The Locker Room

by Quinn, Meghan

  When I first truly met him on the quad. That smile when he peeled the map off his face.

  That first kiss, in the dining hall when everyone around us faded away.

  The night he held me when I had a migraine.

  The parties.

  The joking.

  The lust-filled glances.

  It’s like a memory reel on fast forward, spinning through my mind as I sink into the most delicious pair of lips I’ve ever tasted.

  I’ve missed this. How could I not when I never stopped loving him? He wasn’t a college fling, or a steppingstone to the next man in life, because Knox will always be the man.

  His mouth slows, his tongue gradually dragging over mine before he pulls out and takes a step away, leaving me pinned against the wall, chest heaving, nipples aching for his touch.

  In disbelief of what he did, he takes one more step back, as if he doesn’t trust himself.

  “Fuck,” he says under his breath while turning around. “Fuck,” he says a little louder.

  “Knox—”

  “I swear to God, Em, if the next words out of your mouth are we shouldn’t have done that, I’m going to lose my motherfucking shit.” His back is tense, his shoulders practically kissing his ears from the tension in them.

  “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “Then what were you going to say?” He turns to face me, stress written all over his gorgeous face.

  He’s struggling. He doesn’t want to want me, but he does. I can see the indecision in his eyes with a small hint of need.

  I have a decision to make, another big one. I can either walk away from this man, and try to set him free from this hold we have on each other, or I can put my heart on the line and try to make something of this serendipitous moment.

  I take a deep breath and say, “I was going to say . . . will you go on a date with me tonight?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  KNOX

  Deep breath.

  I stare at my bat and tune out the crowd, the beat of the music trying to pump up the fans in the ninth inning. We’re down by one, and I have shit to show for today’s game.

  Letting out a deep breath, I step into the batter’s box and get into position.

  Pederson, Toronto’s closer, has been lights out all season, and being that I’m two deep in the count, he might just have another K under his belt soon.

  He looks over to first where Dunn is leading off, cautious not to get picked, because we’re in the bottom of the ninth and getting picked off at first with no outs while down by one is a cardinal sin.

  Pederson winds up then delivers his side-arm throw right into the zone. I swing and hit air, the sound of the ball clapping against the catcher’s mitt ringing through my ear.

  Motherfucker.

  I rip off my helmet and yell into it as I make my way into the dugout. When I reach the stairs, I trot down them quickly, ignoring the glare of my coach, tossing my bat, helmet, and gloves near the helmet cubbies, and make my way toward the end of the dugout where I grab a drink.

  What a fucking shit game. I can’t remember the last time I played this shitty. And it’s all because my past came back to haunt me.

  I still can’t fucking believe Emory has lived in Chicago this whole time.

  This whole fucking time.

  I’d like to say I wasn’t still pining for a small moment with the girl of my dreams, but that would be a lie.

  “Dude, what the fuck is going on with you today?” Carson asks, coming up to me. “You’re acting like this is your first time hitting in the big leagues.”

  I drag a towel over my face, keeping my voice low around the cameras. “My head’s not in the game.”

  “No shit.”

  The crowd erupts, and we look to the field where Flores just hit a single, advancing the runner. At least someone’s contributing to the team today.

  “What’s going on?” he asks, looking gravely concerned.

  He should know. He knows the only thing that has ever thrown off my game, the one thing that can pull me out of my game mindset: Emory.

  “At that check ceremony today, I ran into Emory.”

  “Em—” He shakes his head. “Wait, what?”

  “Yeah, she’s a fucking librarian at one of the elementary schools we donated to.”

  “She lives in Chicago?”

  “Yeah, she never fucking left.”

  Carson lifts his hat and scratches the top of his head. “Holy fucking shit.”

  “Yeah. Let’s just say, everything around me turned red when I saw her, and before I knew it, I charged into her office where I found her sobbing. I went from angry to furious. She drove the stake between us.”

  “Shit.” The crowd cheers again and Kennedy takes first, drawing a walk from Pederson. Hell, one out, bases loaded; we might actually win this game. “What did you do?”

  “What every other heartbroken fool would have done. I yelled at her, blamed her for everything, and then pressed her against the wall and fucked her mouth with my tongue.”

  “Oh fuck.” He chuckles. “Dude, you made out with her?”

  “Yes, and I’m not kidding when I say it was the best fucking kiss of my life, better than our first. It was like I’d been holding my breath for eight years, and I finally let it out. I was so caught off guard by how much she shook me, that I pulled away and swore up a storm.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “What happened after that?”

  Like two gossiping hens in the corner, I take a sip of my drink and say, “She asked me out on a date.”

  “What? Are you fucking kidding me? She asked you out? After everything you two have been through?”

  “Yeah.” I pick up a towel and drape it over my shoulders only to wipe my face with it.

  “What did you say?” The crack of the bat pulls our attention to the field. The ball flies into the outfield, deep. Dunn tags up at third and barrels down the third baseline once the ball is caught. He slides into home, tying up the score.

  The team congratulates him with fist bumps and high fives when he reaches the dugout. We join in on the celebration but once it dies down, I say, “I told her I’d think about it, and then I left. She texted me the address to her apartment and said if I felt like coming over after the game, I know where to find her now.”

  “Damn, dude. Are you going to go?”

  “I have no fucking clue, but my game tonight is a clear indication that I need to do something, I need to figure this out.”

  “Do you want to see her again?”

  “Fuck . . . yeah, I do. But I’m still so goddamn mad.”

  “Understandable. I had to almost beat your sorry ass for taking so long to get your head in the fucking game when we were drafted. Then, and clearly now. But she’s the one girl you’ve never been able to get over.”

  “What are you saying?” Out of nowhere, the crowd erupts and our teammates hop out of the dugout in celebration.

  We won, I have no idea how, but we did. Carson and I follow closely behind as he shouts to me over the cheering fans. “You need to see what she wants. You owe it to yourself to do that much.”

  As the team cheers and coolers of water are tossed around, I don’t feel anything but a dull thump beneath my chest, a pulse that’s trying to resurrect itself.

  Seeing her will either be the best, or worst, decision of my life.

  Fuck if I know what to do.

  * * *

  Truck parked, I glance up at the deli sign that reads Joe’s Meats.

  What the hell is she doing living above a deli shop?

  The streets are barely lit, there was a group of guys a few streets down partaking in what I can only imagine is some drug dealing, and there are bars on every single window on the road she lives on.

  What the actual fuck?

  I pocket my keys and head to the side door where Emory directed me in text and take the stairs two at a time, my feet falling heavily on the worn-out, rickety st
aircase.

  After the game, I took my time showering and dressing. I didn’t text her to let her know I was coming, unsure if I could actually drive to her. I didn’t want to make a promise I wasn’t sure I’d keep, but somehow, my truck found her apartment.

  There’s only one door at the top of the staircase, the wood painted so many times that the door actually looks goopy rather than smooth.

  Before I can convince myself to walk away, I rap on the door and stuff my hands in my pockets. There’s some rustling, followed by the creak of a floorboard, and locks being shifted.

  The door opens, and on the other side stands a surprised, tear-filled Emory.

  Fuck, she probably thought I wasn’t coming.

  Wearing white joggers and a grey tank top, she wipes her face quickly and clears her throat. “Knox,” she squeaks out, “I . . . I didn’t think you were coming.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah, of course.” She opens the door wider, revealing a very small but homey studio apartment. Her bedroom is separated by a small partition, and she’s made enough room to have a small loveseat across from an even smaller flat-screen TV. Incredibly modest, her apartment is the size of my bedroom, but it’s her.

  I take a step in as she shuts the door behind me.

  Still unsure what to do, I stand in her tiny entryway, hands stuffed in my pockets.

  She’s the first to talk. “I watched the game.” She glances at the ground. “Congrats on the win.”

  “Thanks. I did nothing to contribute.”

  “You got hit by a pitch, that’s something.”

  Shit, I hate that she makes me chuckle. “My grandma could stand there and do that.”

  “Bet she wouldn’t have been able to walk it off though. Probably would have ended up with a cracked rib and a concussion, out for two weeks.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t be fucking witty right now.”

  Her lips thin out. “Why are you here, Knox?”

  “Because you invited me.”

  “But if you’re going to be mad at me, if you’re going to be mean, I’d rather you leave.”

  My brows shoot to my hairline. “What the hell were you expecting? For me to flip a switch and be okay with everything between us? I don’t work that way, Emory.”

  “Then maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Are you kidding me? Throwing in the towel already?”

  “If I was throwing in the towel, I never would have invited you over. And if I knew you were going to be a complete and utter ass, I would never have let you into my little world.”

  “Yeah, little is right.” I scan the space.

  Her voice grows angrier as she says, “Do not come into my home and insult it. I don’t have a multi-million-dollar salary like you. Mine is meager, and I often spend it on new things for the library when I save enough. And I’m fine with that, because I love those kids. I don’t have to smile for a camera and leave. I’m actually in the thick of things.”

  Packing the punches: two can play at this game.

  “Get off your soapbox, Emory. Just because you’re at the ground floor, doesn’t mean you’re Joan of Fucking Arc. I do what I can, given my schedule. And I show up to events like today because I want to, not because I’m forced.”

  “You sure looked forced today,” she mutters while turning away.

  “I was off my game because my ex-girlfriend came out of nowhere. So excuse me if I was a little stiff.”

  “You’re so quick to blame me for everything.”

  “Because you’re to blame. Why can’t you see that? Do you not remember that night? Faking a migraine, going back to your place, punching me in the gut as you delivered your decision. You are one hundred percent to blame.”

  “I don’t see it that way,” she argues. “And it’s astonishing that you’re so blinded by rage that you can’t put yourself in my shoes for once—”

  “Put yourself in my shoes,” I shout, pounding my chest. “Put your fucking self in my shoes, Emory. See if you’re able to hold your cool and act like nothing happened.”

  “I was in your shoes,” she shouts back. “I felt the same pain, the same heartache, even worse because I was the one who had to be a grown-up and make the decision.”

  “You think you were hurting just as much as me? Unbelievable.”

  She puts her hands over her face and shakes her head. “This was pointless. I don’t know why I invited you here. You’re never going to see it my way.”

  “Yeah, this was pointless.” I take a step back, my heart sinking in my chest as I do.

  “Just leave, Knox. I don’t have any fight left in me.”

  “That was clear in college, giving up before we had a chance to fight for what we wanted.”

  Her eyes snap at mine, defeat quickly replaced by rage. She walks to the door, opens it wide, and says, “Before I met you, I was emotionally abused by a man I thought was supposed to love and protect me. When I arrived at Brentwood, I was barely held together by sticky tape. Remembering to take deep breaths was a labored task for me. And then I met you. You wanted something right away, but I was still broken. Knowing how special you were, I took my time, making sure I could slowly build myself back up and be the type of woman you deserved, someone as selfless and kind as you. I grew and I built and I slowly started to feel worthy . . . of you.” A stray tear falls down her cheek, and my heart wants me to reach out and wipe it away, but my head refuses to show any weakness. “After Christmas break, I knew I could be everything you needed, the strength, the rock, and then I found out you were being drafted. And that you had made that decision before we got together. I was whole. I knew I was still being held together by tape, stronger tape, but tape nonetheless. I knew I’d cause more damage to you than you needed. I knew my neediness would distract you, our distance would irritate you, our lack of communication would affect your game, and I couldn’t have that. You deserved more. That’s why I ended it, because you deserved more. And you got your more, Knox. You achieved your dreams. And as you’ve pointed out, my life is much, much smaller and insignificant in your eyes.” She takes a deep breath and then points out the door. “And right now, even though seeing you again has drilled a crack in my barely dried concrete self, I know I deserve more than your insults and misunderstandings. Leave . . . please.”

  I chew on the side of my cheek, contemplating my next move, but when nothing comes from my mouth, I know what to do.

  Turning my back on her, I take one step toward the door, then another, then another until I’m out of her apartment, and once again, out of her life.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  EMORY

  The door slams, I fall to my knees, and I sob into my hands.

  I put my heart out there and he stomped all over it.

  But honestly, do I have the right to be mad at him? Not really, because although I didn’t admit to it, I have thought about putting myself in his shoes and how I would’ve reacted if he had done what I did to him. The rational part of me says, oh, I understand, he was trying to help me, to serve me in the best way he could.

  But the passionate side of me, the side my heart dictates, would be just as angry as he is, because what we had was special. What we had was unlike any relationship I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never been so consumed by another human, nor have I ever felt more worshipped.

  We were the perfect match.

  And yet, sometimes the perfect match has to be separated.

  Trying to lift myself from the ground, I take a deep breath, calm the ragged sobs escaping past my lips, and start to peel myself off the ground.

  I steady myself and head to the kitchen for a napkin to blow my nose when there’s a slight knock on my door. I whip around to stare at the entryway, wishing at this moment I had X-ray vision.

  Is he back? Does he want to fight more? Is it one of my fellow neighbors from the connecting building? We do have paper-thin walls.

  Feeling slightly embarrassed from the s
houting match and who possibly heard it, I walk to the door and open it to find not a concerned neighbor but . . . Knox once again standing on the other side. Both of his hands are gripping the molding of the door and his head is hung low in defeat.

  Pulse picking up, my hands shaking uncontrollably, I try to find the words to say something, but nothing comes out. Broken with a tiny ounce of hope, my mind questions why he’s standing there, why he’s back at my apartment after such a bitter shouting match. Instead of finding the words to greet him, I wait for him to speak.

  After a few painstakingly long moments, he lifts his head slowly, his blue, stormy eyes connecting with mine. His arms pulse at his side, his knuckles white from holding the molding so tight. Intense and impassioned, his body vibrates with mixed emotions passing through his eyes and for the life of me, I can’t read him.

  Finally, his lips part and in a tortured voice, he says, “I fucking love you, Emory.” Every sound, every flash of light, every beat of my heart stops as he reaches out, grabbing me by the back of the neck, and hauling me toward him. Stunned, my hands fall to his chest finding my balance. He angles my head so I’m forced to look him in the eyes. “I love you so goddamn much that I can’t seem to let my heart stop bleeding until I have you in my arms. I need you in my fucking arms.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Air is barely reaching my lungs.

  “Tell me you don’t feel the same way. Tell me right now, and I’ll walk out this door and never bother you again, but if you have an ounce of love for me, you’ll invite me back into your apartment. What’s it going to be, Em?”

  There’s confidence in his voice, a command I remember hearing many years ago, but it’s contradicted by the shake in his hand at the nape of my neck and the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palm.

  I never stopped.

  “Answer me,” he demands, his patience falling short.

  “I . . .” My voice shutters. “I love you, Knox. I never stopped, and I don’t think I ever will.”