The Locker Room(13)

“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 probably 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.