The Locker Room

by Quinn, Meghan

  Dottie steps in when Lindsay loses her mind over sports drinks. “They have these amazing showers where steam billows and billows to the point that you’re in this cloudy, sweaty, sex-filled wet room. It’s erotic, in high demand, and rarely offered, but when you do get a golden ticket to the locker room, it’s where dreams come true.”

  Lindsay leans in even closer, her eyes crazy, her mouth twitching. “I heard once a girl orgasmed for five minutes straight up against the shower tiles while water was pouring down on her.”

  “I heard that too,” Dottie confirms. “You could hear her moans from the basketball court.”

  “Yes.” Lindsay gets excited. “The band heard it while practicing. They thought a stray cat was caught in the bleachers or something.”

  “Okay, hold on.” I hold my hands up. “Are you telling me, girls beg and plead to be taken to the men’s locker room to have sex?”

  “Not just any locker room, the baseball locker room. There’s a big difference.”

  “How so?” I ask Dottie.

  She holds up her hand and ticks off her finger. “Basketball is the third most successful sport on campus. They are driven and do well, but their locker room is scum compared to the baseball team.” She holds up two fingers. “Football is the second-best sport on campus and even though we do very well, that locker room is disgusting. Good guys, but their football pads will shrivel your nipples quicker than you can take off your bra.” She holds up her third finger. “Baseball is number one. Recruits come from all over the country to play for Coach Disik, because it’s almost guaranteed you’ll become a major leaguer if you train under him. We win the college world series almost every year. Brentwood is the breeding ground for baseball players, and it’s why they have the nicest locker room. It’s why it’s the sexiest place to be, because if you’re lucky enough to get an invite, that means the guy who takes you there is serious about you.”

  I scoff. “Oh please. I highly doubt any girl who goes to the locker room to have sex is marriage material.”

  Dottie and Lindsay exchange glances. And almost on a whisper, Dottie says, “Every girl who’s gone into the locker room has been married to that player within five years.”

  “Please.” That can’t honestly be true.

  “It’s true,” Lindsay says, backing up Dottie. “It’s like an unspoken rule to all players. You don’t take in one-night stands; you take someone into the locker room that you plan on keeping forever. It’s almost as if it’s a blessing to your relationship.”

  “Like holy water,” Dottie adds, dipping her fingers in her water and flicking it around. “But instead of water blessed by God, it’s electrolytes provided by The Coca-Cola Company.”

  Lindsay looks wistfully toward the ceiling. “I can only imagine what it’s like to be taken in there.”

  “Probably full of fungus and farts.”

  Lindsay points her finger at me sternly. “Don’t you dare ruin this for me. I’m going to get a ticket to that locker room, I just know it.”

  “Don’t you need a guy to invite you? Someone you’re serious with?”

  Smiling, Lindsay says, “Sure do, which leads me to ask, you wouldn’t mind going to the baseball loft this weekend, would you?”

  Dottie rolls her eyes. “She has a thing for one of the freshmen. He has no idea what he’s getting himself into. Poor guy.”

  “A freshman, really?” I couldn’t imagine dating a freshman. Straight out of the high school womb, fumbling and confused. It’s rare to find a guy who’s talented in the bedroom. Not that I’d really know that from firsthand experience. Neil had been my first, and I haven’t bothered with anyone since. Still on the scarred side. It would be nice to go into a fling, knowing there is some experience behind those greedy hands. And especially if they have a dick I can actually feel when it’s erect and inside me.

  “He’s really cute. Has that whole hair-flip thing going on and amazing blue eyes. I don’t mind being his Mrs. Robinson.”

  “Jesus,” Dottie mutters.

  “But you two will go with me? It’s jungle theme this weekend.”

  “What does that even mean?” I ask, frankly a little terrified there’s a party at their loft every weekend, with themes nonetheless.

  “It means we get to dress up as slutty animals. Isn’t that exciting?”

  “Positively thrilling,” I answer sarcastically before shoving another forkful of chicken in my mouth.

  * * *

  I will admit this, the classes at Brentwood are a lot more challenging than back home. I’m in the library more often than not, sneaking in snacks whenever I get the chance.

  I found a study room in the back with a door that no one seems to use, so whenever I’m here, I snag the space, roll out my snacks and water—even though they’re technically not allowed—and spend the rest of my night after my classes studying. I love Dottie and Lindsay, but I’m a little jealous because studying comes easier to them. They just get it. I have a little trouble retaining knowledge, so when we’re in the dorm together, they’re always chatting it up, not giving me a chance to crack open a book. I learned that from the first two nights after school started. Now I hang out in the library, joining them for dinner when I’m done.

  It’s a good routine, a solid one. I still feel a little behind, but it’s only the first week, so I’ll catch up.

  And that’s the reason I’m in the library right now, on a Saturday, writing notes into my notebook when Lindsay and Dottie come barging into my sanctuary.

  “Good God.” I let out a deep sigh. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  Both of them have their hands on their hips as they stare me down. “What are you still doing in the library?”

  Their makeup’s done, hair’s curled, and even though they’re wearing sweats, I know there’s another outfit under their clothes from the jungle-looking makeup they have on.

  “Studying.” I gesture to my books. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “You need to be getting ready for the party tonight.”

  “You know, I was thinking about that.” I lean back in my chair and bite on the tip of my pen. “I think I’m going to skip it tonight, maybe curl up with a book and get lost for a while.”

  “No way,” Dottie says, slamming my book shut while Lindsay starts to pack up my things for me. “You’re not getting out of this party. We lost a lot of years together thanks to Neil the Nimrod, so we have some time to make up. You’re going to that party with us.”

  “But—”

  “Nope.” Lindsay shakes her head. “No excuses. You are going, you’re going to like it, you’re going to drink, you’re going to flirt, and then we’re going to Kennedy Fried Chicken after to eat a bucket of chicken. Do you hear me?” Lindsay is practically lifting me out of my chair as she speaks.

  Bag in hand, both corralling me out of the room, I have no choice but to follow them. “You have two more years with us and then all of this is going to be over and we’re going to have to act like adults,” Dottie continues. “After we graduate, you can turn down the party invites, but until then, your Friday and Saturday nights belong to us with the occasional Sunday Funday and Taco Tuesday.”

  “That’s four out of the seven nights in the week. At that rate, I’ll never graduate. Remember, unlike you two geniuses, I have to study.”

  “Don’t worry.” Lindsay pats my arm. “We won’t let you fail. We might have fun but we also are on the Dean’s List for a reason. It’s the first week, Emory. We have plenty of time to make a dent in the books, and we will, but let’s enjoy being together again.”

  Okay, when she says it like that . . . I guess she’s right.

  We make our way back to the dorms. Since we’re juniors, we still had great choices available for what dorm we wanted to be in so of course we took a brand-new three-person suite. When Dottie and Lindsay were freshmen, they had to live in a two-person bedroom with a shared floor bathroom, so even though our place is small, they’ve r
eassured me we’re living in the lap of luxury.

  Lindsay flings the door open and flops my stuff on the couch before she turns toward me and points to my room. “Your outfit awaits you.”

  Oh boy, this can’t be good.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We can’t let our girl show up to the party without looking properly decked out,” Dottie says and slaps my ass. “Now hurry up. We need to pre-game at The Point first, eat some nachos, then head to the party.”

  “The Point?” I ask, making my way into my room.

  “The bar below the loft. Keep up.”

  Another little shove into my room and my eyes focus on the scraps of fabric laid out on my bed. “You can’t be serious,” I call out.

  “You have half an hour. Make it work,” Dottie calls out and shuts my door.

  Great. Thirty minutes. How on earth will I make sure every part of my body is covered up?

  Chapter Three

  KNOX

  “Does the jungle juice need to be refilled?” I ask, eyeing the Gatorade cooler propped up on the counter where people stand in line for a cup.

  “Orson just refilled it,” Holt says over the booming music.

  I take a sip of my beer because jungle juice is not for me—I get shitfaced every time I drink it and end up flashing my ass. Every time.

  Being one of the designated party houses on campus has its pluses and minuses. We never have to go anywhere when it comes to partying, but we always host, which means making sure our rooms aren’t used for fuck closets and our shit isn’t stolen, because believe it or not, people are assholes.

  Jason Orson is our designated party planner. A sophomore with a knack for stupid ideas, he’s in charge of every party at the loft. And the reason I’m shirtless, looking like Rambo, is because Jason had the brilliant idea of throwing a jungle party. Whatever the hell that means.

  I will admit though, seeing everyone’s interpretation on the jungle theme is rather entertaining. There are some random trees, vine ladies, animals, and then the baseball team who went the Rambo route with cut-up shirts tied around our biceps and heads, Army pants, and war paint brushed all over our bodies. It’s not the worst getup, but we turned the heat off—since people will be in and out—and my nipples are lined up to cut glass.

  “Is your girl coming tonight?” I ask Holt, who keeps scanning the crowd.

  “She said she was going to be here, not sure when.”

  “Is she finally giving in to your annoying texts?”

  He lifts his beer to his lips. “I think she’s humoring me, but I plan on changing that tonight.”

  “Hey,” Carson says, stepping up next to us. “Did you hear that Kavinsky was called up to pitch tomorrow?”

  “No shit,” I say. Frank Kavinsky was our number-one pitcher when I was a freshman. A workhorse obsessed with tea—he swears by it—he’s made his way quickly through the minors with his wicked cutter and solid work ethic. I only had one year with him, but I learned a lot, and I’ve tried to follow in his footsteps, following his work ethic and positive attitude.

  “Looks like all that tea helped.” Carson chuckles. “We still have some of that crap in one of the cupboards if you guys ever need some of his special tea.”

  “I’m good,” I answer, looking to the side to find a familiar face walk through the door.

  Long brown hair, straight and flowing past her shoulders, with the sweetest pink lips I’ve ever seen, Emory Ealson makes her way into the loft wearing a black crop top, black skirt, and whiskers across her blushed cheeks. Is she a cat? In the jungle?

  Doesn’t matter what she is, all that matters is her tits look amazing in that top, and her legs look damn good under that extremely short skirt.

  Carson knocks me in the arm. “Isn’t that the girl from our class?” I nod, licking my lips. “Damn, she’s hot.”

  “Don’t even fucking think about it.” I turn to him, laying my claim.

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “Settle down, man. You practically pissed all around her the other day. I get it. Just don’t make things awkward for us in class.”

  “That happened once.” I roll my eyes. “You think you would have forgotten about that by now.”

  He taps the side of his head. “I never forget that shit, especially when she poured my morning smoothie all over us.”

  “At least we smelled like fruit.” I shrug my shoulders, even though I made a mental note never to get involved with a crazy person again. When she wouldn’t stop licking her lips while talking to me—as if I was a juicy steak ready for the taking—I should have known she’d go psycho on me.

  Lesson learned.

  Carson nudges my shoulder. “Are you going to go talk to her?”

  “Got to be patient, man. Can’t look desperate.” I casually sip my beer.

  “If you don’t talk to her soon, Romeo will swoop in.” Carson points to Brock “Romeo” Romero who has his eyes fixed on Emory as she makes her way through the crowd to the kitchen.

  “Shit,” I groan, causing Carson to laugh as I move toward the kitchen, making a beeline for Emory.

  I bypass a few people trying to get my attention, but instead of stopping to chat like I normally do, I give them a quick smile and hustle to Emory, stepping right in front of Romeo as he’s about to step up, giving him an old-fashioned cockblock before he can make a move.

  “Didn’t know I’d see you here,” I say as a greeting, making a quick glance toward Carson, who’s laughing with Holt, both aware of how I boxed out Romeo.

  Whatever. Romeo is a sophomore, so he can suck my taint for all I care. I have seniority.

  Not even looking up at me, Emory reaches for a cup and says, “My friends dragged me here.” When she goes for the jungle juice, I stop her, pulling her gaze in my direction.

  “Plan on stripping down for everyone to see you naked tonight?”

  “Huh?” she asks, a cute crinkle to her nose.

  “I suggest you stay away from this stuff unless you want to get seriously drunk.”

  “Is that so?” She eyes me suspiciously. “Well, I have to study tomorrow, so I prefer not to be hungover.”

  Her voice is so sweet, with a touch of sass to it. I like it a lot.

  “You can have one of my beers.” I reach behind me to the fridge that one of the freshmen is protecting—you always have someone standing guard—and I grab a beer for her. I pop the top and hand it over.

  “Bud Light?” she asks in a distasteful tone.

  “Did you think you would be getting a microbrew? It’s a college house.”

  “Still”—she takes a sip and cringes—“I thought you’d have a little more class.”

  “You’re giving me too much credit.” I nod my head toward the corner of the loft where there are less people. When she doesn’t initially follow me, I turn back around, grab her hand like I had to in class, and pull her across the loft until we’re settled in the corner. I lean against the wall and prop one leg behind me.

  She eyes me, giving me a full once-over.

  I do the same.

  She’s damn hot, and I’m regretting my actions last Saturday, passing out mid grope.

  Finally she says, “You seem to have lost your shirt.” She motions with her finger over my bare chest.

  I look down at her legs and reply, “Must be where the other half of your skirt is.”

  “Think they’re making out in a laundromat somewhere?” She takes a sip of her beer and cringes again. A few more sips and she’ll get used to it; always happens for me.

  “If they are, I hope they use the gentle cycle.”

  Her brow pulls together. “Not sure if that makes sense.”

  “Oh, because half of a skirt and a shirt making out in a laundromat does?”

  “In children’s books, sure.”

  “What kind of perverted children’s books did you read growing up?” I counter.

  “You know, the classics,” she answers causally. “One Fish, Two Fish,
Red Fish, Blue Fish and Skirt and Shirt, Lovers for Life.”

  “Ah, yes, I forgot about that passionate yet eye-opening youth literature that took the New York Times by storm.”

  “I have five signed first-edition copies in a box in my parents’ attic. Banking on them to clear out my student loans.” She sips her beer, flips her hair behind her shoulder, glances at my chest again.

  “Five?” I answer sarcastically. “Damn, forget college loans, you’re set for life.”

  “You think?” She glances around. “What the hell am I doing here then?”

  “To see me of course,” I answer with a smile.

  She rolls her eyes. “More like dragged to this party because my roommate has a crush on one of your freshmen.”

  “Yeah, which one?” I look over her head, eyeing all the partygoers.

  “No idea, but apparently he has amazing blue eyes.”

  “Amazing, huh? Has to be Gunner. I was even stunned by his eyes when he was recruited.” No joke, the dude won the lottery for irises. I’m even jealous with how . . . aqua they are.

  “Not ashamed to admit that?” she asks, shifting on her heels.

  “Not even a little.” I give her another once-over, taking in her long, toned legs, her smooth stomach, thankfully visible due to her why-bother-wearing-me top. Her body is drop-dead gorgeous, but when you reach her eyes, they speak nothing of vixen, rather more like pure innocence. A total contradiction that has my mind reeling. “So, what are you supposed to be? A cat?”

  She glances at her outfit and sighs, taking another sip of her beer. She almost seems bored to be at the party. “I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be a panther but my roommates fell short in the costume department.”