The locker room is all movement and noise at first—guys shoving each other, the staccato snap of towels, the clatter of shin guards tossed into open duffels—but it thins out, minute by minute, until it’s just the two of us. Soccer ran late because Coach got a bug up his ass about “commitment,” and even the first-year students dragged ass getting their stuff from the showers, but now the doors click shut behind the last of them. The echo is weird and huge. I’m at my locker, pretending to organize my shit, but my senses are dialed into every shift in the air behind me, every scuff of Matt’s sneakers on tile.
I catch his reflection in the metal slats: Matt’s sitting two rows back, elbows propped on his knees, scrolling his phone with the kind of focus reserved for people who aren’t actually reading anything. Sweat still slicks his neck and darkens the blue of his jersey. He’s bigger than he was last spring, shoulders heavy and broad, thighs pushed thick against the bench. His hair is still wet and sticking up at odd angles. I try not to make it obvious I’m looking, but it’s obvious—I’m obvious.
I can’t help it. The air feels charged, crackling. Every time I reach into my bag to retie a cleat or restack my books, I’m rolling his body over in my mind, the way he moves, the lines of muscle under skin. The thump of my own pulse crowds out actual thought. I smooth my shorts, twist my socks tighter around my calves, and start the entire performance over again, drawing out the second as long as I can.
