The Locker Room(31)

“Sure.” I smile even though the lady I’m interning with seems to have a giant embedded, spikey stick up her ass. I don’t think she knows what the term “being pleasant” means.

Her frail, praying mantis-like body travels down a dark hallway to her office where she shuts the door, closing her off from the rest of the library, and that’s when I relax. I like it best when she’s in her office, not hovering over me, watching everything I’m doing, and honestly, all she does is make me fumble my job responsibilities rather than help me learn.

I stack the returned books onto a cart and start to push toward the autobiographies when the library doors burst open and a group of men file into the library, jogging, looking sweaty and spent.

The baseball team.

At the front of the pact, Knox comes into view. They’re all wearing their practice uniforms, their baseball hats, and running shoes.

“Emory Ealson,” Knox whisper-shouts. “Front and center, Emory Ealson.” His voice gets louder, sending a shrill chill up my spine.

My legs move faster than my brain can communicate, and I’m standing in front of him, shushing him before he can make a scene, if that’s possible. The baseball team came flooding through the doors of the library, like a stampede with one thing on their minds, finding me. Pretty sure no one has their heads buried in their books right now. Instead, they’re taking in the show that is Knox Gentry.

“Knox, what the hell are you doing?”

Hands on his hips, catching his breath, he says, “We’re conditioning. We have five minutes to get back to the baseball field or we have to do the entire loop all over again.” He takes another breath and Holt grips his shoulder, encouraging him. “I told the boys I was feeling weak, incapable of finishing our lap around campus unless I got a hug from you.”

He’s got to be kidding me right now.

“Knox,” I scold. “This is not the time nor—”

“Shit, guys, hold me up,” he says as he dramatically falls to the side, Holt and Carson falling under his arms, give him support. Dramatically. “I’m so weak.” His voice rises again.

“Just hug him, Ealson,” one of his players shouts from behind. “We have four minutes and forty-five seconds.”

“I can’t move. I’m immobile. Just leave me here,” Knox says. Dramatically. Again. Good God.

“Never leave a man behind,” Carson says, holding on to his friend.

A larger guy who’s jogging in place, pleas with me. “I’ll never make it back if we get under four minutes. Please just hug the man.”

“Hug him, hug him, hug him,” his team starts to whisper-chant, the library joining in, and that’s when I fling my arms around Knox. The minute my arms wrap around him, he stands tall and reciprocates the hug, telling his team to fall out and sprint back to the field.

He stays a few seconds longer, keeping a strong hold around my body, and then he bends down to my ear where he whispers, “You look so fucking good in that yellow skirt by the way.” He pulls away, tips his hat and winks before taking off, out of the library where his long strides quickly catch him up with his retreating team.

I am going to kill him . . . after I stop swooning for one second.





Knock, knock.

I lift my head from my book and turn to see Dottie standing at the threshold of my open door. We’re all hovering over our books right now, at least I thought we were until Dottie showed up. We sprint study every night, setting a timer, and then we go out to dinner.

The timer hasn’t gone off, so what the hell is Dottie doing?

“Did I not hear the timer?”

She wrings her hands in front of her, looking almost nervous.

“So, I might have broken our sprint studying protocol.”

I remove my glasses and sit up straighter. “Were you on your computer?”

“Maybe.”

“Dottie, you know the rules.”

“I know, I know,” she sighs. “But a student chat popped up and I couldn’t help it.”

“Okay, well thank you for confessing, but let’s get back to work.” I turn to my book.

“It was Knox.”

Okay, maybe I need to take a step away from my book for a second.

“Knox messaged you? What did he say?”

“Well, at first he wanted to make sure this was the Dottie that rooms with Emory and he even quizzed me, making sure it was me.”

“Really?” I can’t hide my smile. “What did he ask you?”

“What you dressed up as for the jungle-themed party. What skirt you wore on Thursday, which I had no freaking clue. Apparently it was yellow.” My smile grows. “He also asked what kind of ice cream you like, where you transferred from, and who our third roommate was. It’s fascinating how much he knows about you.”

“He’s asked a few questions since I’ve known him.”

“Yeah, well the boy has it bad.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because, he’s on his way up here with food.”

“What?” I jump from my chair, glancing at myself in the mirror just as there is a knock at the door. “Dottie!”

She cringes. “I’m sorry.”

What I failed to mention is during these sprint sessions, we also do self-care. Currently, I’m wearing a green mask that’s as hard as stone on my face, my hair is propped up in large rollers, toes separated and drying with a pretty purple nail polish, and I’m wearing a red terrycloth romper that does nothing special for my body but shape my rear end into the perfect mom butt.