The Locker Room

by Quinn, Meghan

  Feel my nipples, seriously, so fucking hard.

  “Keep it in your pants, Gentry,” Coach says, making me chuckle. “It’s a possibility, but you have to continue to work hard, don’t let up, and don’t settle.”

  “I won’t, Coach, you know I won’t. I’m the first one to show up for practice and the last one to leave. I spend more hours in the batting cages than anyone, I practically have a marriage with one of the batting tees.”

  “I do recall you proposed to it last year.”

  “She’s been so loyal, I had to do something.”

  He shakes his head and then pushes a few papers around on his desk. “Enough with the bullshit. Stay focused, set a good example, and show the underclassmen what it takes to make it to the majors.”

  “I can do that.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less, that’s why I’m naming you captain this year.”

  “Seriously?” I ask, my brows raising in surprise. I had an inkling I’d be named captain, but it still surprises me.

  Seriously, when Coach called me into his office, I had the brief thought that maybe he heard about the stupid jungle party and wanted to lecture me about it. Not this.

  “Yes, you’ve earned the title, just don’t fuck it up now.”

  “I won’t.” I grab the back of my neck. “Wow, Coach, I’m honored.”

  “You know the title comes with responsibility, right? Not only showing up on the field, but off it too. You’re in charge of Thursday study hall, making sure all the underclassmen are paired up with an upperclassman so our team is succeeding in the classroom as well as on the field.”

  “Yes, just like Justin last year.”

  “Exactly. Keep the boys in line, which means tamping down the . . . jungle parties.”

  My face blanches as Coach rolls his eyes.

  “You guys think I’m an idiot, but everything you do in that loft is reported back to me, so don’t be fucking morons, you understand?”

  “Yeah, sure. I mean . . . we can party still, right?”

  “As long as it’s not under the twenty-four-hour rule when the season starts and you do it responsibly. If I hear any stories about shit going wrong at one of your parties, I will break up that loft quicker than you can saddle your dick in your jockstrap. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “Good.” He leans back in his chair again and for the first time since I’ve known him, he smirks. “You’re going places, Gentry. Just make sure to send me tickets to your first big league game.”

  “You’re one of the firsts on my list.”

  He nods then says, “Get out of here and go lift. Time to step it up to another level.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Coach; I’m already bringing it this year.”

  I take off and head toward the weight room with extra pep in my step.

  Captain. The Big Leagues. Hell, that conversation couldn’t have gone any better.

  Pictures of previous student athletes flank the hallways, reminding me of the rich athletic history within these walls. My photo might be up here one day. My mom would love that. It’s rare when Coach Disik has any seniors on his team, because his players are usually drafted after their junior year. I knew I had the potential to be drafted after my junior year, but to know it’s closer to reality is fucking incredible.

  This changes everything. My entire outlook over the next year. Me.

  I was going to grind anyway, but now that I have a chance of accomplishing my biggest goal, I know where my head will be all year: on the field, in the weight room, and putting time in the cages.

  “Oh shit, what happened?” Carson asks, taking in my concentrated brow when I walk into the weight room.

  Still in shock, I hop onto the exercise bike next to him and start warming up my limbs. “He named me captain.”

  “Seriously? Holy shit, that’s huge.”

  “He also said I need to enter the draft after this season.”

  “Could have told you that,” Carson says, laughter in his voice. “You’re going places, man, just don’t try to take my kneecaps out when we’re playing against each other and you’re sliding into second in the big leagues.”

  I smile at my friend, who has exactly the same potential as me. “I can’t make any promises.”

  Chapter Six

  EMORY

  I pat my skirt down and sit tall in my chair, hoping I don’t mess this up.

  Mrs. Flower scans my résumé and questionnaire, her lips pursed, showing off her lipstick that’s in desperate need of a touch-up. The color has fallen in the cracks of her lips, drying out and making her look a little impish.

  Her lipstick is pretty much the only thing I can read on this woman. Talk about a poker face. If it wasn’t for the abundance of wrinkles marring the corners of her eyes, I would think she was injected full of Botox from how expressionless she is.

  I’m dying to know what she thinks. The silence is slowly eating away at me. Is she impressed? Annoyed? I don’t have much experience working in a library, only a year, but that should be good enough for an internship, right?

  I heard all the desired internships are within the athletic department, so working in the library should be a piece of cake, but then again, judging by the way Mrs. Flower has a perpetual crease between her eyes while reading my résumé, I’m going to assume it’s not as easy as I initially thought.

  Dottie is interning with her dad’s multi-billion-dollar corporation whereas Lindsay, studying to be a teacher, is applying for internships at local schools. She was tempted to apply for an intern position in the equipment room at the sports events center, but we talked her out of that pretty quickly.

  It’s been a few weeks since we started school and even though Lindsay might be slightly obsessed with going to the baseball loft every weekend, we’ve been able to curb her craving by taking the train into Chicago on the weekends and exploring the city, doing touristy things like taking pictures in front of “The Bean” and catching some pretty amazing off-Broadway shows—courtesy of Dottie’s dad. If it wasn’t for her very wealthy father, we would be spending the weekends kicking a tossed-up piece of paper around on the floor. But he’s always treated us as his daughters and spoils us. I’m not mad about it, nor do I forget how grateful I am to have such great friends in my life.

  Slowly, Mrs. Flower sets the résumé down and stares me in the eyes through her red thick-framed glasses. I try not to wither under her gaze but hold strong instead.

  “How are you with authority?”

  “Handling authority or being authoritative myself?”

  “Being authoritative,” she says, eyes narrowing in. There’s no question, Mrs. Flower—despite the fluffy last name—has no problem holding a firm upper hand. I’m pretty sure she patrols the library, occasionally bending over to pull the ruler out of her ass only to slap students across the tops of their hands with it.

  “I don’t have a problem with it, especially with peers. I don’t like rule breakers.” Solid answer.

  She slams her hand on the desk, nearly causing me to piddle myself. By God, I think I just tooted from sheer surprise. Hold it together, Emory.

  “Situation,” she yells. What’s happening? “You are returning books in the history section, and you hear giggling. You turn down the aisle of local history and see two hooligans fondling each other. Pants at ankles, bra on the floor, what do you do?”

  Oh Jesus, okay, I see what she’s doing. Better ways to interview, but I’m not going to point that out. Being that Mrs. Flower has her dress shirt buttoned all the way up her neck, I shouldn’t be surprised by her question. Thankfully when going over interview tactics with Dottie, she told me to take a few seconds before answering so I don’t say something stupid. For instance, my initial answer to Mrs. Flower’s question was oddly, “Slap the guy on the bare ass with an encyclopedia and reprimand him for being indecently exposed in public.” I’m going to guess that’s not the answer she’s looking for. />
  Think . . .

  Naked. Penis.

  Naked penis.

  A picture of a hot dog comes to mind and I hold back a snort while curbing my lips down into a frown to avoid any type of smile.

  Clearly I’m still far too immature to be doing grown-up things.

  Okay, she wants authority; here is my version of being authoritative . . .

  “I would, uh”—shit, don’t pause, it shows weakness—“I would take a picture on my cell phone”—ha! Good one—"then tell them to get dressed and follow me to your office or else I will take the picture to the Dean.”

  She leans back in her chair, observing me.

  Lips purse.

  Hands fold over her desk.

  Brows sharpen.

  Okay, not the best answer. Threatening to expose someone’s bare butt isn’t kosher, nor allowed I’m sure, but then again, I wasn’t really expecting that question. How do you apprehend fornicators in the library? They’ll just bolt. Hell, I’ve shamefully done it before with Neil. You get caught, but you run for your life, your belts jingling as you trot in shame.

  “You would take a picture?”

  Nervously, I laugh. “I know it’s not the best solution, but it’s the only way I could think of that would hold them accountable for their actions rather than running away.”

  Mrs. Flower drums her fingers on the desk. “I’m not in the market to expose nudes, Miss Ealson.”

  Shit.

  I saw that coming.

  She probably thinks I’m a pervert, cruising around college libraries, collecting nudies from unsuspecting students. Granted, what an amazing coffee table book idea, but catching new adults with their pants around their ankles is not a hobby of mine.

  Although, after tanking this interview, I might very well make it one.

  “I know, I’m not sure why—”

  “But I want justice.” She slams her fist on her desk, startling me once more—all toots held in this time. At least there’s a minor win I can mark in the pro column. “Which means if my new intern carries her phone around with her to snap pictures of these horny hooligans that run rampant in my library, then so be it.” She pushes a piece of paper across the desk and says, “You’re hired. You start tomorrow. Bring your phone, fully charged. I expect good things from you, Miss Ealson.”

  What?

  I blink a few times.

  Did I just hear her right?

  Hired?

  Holy. Shit.

  “Seriously? I got the internship?”

  “Yes, now stop wasting my time, I have things to do.” When she glances at me, she picks up her number two pencil and points it directly at me as she speaks. “Don’t let me down, Miss Ealson. I want you to bring the hammer down on these college students. My library is not for sex.”

  “Understood.” I stand. “Trust me, when I’m on watch, there will be no fondling of penises in these sacred walls.”

  From the disgusted look on her face, I immediately know we’re not at that stage of our working relationship. No mention of penis. Got it.

  I apologize. “I’m sorry I said fondling penises. I won’t say that again.”

  She points to the door behind me. “Just leave before I change my mind.”

  “Sure, yup. Thank you.” I bow for some stupid reason. At this point, I barely have a hold on what my body does. “Have a good day, see you tomorrow. Yippee.”

  Hell, Emory, don’t say yippee.

  She glares at me one more time before I shut the door behind me. I lean against it a few seconds, clutching my folders to my chest. That almost seemed too easy. And maybe I was one of very few candidates for the internship, but I will take whatever I can get. It’s one more step closer to achieving my goal. This experience will grant me so many more opportunities when I graduate.

  Time to charge up that cell phone.

  * * *

  “Hey, Ealson, wait up.”

  That voice. I would know it anywhere by now. Knox is jogging up to me wearing athletic pants, a tight Under Armour shirt that clings to every part of his chest, and a backward hat. He’s sweaty with rosy cheeks, and a giant smile lights up his face. I will say this about the man, he wears casual well . . . really well.

  Iced coffee in hand, I pause and let him quickly bring me into a hug.

  “Ew, gross.” I push at his chest. “You’re all wet.”

  “It’s called hard work.” He laughs and pulls away, glancing at my outfit. “Hot skirt, Em, how many of those do you have?”

  “More than you need to know about.” Resuming my walk to the dorms, he follows closely next to me. For a college campus so big, it’s surprising how many times I run into him. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he implanted a personal tracker on me somewhere.

  Note to self: scan body for personal trackers when I get back to my dorm.

  “Are you coming this weekend?” he asks.

  “Coming where?”

  “We’re having a party at the loft.”

  I bring my drink to my mouth but it’s quickly snagged from my hand. In shock, I watch Knox take a long pull from the straw.

  “Hey, that’s mine.”

  “I know, but didn’t you learn it’s nice to share?” He takes another sip before I steal it back. With the underside of my shirt, I wipe the straw, giving it a good cleaning.

  “I don’t have fucking cooties, Ealson.”

  “I don’t know that,” I reply with a lift to my chin. “Who knows where your mouth has been?”

  “I’ll tell you one place it hasn’t been, that it desperately wants to go.” He wiggles his brows at me and glances down at my crotch.

  Men.

  I pick up my pace, trying to gather some distance, but it’s useless. The guy has the longest legs ever and pulls me into his chest, arm draped over my shoulders. It’s a position I’m starting to become accustomed to when it comes to Knox Gentry.

  “Are you coming to the loft this weekend?”

  “Eh, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have plans,” I answer curtly. Plans that include watching videos of jumping goats on YouTube. That shit is hysterical.

  “What kind of plans?”

  “Just plans.”

  He steps in front of me, becoming a human roadblock. With a lift of my chin, he forces me to look him in his devastatingly handsome face. “Tell me what your plans are because I don’t believe you.”

  Shit.

  How convincing is an addiction to goat videos?

  Hell, I don’t have any plans. None at all. I’m actually pretty sure the girls wanted to go to the loft this weekend since we haven’t partied in a few weekends, but I don’t want Knox to know that. He’s utterly too cocky and confident and already got his way when it comes to sitting next to me in class. And I truly have no idea why he’s bothering with that. I’ve told him I’m not interested, and there are many other girls who would be. Odd man.

  I’ve tried sitting in the front, but he joins me. And when I purposefully didn’t show up until one minute before class and sat as far away from him as possible, he switched seats. He’s relentless. And maybe we haven’t “talked” in class, but he keeps writing me notes, and for the life of me I can’t seem to turn away from his computer to see them. It’s really annoying.

  “Uh, you know . . .” Why am I not good at thinking on my feet? “Washing my hair.”

  He snorts.

  In my face.

  And then tilts his head back and laughs.

  I can’t even be mad about it. If I wasn’t trying to pass off my idiotic answer as the truth, I’d be laughing too.

  “Ealson, nice try. You’re coming to the party. I expect you there.”

  I prop a hand on my hip. “Oh, so because you expect me there, that means I have to be there?”

  “No, but as a friend, it would be nice if you were there.”

  “I’m your friend now? When did that happen?”

  He sighs and grips my sh
oulders. “Why are you so difficult?”

  “Why are you so sure of yourself? You don’t always get what you want, Knox.”

  “Clearly.” He pushes his hand through his hair, his forearm rippling from frustration. “How about this, we grab something to eat before the party and if you decide you want to come after that, then you can.”

  “Soo . . . now you’re doubling down on the time you want me to spend with you?”

  He smirks. “Is that so much of a hardship?”

  “Yes,” I answer sharply and make my way around him. It’s not actually hard to spend time with him, but I’m really not interested in his pursuit of me. I refuse to put a man like him on my radar. Nada. Nope. Although, he is fun to tease.

  “Come on, Ealson. Say you’ll come.”

  I turn around and smile. “And here I thought you were the type of guy who’d tell me when I can come.” I shrug as his jaw drops to the pavement. “Oh well. Catch you later, Gentry.”

  Chapter Seven

  EMORY

  Whap. Whap.

  Lindsay’s fist pounds against my door. “Four hours and counting. Finish up that studying, because you’re going with us whether you like it or not.” She’s been relentless all day.

  I rub my hand across my forehead and lean back in my chair, my eyes going blurry from all the words I’ve read and highlighted and then rewritten in my notebook . . . because that’s the kind of studier I am. I can’t simply read it and highlight. I have to rewrite it, sometimes twice, for it to become engrained in my head. I go through notebooks like crazy from all the rewriting, but it’s the only way I know how to learn.

  And typing doesn’t work. I have to physically write it in order for it to absorb.

  It’s why my hand has a cramp right now.

  I’ve been studying since nine this morning. After we stumbled out of the dining hall fresh from breakfast, I locked myself in my room and cracked open my books. I took a small break when Dottie—the good friend she is—brought me some cheddar broccoli soup for lunch. Now that it’s five, my stomach is grumbling, and I’m ready to take another break.