The Locker Room(25)

“Hendrix and his girl just got engaged,” Holt says, pulling his gaze from his phone and holding it out to Carson and me. A picture of our first baseman from two years ago is on the screen, holding his long-time girlfriend and showing off a ring.

“No shit,” Carson says, grabbing the phone for a better look. “Didn’t he bring her back to the locker room his junior year?”

Holt nods. “Yup, he knew she was the one.”

What a weird fucking tradition. I don’t even know how it started. Well, that’s not true, it started with this guy named Gary Bernard, a catcher back in the day. He brought a girl back to the locker room and she wound up saying yes to his proposal at the end of his senior year. He claimed the locker room had magical powers in convincing her. Ever since then, any player in a serious relationship has done the same and basically fucked anywhere of their choosing.

It's fucking weird.

But whatever, as baseball players we’re superstitious, so I get it.

“Do you think I’ll ever find a girl good enough to bring back here?” Carson asks with hope in his eyes.

“Keep going after the locker room hunters and no, no, I don’t,” I answer while zipping up my backpack and throwing it over my shoulder.

Locker room hunters are the thirsty college girls, looking for an invitation to the locker room where they’ve heard the best orgasms are created. That is another far-fetched tale because there’s no way in hell, Felix O’Hare was able to deliver any kind of mind-blowing orgasm to his girl. The man fumbled with his hands more than any person I’ve seen before. He was a walking disaster.

“They’re just so tempting and willing,” Carson complains.

“Which means they’re not long-term. If you want a girl worthy of what you have to offer, she’s going to make you work for it. Keep that in mind.”

“He could not be more right,” Holt agrees, pulling our attention. “You have to work for it.”

Interesting. Gripping the straps to my backpack, I ask, “Is there someone who’s making you work hard?”

“Is that why you’ve been MIA at the parties?”

He pushes his towel through his hair. “Yeah, there is. And I like her a lot.”

“Whaaaaat?” Carson asks in an exaggerated tone. “When the hell did this happen?”

“Over the summer.”

Carson clutches his chest and practically spews heart eyes across the locker room. “Fuck, summer love. How presh.”

“Don’t fucking say presh,” I say to Carson, who chuckles to himself. “I’m headed out. Don’t be late tonight, and don’t forget to grab something to eat.”

“Are you going there right now?”

“Yeah, scoping out some space. Grabbing a panini on the way up. See you guys there.”

I take off with two things on my mind: a chicken BBQ panini with bacon and finding Emory so I can “accidentally” bump into her.





There she is, looking so fucking good in a navy wool-looking skirt, white long-sleeved top that clings to every single curve of her body, and little ankle boots. Her hair is straight and pulled back into a ponytail and hell . . . she’s wearing tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses to round out the whole hot librarian look.

Emory Ealson, you’re driving me damn crazy.

I have twenty minutes before the boys are supposed to show up, so just enough time to get a conversation in with her before I have to act like a captain again.

I walk up behind her casually and lean over her shoulder. “Know where I can find a book on the best donuts in the Chicago area?”

Startled, she leans back and looks up at me.

“Oh my God, why did you use a creepy voice when asking that?”

I shrug. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“It scared the crap out of me.” She sets a book down on the counter and turns around so she’s facing me, arms crossed over her chest.

“I know you want me to say sorry, but I’m not going to.”

“How honest of you.”

“If you can count on anything with me, it’s honesty.”

“I guess a noble trait.” She props her hands behind her now and scans me up and down. “You smell fresh.”

I chuckle. “Took a shower after practice. It’s the kind thing to do.”

“Are you a smelly sweater?”

My brow creases. “No . . . do you want me to be? Would it make me less irresistible?”

“Mmm . . . you’re pretty resistible as is.”

“Is that why you keep glancing at my pecs? Go ahead, I give you permission, you can touch them.”

“I’m not,” she says louder than intended and then lowers her voice. “I am not touching your pecs.”

I look around and then nod. “Ah, gotcha, I get it. You don’t want to make everyone jealous.” I grab her hand and take her behind a stack of books, out of sight from prying eyes. “Okay, coast is clear, you can fondle the goods.”

Before she can protest, I place her hand on one and let her feel how hard I work out in the gym. I expect her to remove her hand right away, but when she doesn’t and instead gives it a squeeze, I can’t help but laugh out loud through the quiet library, drawing a few heads in our direction. Caught red-handed.