The Locker Room(51)

I leave his office and head toward the locker room. I don’t have class for an hour, so I have time to spare. When I walk in, I spot Holt lounging on one of the leather chairs, head dipped toward his phone, his thumbs beating rapidly over the screen.

I take a seat across from him, feeling defeated. He glances up and asks, “How’d your meeting go?”

Carson and Holt know everything when it comes to my life.

“Not great.”

He pulls his head away from his phone. “What happened?”

“Coach found out about Emory, wants me to break things off with her.” Even saying the words twist my stomach into knots.

“What? Why?”

“Thinks she’ll be a distraction.” I point to his phone. “Kind of like whoever you talk to day in and day out.”

“You’ve been seeing Ealson for a while, and your game hasn’t changed, why the concern now?”

“Because I’m a semester away from being drafted. I know he’s looking out for me, but the way he went about it sucked ass. He doesn’t even know her.”

“What he doesn’t realize is that some of us need the escape. Not an escape like drugs or whatever. But a place to . . . retreat to. There’s more to me than being an athlete, and I don’t want to lose that.”

I have no idea how long Holt has been seeing this girl of his or how serious it is, but what I do know is that he’s been on top of his game ever since his nose has been buried in his phone. I asked him about her once and he said nothing, so I took that as him not feeling ready to talk about her. I wonder if he ever will be.

“Is that what this girl is to you? An escape?”

“Yeah . . . and more.” He looks to the side, toward the showers and says, “She’s locker room material, man.”

Holy shit.

Even though I don’t believe in the whole locker room blessing bullshit, my teammates do, and when someone says a girl is locker room material, that means a whole lot.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. She makes me happy. When life’s shit, and even when it’s not, she gives me more . . . perspective I guess. Like she helps me shift my focus off myself. And fuck is she gorgeous.” I’ve never heard Holt open up like this, so his honesty is welcome. Surprising, but welcome. “I can understand why Coach worries we’ll be distracted, but what he doesn’t understand is that some of us need that escape. We eat and breathe baseball. Sometimes we need to shut off that part of our brain and enjoy something other than the sport we were born to play.” He shrugs, as if what he said wasn’t just some heavy shit. “Em makes you happy, so don’t fuck with that.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t.” Holt picks up his phone again. “You know what’s best for you, man. If that’s Em, go for it.”

“I will,” I answer with determination. Coach isn’t right on this one. Carson didn’t shut up about Em to my mom, so I know he thinks she’s cool. And now Holt. Baseball’s my future, but I’m with Holt on this one. I want the girl, the one who’s already my place of retreat. God, she certainly puts me in my place, and if that isn’t a broader perspective, what is? No. Emory Ealson is staying.

I pick up my phone as well and start searching places to take my girl on a date. I also understand where Coach is coming from, but I’ve always been able to compartmentalize on the field. Being with Emory isn’t going to change that.





Chapter Twenty





EMORY





Knox: What’s your schedule?

Emory: Friday, Saturday, and Sunday I have off . . . all perfect date nights.

Knox: Do I hear a sense of excitement in your . . . typing?

Emory: Maybe.

Knox: That’s cute, babe.

Emory: What did you expect, for me to be dragging my feet?

Knox: Yes, I love forcing my women to go out with me.

Emory: How many women?

Knox: Ten a month. I can’t handle any more than that. You’re number nine.

Emory: Only ten, pish, child’s play. Try fifteen. Ever wonder why I don’t see you as much, it’s because you’re number twelve on my list.

Knox: If I didn’t know we were casually exclusive switching to seriously exclusive, I’d be worried. Those skirts attract men like flies to shit.

Emory: Flies to shit? How pleasant.

Knox: Texas, babe. I grew up with lots of horse shit and flies.

Emory: What a beautiful childhood you must have had.

Knox: Nothing beats scooping shit into wheelbarrows for cash.

Emory: I bet you looked hot doing it.

Knox: A skinny twelve-year-old me. Super hot.

Emory: Eh, no thank you. I only like you because of your muscles.

Knox: My dick will eclipse that thought once you get to know him.

Emory: Which will be never at this rate.

Knox: Mentally we’ve fucked at least two hundred times by now in my head.

Emory: Yeah? Tell me some of the things we’ve done.

Knox: Nice try, Satan’s mistress. Fuck that. I’m not getting hard over text messages. No fucking thank you.

Emory: It will be fun, come on.

Knox: Nope. Not happening. I have a date to plan.

Emory: You’re not like the average guy. Anyone else would have jumped on the invitation to sext with me.