“It’s the girl, isn’t it?” he asks, not sugarcoating anything.
“Yup.” I stick my hands in my hoodie pocket and slouch in the chair.
“Do I want to know?”
“You don’t need to worry about anything, because she broke things off with me so I can focus on baseball.”
“Smart girl.” He leans back, holding a pen in his hand, occasionally clicking it, the sound grating on my nerves. “You need to focus, Gentry. You’ve come too far to throw it all away now.”
“I’m not throwing it away,” I say, being assertive for the first time in front of Coach.
He stays calm. “No? Then tell me what happened at practice today, because you couldn’t catch a goddamn grounder or throw a guy out if your life depended on it.”
“Everyone has an off day.”
“Not you.” He shakes his head. “You’re impenetrable. It’s why I recruited you. It’s why you’ll be drafted as one of the first prospects this summer. You’ve never let an outside factor encroach on your play, which is also why I made you captain and put you in charge of those asshats.” He gestures toward the locker room. “You’re one of the greats, so don’t lose that edge right before your big goddamn moment.”
I look down at my sweats, hating that I’m about to say this, but Coach needs to know. “I loved her. The first girl that ever made me feel something. She gave me air outside of baseball. She improved my game, not impeded it.”
“She is now.”
“Because she broke up with me. Fuck.” I sit up, growing irritated. “I’m allowed to be a human with feelings.”
Coach Disik studies me for a few beats before tossing his pen on his desk and folding his hands over his stomach. “You’re right, you’re allowed to be human, and that’s why I’m going to give you the day off tomorrow. Figure your shit out, and don’t have another day on the field like you did today, do you hear me?”
“What? You want me to take the day off?” I ask, thoroughly confused.
“Yes. Wallow, eat shit food, do whatever you need to do to refresh and get back here. And I’m only doing this because since I’ve known you, you’ve never missed a practice and you’ve never denied staying late or coming early. I need your head in the game, Gentry. Find it tomorrow and then return to the man I know you are.” He nods toward the door. “Now get out of here before you start bawling like a baby. That shit makes me uncomfortable.”
“I’m not going to bawl,” I say, standing from my seat. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Yeah, well, I once lost someone I cared about deeply, so I know how it is.” A rare confession from the relentlessly driven, uncompromising man.
“Sorry to hear that.” I bite my bottom lip and try to add a joke to ease the tension that’s built up in the room. “Don’t worry though, Coach, she wants to be friends.”
That grants me a straight-up guffaw from the old man. Head tilted back, a shake in his shoulders. “Fuck, they always want to be friends. Don’t women know that’s impossible?”
“Well, she’s bound and determined.”
“Good luck with that. Don’t let her give you false hope.”
“I won’t.” Because even though the last thing I want to be is friends with the woman I love, I would never break a promise I made her.
Friends always.
At least that’s what I thought, but promises fade, and eventually . . . so do friendships.
* * *
My bedroom door flies open, and Holt and Carson stand on the other side, determined looks in their eyes as they take me in.
I’ve had better days.
I don’t need to look in the mirror to know there’s Oreo crumbs and milk paste ringing my lips, nor do I need to lift my armpit to know things are a bit ripe at the moment.
“I tried to stop him,” Holt says before Carson hops on my bed and whacks an empty package of Oreos off my stomach.
“You need to take her to the locker room.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, dragging my hands over my face. “I don’t believe in that shit.”
“Start believing, because it will fix everything.”
I sit up and press my back against my headboard. “A fictional belief that magical powers are hidden in the walls of our locker room is not going to fix anything. Emory’s mind is made up, she doesn’t want to be with me.”
“Bullshit, she does. We all know she does. But you need to sprinkle some of the magic on her to convince her. I have a whole plan.”
“I told him to leave you alone,” Holt says, arms crossed and leaning against the opening of my door. “Clearly, he didn’t listen to me.”
Not paying Holt any attention, Carson continues, “Believe the legend or not, but every girl that’s been taken into the locker room has ended up with a ring on their finger from the respective player who gave her an invite. If you can get Emory to give you one more shot, meet up with you, we can get her in there and let the walls do their magic.”
I stare blankly at Carson. What the fuck is he thinking?
“You’ve lost your goddamn mind. You told me you agreed with Emory, approved of her sacrifice for me. I’m not fucking taking her to the locker room hoping she’ll want to be my girlfriend again. That’s just fucked, man.” Christ, we didn’t have sex when we were together, so there’s no way . . .
“You never know until you try. I have a plan, we can find her on campus, tell her you’re hurt—girls love rescuing guys in pain—lead her to the locker room, and that’s where you flip her skirt up and diddle her right there against the shower walls. She’ll have the best orgasm of her life—”
“For fuck’s sake, Carson, shut up. Stop this. Stop disrespecting Emory.” I shake my head. I hate this. “She gave up on us. It’s done. Period.”
Silence falls. I’ve never spoken like this to Carson. I can see he’s just as surprised as I am.
“Let’s go, man,” Holt says, eyes on me. He gets me.
“You’re not even going to consider my idea?”
“No.”
Frustrated, Carson hops off my bed while shaking his head. “You know, you think it’s a joke, but that locker room has powers, mark my words. You’re going to regret this.”
I lift my arm and point to the door. “Go. Now.” I’m so pissed off. What was Carson thinking?
They both exit the room and I slump back into bed.
The only thing I’m going to regret is pursuing Emory Ealson in the first place. I should have left her alone that first day on campus. I should have let her find her own way.
But with the way her innocent and timid eyes looked at me, fuck, I couldn’t have walked away. I wanted to know more about her, and I didn’t relent until I did.
A lot of good that did me.
Now, I’m left with a broken heart, an idiotic plan to get the girl to fall for me again—so not using it—and a stomach full of Oreos that didn’t even taste good going down.
Great, she ruined fucking Oreos for me.
Chapter Thirty
One Month Post Breakup
Emory: Good luck in Texas. Tell your mom I said hi.
Knox: Thanks, we’re at the airport right now. I hate traveling with the team. Everyone stares at us, because we have to wear the same warmup gear.
Emory: You hate people staring at you? That’s hard to believe.
Knox: I’m so shy, can I bury my head in your tits?
Emory: You know there isn’t enough room to accommodate your massively sized head . . . and ego.
Knox: From what I remember—drunk, passed out with tit in my hand—you have enough weight in those tits to handle me.
Emory: No flirting.
Knox: Wow, you consider that flirting? Where the hell was I going wrong telling you instead how beautiful you are? Note to self, talk about Emory’s boob weight.
Emory: Stahhhhhhp.
Knox: If you want to talk about my dick weight, feel free.
Emory: I don’t want to embarrass you.
K
nox: Oh, I see what you did there, implying my dick is small. Well, I think you know that’s not the truth.
Emory: Wouldn’t know, never had it in any of my holes.
Knox: I literally just spit my drink all over Carson. Now he’s pulling at my pants, trying to trade. Thanks a lot.
Emory: You’re welcome. Safe flight.
* * *
Two Months Post Breakup
Knox: Carson said he saw you in the library today.
Emory: Wow, cool story, bro.
Knox: I wasn’t done typing.
Emory: . . . I’m waiting.
Knox: He said you were talking to some girl who was trying to date me, telling her I have a small, un-weighted penis. What’s that shit about, buddy?
Emory: Was he drunk? Because that never happened.
Knox: Pretty sure it did.
Emory: No, it didn’t. It was in the quad, not the library.
Knox: Why do you have to ruin my jokes? You take things too far.
Emory: Let me guess . . . you’re going to need to cry in my bosom again?
Knox: It’s only fucking fair. I’m so distraught, so please bring your tits to me.
Emory: There’s more to my body than my boobs, Knox.
Knox: What’s that? Sorry, I was staring at a picture of you in a bikini top you posted on social media.
Emory: What did I tell you about flirting?
Knox: Hey, friends flirt. I flirt with Carson constantly. I think we’re one dick pic away from making out on Saturday, which reminds me, are you coming to the party?
Emory: No. Lindsay, Dottie, and I are going to a show in Chicago, courtesy of Dottie’s dad.
Knox: And how come I wasn’t invited?
Emory: Because last time I saw you in person, you “accidentally” kissed me at a party.
Knox: I tripped, thank God your lips were there to catch me.
Emory: You pulled me into a corner and made out with me . . . for an hour.
Knox: Uh, it takes two people to make out, so point that accusatory finger right back at yourself, ma’am. And you were the one who had their hand up my shirt.
Emory: It was a weak moment for me.
Knox: Want to have another one tonight?
Emory: No.
Knox: Come on, like old times, let’s grind it out and hey, if my dick accidentally slides into you, then so be it.
Emory: It’s nice to see how delusional you are.
Knox: Apparently only where you’re concerned.
* * *
Five Months Post Breakup
Knox: You left your bra here last night.
Emory: Throw it out. I’m never coming to another party again.
Knox: Why? I had one hell of a time catching up with my friend.
Emory: Because, we can’t do that anymore.
Knox: What? Make out, feel each other up, and then watch you sprint out of my room, leaving me with blue balls? I agree, let’s get naked next time.
Emory: You sucked on my nipples.
Knox: And fuck have I missed those nipples.
Emory: Seriously, no more parties. You’re lethal at those. We are just friends.
Knox: Yeah, well aware. You tell me every time I see you.
Emory: Well, I just want to make sure you remember. It seems like you tend to forget whenever we’re near each other.
Knox: It’s because I’ve never in my life wanted anyone more than I want you.
Emory: Knox . . . please don’t say things like that.
Knox: You can ask me to stop, but I never will. I’ll never stop wanting you.
* * *
Six Months Post Breakup
Emory: Are you nervous?
Knox: No, but I wish you were here.
Emory: I flew home early.
Knox: I know, without saying bye.
Emory: Please don’t be mad. I don’t think I could have said bye in person.
Knox: You owed me a proper goodbye, Emory, but instead you snuck away.
Emory: I didn’t sneak away, I . . . hell, I didn’t trust myself. The distance is good.
Knox: The distance is bullshit.
Emory: Knox, don’t. This is a huge day for you, and I want to celebrate it.
Knox: If that’s how you truly feel, you’d be here.
Emory: Don’t start a fight, please.
Knox: What the fuck, Emory? Two weeks ago, you were in my bed, letting me hold you all night and then you just up and leave without even a goddamn goodbye? And then text me out of the blue as if everything is okay? It’s not fucking okay. You’re fucking with my head.
Emory: I’m fucking with your head? You’re the one who keeps tempting me, stroking my arm, leaning in to me to whisper in my ear. I can only be so strong, Knox. This isn’t fucking easy on me either.
Knox: And yet, here we are, acting as “friends.” Great plan.
Emory: Don’t be an asshole. You promised friends first.
Knox: Because I wanted in your pants, not because I wanted to be friends.
One hour later.
Knox: Emory, I didn’t mean that.
Knox: Please, don’t shut me out. I’m sorry. I’m just so goddamn frustrated with this entire situation. I miss you. You didn’t say bye. Fuck, I want you here.
Knox: Answer your phone.
Knox: Em, please . . .
Emory: Congratulations on being drafted. The Bobcats are lucky to have you. Good luck.
Knox: Emory, please answer your goddamn phone.
Knox: Em, please. You promised friends forever.
* * *
One Year Post Breakup
Knox: Trained with Coach Disik over winter break. Heard he asked Mrs. Flower out on a date. Did you know that?
Emory: He’s been coming into the library to “check out” baseball books. I had to direct him on where to find them. He wanted nothing to do with those books and everything to do with Mrs. Flower.
Knox: He said he’s never seen anyone more beautiful in his life.
Emory: Why does that make me want to throw up a little in my mouth?
Knox: Because you always thought she looked like a praying mantis.
Emory: Yup, that’s it.
Knox: Sorry I missed seeing you.
Emory: Yeah.
* * *
Two Years Post Breakup
Knox: Coach and Mrs. Flower eloped? What?
Emory: News of the century.
Knox: Were you invited?
Emory: No, my internship has been over for a bit.
Knox: Oh . . . what are you doing now?
Emory: Working at a local school library, getting my hours in.
Knox: Cool, just like you wanted.
Emory: Yeah. Seems like you’re doing good at spring training.
Knox: Fingers crossed I get called up.
Emory: You will.
* * *
Three Years Post Breakup
Emory: Congrats on starting. Are you nervous?
Knox: Nah, feels like I belong here.
Emory: You do.
* * *
Four Years Post Breakup
Emory: Mia Franco? Wow, is she as nice as she seems in person?
Knox: She’s pretty cool. Keeping tabs on me?
Emory: It’s hard to miss your picture on the gossip magazines with the most famous actress of our generation.
Knox: I hate those things.
Emory: Well, you’re bound to be on them if you’re dating Mia Franco.
* * *
Five Years Post Breakup
Knox: I ate an entire package of Oreos for dinner. Thought you would appreciate that.
Emory: Still addicted?
Knox: Yeah, and now I have Mia addicted too.
Emory: She needs to eat some. #TooSkinny
Knox: Don’t hate.
* * *
Six Years Post Breakup
Knox: I’m drunk.
Emory: And I’m waiting for Harvey to get home.
Knox: Who the fuck
is Harvey?
Emory: My boyfriend. Didn’t you read my Christmas card?
Knox: Too painful.
Emory: Well, he’s my boyfriend. Hey, sorry to hear about you and Mia.
Knox: Sure you are.
* * *
Seven Years Post Breakup
Knox: Happy Birthday.
Emory: Thanks.
Chapter Thirty-One
EMORY
Eight Years Later
“I’m not reading that book again.” Cora flops on the desk chair next to me and tosses Mother Bruce, this week’s story-time book on the desk. “I love Bruce, I really do, that bear owns my heart. But I can’t stomach telling it again, especially when the kids don’t appreciate the effort I put into telling the story. The boys constantly try to pinch each other and the girls are always doing each other’s hair. This isn’t a free-for-all, it’s story time.”
I chuckle, pushing my paperwork to the side and turning toward my good friend. Cora started working at Cedar Pine Elementary a year after me, once Mrs. Gunderson retired after thirty years of service. She taught me everything I know, and somehow the stars aligned and I became head librarian while Cora is secondary. Together, we are an unstoppable duo. We delight students with fun and interesting stories, we teach them problem-solving techniques in conjunction with their in-classroom lessons, and most importantly, we make reading fun.
We’ve dedicated ourselves to making this the best library in the state of Illinois. Our library is quaint with bruised and battered books, but we go above and beyond, using our own salaries to decorate the library and turn it into something magical.
I live quite modestly in a studio apartment just outside of the city. I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do—educate children through literature, so I’m happy.
The Locker Room Page 24
