STUFFED (The Slate Brothers 2)

1

There’s a locker room full of half-naked, sweaty men on the other side of this door. The door in front of which I’ve been standing for god knows how long…

And in a moment, I’m going to be walking into the lion’s den, pretending that this is a normal, everyday occurrence for me.

But instead of putting one foot in front of the other and going inside, I’m still standing out in the hallway and trying to psych myself up.

It’s not working, though. My traitorous feet aren’t moving, as a text from my editor appears on my cell phone.

If you cant do this I need to know asap, I can send someone else

I glare at the text for a few minutes. This is so Devin— he’s always been the sort of editor who assumes I’ll fail without giving me a chance to succeed. While admittedly, I’m definitely feeling out of my league, I’m also not planning on throwing in the towel this early.

Sports aren’t really my thing, but the school paper was in a bind and needed someone to handle this interview for a headline story. It’s not like sophomores can just turn down assignments and cite a preference for fine arts over football. Besides, if I want to be a real writer, I’ve got to stray outside of my comfort zone, right?

Astrid? Answer please.

I roll my eyes and respond, hoping he can read the “fuck you” I’m crafting between the lines.

I’m on it.

Of course, now I have to do this, or admit to Devin that I chickened out. Not that I was going to chicken out, because I’m a journalist and journalists don’t freak out over going into a locker room full of football players—

“Can I help you?” someone asks, staring at me. My eyes snap off my phone, and I force a smile. It’s a man wearing a Bowen University Staff polo, with gray hair that matches the hallway paint color perfectly. I know he’s one of the coaches— an important one, in fact, given that I’ve seen him at televised press conferences before.

“Hi! Yes! I’m with the newspaper. I have a press pass. I’m supposed to get after game interviews with the starting players.” I have no idea why, suddenly, everything I’m saying sounds stupidly excited, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I smile bigger because I’m not sure what else to do.

“Which one?” the coach asks politely.

“This one!” I say, holding up the press pass, wondering what other type of press pass exists.

“Which paper?” he clarifies, still polite, but now clearly more than a little exhausted by me. I can’t say I blame him.

“Oh, sorry— the school paper. The Bowen Blaze.”

“Sure,” the coach says, nodding. “Well, go on in. If you’ve got a press pass, you don’t have to wait out here.”

“Thanks. Great. Got it!” I say, nodding robotically. I’m so, so glad that Devin isn’t here right now to see this. I’d be stuck editing the horoscope for the next three years. The coach reaches back to hold the door for me, and I slink into the locker room as fast as I can.

The humidity hits me first, so intense that it’s nearly difficult to breathe.

Next, the scent in the air hits me. To my surprise, it’s not an awful smell— which I had prepared for, what with it being a college football locker room and all. No, it’s more…masculine. Heavy, and spicy, like deodorant and sweat and toothpaste and soap.

There’s a short hallway ahead of me that ends in double doors; the walls leading up to them are lined with inspiration sayings about Bowen University, and quotes from former famous Bowen coaches. There are two frosted windows on the doors— which are dark navy, one of Bowen’s school colors— through which I can see shadows of players milling around. I can hear them laughing, carousing, shouting at one another. They’re understandably in a good mood— they won the first game of the season.

Other reporters are surely in there already— I saw them practically sprinting from the press boxes to the locker room as the clock ran out. I take a deep breath of thick air and march forward, putting Devin and his irritatingly persistent doubt out of my mind. I’ve got a press pass. I’m a reporter. I’ve got every right to be in there. And besides, they’re just a bunch of jocks— it’s not like they’re the kind of guys I’m trying to impress. I reach the navy doors and push through, head held high.

Then immediately squeeze my eyes shut, because there are three naked guys right in front of me.

“Oh, god, sorry, I just— I’m sorry,” I stammer, yanking my hands to my chest defensively. My mind is racing, replaying what I just saw over and over and over. A room full of very large, very muscular guys, all with tattoos and thick arms and shining, just-showered faces. Most with towels wrapped around their waists or wearing athletic shorts or boxers. But three— one putting something in a locker, two others drying off— with everything hanging out for me to see. My chest feels hot, my heart races— I’ve never actually seen a guy naked in person before, not really, and this was not at all how I expected it to happen.