross on his chest, and he spotted the word on his ribs that he hadn’t been able to read on Instagram: Salvador.
He remembered the rest of that photo: the oiled skin, the bulge that might have just been a shadow, and put his eyes back on the hoop.
“Who’s Salvador?”
Elliot dribbled once between his legs and passed, not looking at him. “Family.”
Nine-all and Dustin was posted up low with his back to the basket, feet planted wide as Elliot crowded in tight.
His forearm pressed against the small of Dustin’s bare back.
The pressure was slick and solid, Elliot’s breath was hot on the back of his neck again, and Dustin stayed there a second longer than he needed to, letting the heat and closeness settle into his bones.
Not sure why. Just nice to be back in a physical confrontation.
Nice to have physical contact. He turned. Their eyes locked.
His dick thickened so fast in his shorts that his breath caught.
He was half-hard in a sudden rush that stole the air from his lungs. His face went so red so fast it stung, but underneath something raw and electric flared – hot and unfamiliar, and totally overwhelming. He spun away. The shot rattled out.
Okay, so apparently it felt really good to be back in a physical confrontation. Weird. And a little embarrassing.
Elliot grabbed the rebound and pushed. The game kept going, brutal and relentless. They battled to eleven. Rodriguez won by two.
They stood afterward with chests heaving, and sweat pouring down their torsos.
Dustin bent double to catch his breath with his hands on his knees and glanced at the rivulet running down the cross in the middle of Elliot’s chest. A few watchers lingered by the chain-link fence, and the court felt suddenly small and exposed. He looked away.
Why couldn’t he stop looking at Rodriguez’s dumb tattoos?
What was Fatima doing tonight? Did Pakistani-American college students do booty calls?
He walked to his bag, tossed the ball into it, pulled out his water bottle, and sat on the concrete to drink. His hair was sweaty and sticking to his forehead, and as he shoved it back he caught Elliot looking at him.
Dustin held out the water bottle. A slight hesitation, then Elliot scooped up his shirt and came and sat beside him as he took it.
Their fingers touched and electricity shot up Dustin’s arm and into his hair. He didn’t pull away as Elliot’s eyes met his.
Suddenly his mouth went very dry and the air between them felt flammable. Elliot held his gaze and Dustin was almost sure he let his finger linger too.
Elliot swallowed and his lips parted to say something, and a vision slammed into Dustin’s head – Elliot flat on his back on this same concrete, Dustin pushing him down, his mouth on those lips, then his throat, his chest, licking the sweat off his tattoos, out of the creases of his abs, maybe pulling down those stupid purple shorts–
“Ball!” A kid’s high-pitched yell came from the other side of the court, and suddenly a ball was bouncing into his peripherals.
Both of them flinched. The back of Dustin’s neck had ignited and heart was slamming against his throat. What the fuck was happening? Never in his life had he thought about a man that way. Never.
He rolled sideways, grabbed his bag, mumbled goodbye, and left.