Teen Hyde (High School Horror Story #2)(47)

He scratched his temple. “Fine, fine. What do you want me to autograph?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. How about a ball?”

“The team’s already closed up for the night.”

I lowered my chin along with the tenor of my voice. “So unclose it.”

He looked over his shoulder, but there was no one there except the sound of the janitor around the corner singing to music only he could hear. “A ball.” He rubbed his fist into his eye. “Okay, sure. Just—” He started to turn. I could tell he wanted to get this over with, to go home and watch SportsCenter.

“Can I come?” I cut him off.

“Girls aren’t allowed in the locker room,” he said.

I took another step forward. I doubted Brody was the only one that could act as bait. “What’s the required amount of time to pout in baseball anyway?” I asked.

“I’m not—” Half a smile showed up in the shadows under the brim of his cap.

“Now that’s a better look on you,” I said.

“You think so, huh?” His voice was gravelly. I had his interest.

We listened to the wet swish-swish of the mop and the off-key notes of the janitor.

“I’ve always wanted a tour of a locker room,” I said.

Brody’s skin was dewy from a fresh shower. He made a throaty noise somewhere between a scoff and a snort. “Why’s that?”

I dropped the decibel of my voice. “We’re all allowed our little fantasies, aren’t we?”

He wasn’t moving to leave anymore. “You go here?”

“Transfer student.”

“Oh, I’d have thought I would have recognized someone like you.”

I lightly touched his arm. Gentle, easy does it. “I would have thought so, too.”

“I suppose I could show you around real quick,” he hedged. “If you really want.” He spun his hat backward and the shadows cleared from his eyes.

This time my grin was genuine. “Sign me up.”

He looked both ways down the corridors. “Don’t tell anyone I did this, okay?” But he said this with a light chuckle. Like he was used to doing things he wasn’t supposed to do. A hint of sweat and grass stains still lingered underneath his freshly showered scent.

“Not a soul,” I promised.

He fished a key card out of his wallet. My heart pounded, mouth salivated. I followed him in. He flipped on a set of lights. A big, square room materialized lined with navy blue lockers. Damp towels were slung over benches. There was a hamper for dirty uniforms. Cleats tied by the laces hung off a few of the open metal doors.

“Not quite as exciting as you pictured, is it?” he said.

I walked thoughtfully around the perimeter, taking my time. I let myself relish the space like it was sacred. Because this is where it would happen, where I’d earn my second tally mark. So close, I thought.

“It’s running low on shirtless men. That’s for sure.”

Brody’s beauty mark disappeared into a dimple when he smiled. “Shirtless men were a key part of your fantasy?”

“Among other things.” I stopped to study a poster tacked to the wall that had been signed by Derek Jeter.

“Hang on. Let me see if I can rustle up a jersey or at least a T-shirt.” He crossed the room to a stack of folded clothes. “What size is he? A small?”

“Yeah, sure,” I replied absentmindedly. I pressed my hand into the pocket of my zip-up hoodie next to the knife that waited there. But a bag of equipment strewn on the floor caught my eye.

“Hey, cool,” I said, pulling out a bat from the mesh carrier. “Is this what you use?” I flipped the metal bat around in my hands and tested the weight. I tapped it against the floor.

He looked over his shoulder. “Not much of a softball player, huh?”

“What, am I gripping it wrong?”

He set down the pile of clothes and came around to wrap his arms on either side of me. Then, he helped me to adjust my grip. “Like this,” he said.

“That feels good.” And I knew it was left up to interpretation whether I meant the new grip or the feel of his chest pressed up against my spine. I twisted my hands and tightened my hold. “Mind if I take a couple swings?”

“Swing away.”

He was standing in front of me. Instead of turning, I stepped into him and took a pretend swing, halting the bat halfway to his kneecaps. He flinched and held out his hands, instinctively backing up.

“Whoa.” His eyes widened.

“Just kidding,” I said, and winked. He relaxed. “I got you, didn’t I? You thought I was going to hit you in the knees.”

He gave a chuckle. Now he was the one that wasn’t sure he was in on the joke. “Maybe that’s it for batting practice.”

I didn’t lower the bat. I took a step closer. “But I was just warming up.” Then another step closer.

Blood rushed to his cheeks, turning them red. “Are you crazy?” he said.

And another step. I still had yet to lower the bat. It rested on my shoulder. “How’s my grip now?” I asked. He glanced down, and in that split second, I pulled my elbows back and took a hard swing at his head.

The bones above his ears offered more resistance than I’d have thought, and the brains beneath his skull dulled the satisfying firecracker snap I’d been looking forward to. I tried again.