The Locker Room

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Yeah, really short,” I add, eyeing her barely-there skirt. “Please tell me you’re wearing something under that.”

  “Nope,” she answers, sipping her beer and then smacking her lips. “I like to feel the wind in my undercarriage when I’m walking.”

  I wince. “Undercarriage? Fuck, I don’t want you to call it that.”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m not a lady of the night, Knox. Of course I have something under this skirt.” She lifts up the side, flashing tiny black boy shorts. “Honestly, I’m going to be a librarian. I need to be sensible.”

  Sensible? More like hot as fuck. I saw partial ass cheek.

  I grip my beer close to my mouth and take a deep breath. “A sensible librarian wouldn’t flash a horny college guy her underwear.”

  “Well, maybe I’m more of a modern-day librarian then.” She winks and starts to walk away.

  “Hey, where are you going?”

  She looks over her shoulder. “I have more people to flash. Don’t think you’re the only lucky one.”

  Damn, that doesn’t sit well with me.

  Not one fucking bit.

  Chapter Four

  EMORY

  “The first week was great, so you have nothing to worry about, Mom.”

  I try to keep my voice down as I walk through campus, not wanting to look like one of those students with a homesick mother—I’ve heard the phone calls in passing before.

  No, Mom, I’m not drinking.

  Yes, Mom, I’m staying out of trouble.

  Of course I’m taking my vitamins.

  I haven’t even touched the condoms you gave me.

  “And Dottie and Lindsay, they’re showing you around?”

  “Yes,” I say in exasperation. “They’re my best friends, who changed dorms to make room for me, do you really think they were going to throw me in a frat party and say good luck?”

  “Maybe,” my mom answers.

  “We worked through everything with Neil. They’re happy I’m here, trust me; if anything, they’re helping me have more fun.” Like going to baseball parties where there are hot baseball players I should stay away from, one “horny” one in particular.

  “Oh? What kind of fun?”

  “You know, getting me to crawl out of my shell. Experience life.”

  I don’t need to mention the whole boob in the hand, passing out with a stranger kind of fun. Nor do I mention the party we went to this past weekend, because there are things parents need to know and things parents don’t need to know. Partying with a bunch of jocks with healthy libidos is not something a mother needs to know about her daughter.

  Even if nothing happened.

  I don’t need the pregnancy lectures, or the packages sent from home full of contraceptives and pamphlets on being a young, single mother.

  Or a letter stating my mom is not ready to be a grandmother yet.

  Yup, all things I’ve received in the mail before, even when I was living at home. I love my mom, but she likes to make a point with a flair for dramatics.

  “As long as you’re being safe then, have fun.”

  “Of course I’m being safe,” I sigh just as I spot a familiar sweatshirt out of the corner of my eye. I glance to the right and make eye contact with Knox Gentry. A smile graces his handsome face, his hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he’s making a beeline for me. Oh hell. “Hey Mom, I have to go. I’m heading into class.”

  “Okay, sweetie. Give me a call later this week so we can catch up some more.”

  “Sure. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I hang up just as Knox reaches me and slings his arm around my shoulder for a brief side hug. “How’s my favorite panther?”

  What’s that heavenly scent?

  Man . . . that’s what it is, just pure man.

  Or Ralph Lauren.

  Because I’m not an ice queen, I return the hug and then pull away while subtly taking in a long whiff of his fresh scent. “Favorite panther? Really? I thought that was the girl you were making out with on Saturday.”

  Yup, after he was all buddy-buddy with me, I saw his lips doing work elsewhere. Not that it matters, we are by no means dating, but it’s nice to know that although he put himself front and center as my welcoming party, he’s not actually caught up in me. I can see now that I lost sight of who I was when I dated Neil. Our worlds revolved around each other a lot. But here, I’m me. I’m not part of Neil and Emory, and I like that freedom. I refuse to believe I caused Neil’s cheating. Sex with him was mediocre at best, and I’ve been released from pretending now. Kind of liberating. So, Mr. Gentry can lip lock with whoever he chooses.

  Not even showing an ounce of shame, he says, “She was a jaguar, huge difference, and we weren’t making out. She kissed me once and I returned it because, why not?” He tugs on my jacket. “Why? Jealous?”

  “Not even in the slightest,” I answer, turning around so I can talk to him while walking backward. “Was interesting seeing your type.”

  “Yeah, and what do you think my type is?” he asks, chin lifted.

  “Really short skirts.”

  He chuckles and then eyes the plaid skirt I have on today—with stockings. “They don’t have to be really short necessarily. I’m good with mid-thigh.”

  Without even thinking about it, I tug on my skirt that lands perfectly at mid-thigh. “Don’t you think you should get to know a girl before you start mentioning skirt length?” I ask, just before I trip over someone behind me.

  Knox reaches out and grabs my hand, steadying me before I take a tumble. He waves to the person I ran into, points at me and says, “Still hungover from Sunday Funday.”

  The guy I ran into doesn’t say anything but instead makes a snotty face and takes off in the other direction.

  “Man, he’s rude,” Knox says before draping his arm over my shoulder again as we continue to walk to the class we share. “When are you going to give me a chance to get to know you, Em?”

  His addicting cologne entices me to stay under his embrace, instead of shrugging him off like I should. But, God, it’s like bathing in a bag of pheromones over here. “You have now.”

  “We are five minutes from class.”

  “Well then, you better start asking questions.”

  “Brutal.” He chuckles but then doesn’t waste any time in getting down to business. “Where did you transfer from?”

  “California.”

  “Cali girl? Explains the skirts. It gets cold here, so I hope you’re ready to pull on some pants.”

  “I gathered that.” Our steps fall in line with each other, and it seems so easy to be walking side by side with him. Strangely, it doesn’t feel as weird as I’d expect. For the last six years, there’s only been one man’s arm that’s hung over my shoulder, and it certainly wasn’t as muscular and solid as Knox’s arm. Neil was barely two inches taller than I am, so I never felt so . . . cradled, for want of a different term. And it’s nice. Freeing somehow. Whereas Neil wasn’t openly warm and tactile, Knox is, and we’re barely friends.

  “Why did you transfer?”

  “Wanted a new beginning.”

  “Someone wrong you?” he asks casually.

  “Ex-boyfriend, but that’s not anything we need to get into right now.”

  Instead of answering right away, Knox pauses and then says, “He’s an idiot for ever letting you go.”

  It should sound like a line, an automatic response a guy would have to get inside a girl’s pants, but it doesn’t come off that way when Knox says it.

  It’s genuine and to be honest, it makes me want to lean in a little closer to this guy.

  “He is an idiot,” I confirm.

  “So, you’re here, starting a new chapter in your life. How’s it going so far?” He opens the door to the lecture hall and ushers me in, sticking close by my side as we make our way through the crowd to our classroom.

  “Well, there’s this guy who I seem to keep running into�
��pretty sure he wants to be the hero in the story—the secondary characters are the best friends a girl can ask for, even though they make her dress like a ‘panther,’ and the story arc seems to be in my favor so far.”

  We reach the classroom, and he opens that door for me as well. Chivalry isn’t dead in this one. “Think the guy you keep running into will become the hero of your story? Solidify it?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “Doubtful, probably just a funny side character.”

  He grips his heart. “Ouch, Ealson, that hurts.”

  I pat his shoulder. “You’ll survive.”

  When I go to sit up front, he snags my backpack, halting me in place. “Where do you think you’re going?” He thumbs toward his friends who are sitting in the back. “We have seats already.”

  “You might, but I prefer to sit in the front.”

  He shakes his head. “Not going to happen. Who else am I going to write notes to?”

  “I bet Carson would enjoy a love letter.”

  Knox turns to look at Carson, who’s waving enthusiastically at us. “Look at that goon, he’ll be heartbroken if you don’t sit with us.”

  “He’ll be heartbroken, or you will be?” I raise a brow in his direction.

  “A man never reveals his true feelings after the fourth encounter. Don’t you know anything about love arcs?”

  “Third,” I correct him smoothly, even though his literary knowledge can easily bring me to my knees.

  He steps down to my level and holds his hand out, ticking off the times we’ve seen each other. “Today, the jungle party, last week’s class . . . and the night your boob tried to run away.”

  I grip his hand and push all his fingers down. “We don’t mention that night.”

  “I might if you don’t sit next to us.”

  “Blackmail? Really, Knox?”

  “It’s not beneath me,” he answers with a charming smile.

  Rolling my eyes and letting out a long sigh, I walk back up the stairs and scoot down the baseball row—that’s what I’m calling it.

  “Ealsonnnn,” Carson says, holding out his hand for a high five. How barbaric a greeting, but I give it a quick snap and sit down. Holt nods in my direction but is still stuck in his phone, texting away. I should get used to seeing the top of his head, because I’ve seen more of his unruly hair, than his actual face.

  Leaning over, Knox whispers, “See, aren’t you happy you’re sitting with us? We’re a good time.”

  “You’re annoying.”

  “Annoyingly fun.”

  Shaking my head, I take out my computer and get ready for class. Looks like I’m adding more secondary characters to my new story . . . just not a hero.

  Knox nudges my arm and grants me his devastatingly good-looking smile.

  Most definitely not a hero.

  * * *

  I hate him.

  I hate him with every fiber in my being.

  Knox Gentry is dead to me.

  “Em, wait up.” He chases after me but I keep up my pace, trying to get as far away from him as possible.

  But my short strides can’t get past his long and powerful ones and before I can get more than ten feet away, he has his arm around me again, laughing quietly to himself.

  “Come on, you can’t be mad at me.”

  “You made me snort in the middle of class when everyone was quiet.”

  He laughs some more. “It’s not my fault that I’m funny.”

  I stop and face him, arms folded across my chest. “Professor Culpepper now knows who I am and not in a good way.”

  “He’s a douche. You don’t need to worry about him.”

  “He asked me what was so funny.”

  “And you gave him an amazing answer.”

  I shift my lips from side to side. “Saying crackling pubescent voices was not an amazing answer.” It was the only thing I could think of on the spot without revealing what Knox wrote on his computer for me to read.

  “It made the entire class laugh.”

  “Yeah, and now he thinks I’m the class clown.” I wave my hand out to the side in anger.

  “Nah, don’t give yourself that much credit. Maybe a witty student, but not the class clown. You have to do way more to earn that title.”

  “Ugh,” I groan and start marching away but don’t get very far once again.

  “Come on, Em, admit it was fun back there.”

  “It was not fun. I’m not sitting by you anymore.”

  “You wound me, Emory Ealson,” Knox calls out. “Where are you going? Come have lunch with me.”

  “Never,” I call out, turning toward him for a brief second, hiding the smile that wants to pass over my lips. He must catch it because before I can turn away, he returns the smile in full force.

  Damn him.

  Damn his smile.

  And damn his notes.

  And thanks to Knox Gentry, I’ll never be able to look at Professor Culpepper the same way. Because when I was least expecting it, while the professor was mid-sentence, Knox so eloquently pointed out a cluster of freckles on Professor Culpepper’s face that had a striking resemblance to the middle finger.

  Look at his face, Ealson. His freckles are telling us to fuck off.

  So, whenever I see him, all I’ll see now is him flipping off anyone who looks him in the face.

  Just absolutely perfect.

  Chapter Five

  KNOX

  “Gentry, my office, now.”

  “Yikes, that doesn’t sound good,” Carson says as he sits next to me, tying his shoes before we head into the weight room.

  “He always sounds like that, like he has clamps on his nipples and doesn’t know how to take them off.”

  “Maybe you can assist him while you’re in the office.” Carson laughs.

  “Little nipple play with Coach Disik? Don’t mind if I do.” I rub my hands together and then stand. “Meet you in the weight room. Don’t get started on the bench until I get there.”

  “Be gentle on the old-man nipples, you don’t want them falling off.”

  I cringe, thinking of dusty, old nipples falling to the floor and curse my friend under my breath for bringing that image into my head right before walking into our coach’s office.

  Brentwood University, well known for their athletic department, was the top school I wanted to attend when being recruited. I knew fresh out of high school I wasn’t ready to be drafted, so it’s why I chose to be recruited by colleges. When Brentwood offered me a full ride, I knew exactly where I was going. The biggest reason? Coach Disik.

  A legend for putting ball players straight from Brentwood into the major league, I wanted to be another notch on his belt of players who came from his “farm system.” Even though these last two years have been hell on earth with the commitment I’ve made to bettering my game, the difference in my play is astronomical, and I can only thank Coach Disik, even if he’s a crotchety bastard with . . . dusty, old-man nipples.

  I knock on his office and wait for his gruff voice to yell out, “Come in.”

  I pull the door open and take a seat in one of the black leather chairs across from his desk. No need for an invitation; I’ve been in his office enough to know the drill. The door clicks behind me and Coach Disik looks up from his computer and folds his hands over his stomach.

  The white goatee that frames his mouth stands out against the deep tan of his skin from being outside for most of his profession. And under the brim of his hat are the scariest pair of light blue eyes you’ll ever see, especially when there’s an error on the field.

  He can make your balls shrivel up to your belly button real fucking quick.

  He lifts his hat and adjusts it back on his head before saying, “What are your plans for your senior year?”

  “Uh . . .” I try to hold back my laugh. “Coach, I’m a junior this year.”

  “I’m not a fucking idiot, Gentry.” Did I mention Coach Disik has no qualms about swearing at his players? You p
robably gathered that from the goatee and life-threatening eyes though. “I’m wondering if you plan on entering the draft after this year or not.”

  “Oh, well, my mom always said earning a degree should be a priority.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “I want to be as prepared as possible.”

  “And do you think another two years under my coaching will prepare you?”

  I shrug, wondering why we’re talking about this. “I want to gain as much knowledge as possible.”

  He nods and leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “I think you’re a damn fool if you don’t turn your name in for the draft after this year.”

  I wasn’t expecting that, but tell me like it is, Coach.

  He leans forward. “You can earn your degree over time while still playing, so that shouldn’t hold you back. Scouts from all over are looking at you, wondering if you’re going to put in for this coming draft. Your stats are among the best in the country, and you’re more than ready to take the next step in your baseball career. There isn’t much more I can teach you here. You need the experience, the challenge, and you’re not going to get that playing college ball. Because you took the college route, you’re eligible for next year’s draft. What I’d like to see you do is take this year to build your strength and agility, perfect your technique, and then after the year is over, jump into the draft. You’ll be picked up in the first round, if not a top pick.”

  “You think so?” My pulse is racing. Playing professionally has been my goal ever since I can remember, and now Coach says it’s a possibility next year . . . hell, my nipples just got hard.

  “Yes. I’ve spoken with scouts. They have their eyes on you.”

  “Who?” I ask, a little too excited.

  “The Bobcats for one.”

  “The Bobcats?” I ask, nearly falling out of my chair. Fuck. “You serious? That’s my fucking dream team.” Growing up just outside of Dallas, I had no right being a Bobcats fan, but my mom was born and raised in Chicago, a huge baseball fan, so I’ve been a diehard Bobcats fan since I can remember. Whenever I played baseball in my backyard, I always pretended I was the starting shortstop for the Bobcats, and to even think that could be a possibility gives me goddamn chills.