STUFFED (The Slate Brothers 2)

“Sorry, seriously,” I say again, mostly because now I’m thinking about the length of the three cocks I just saw, which is totally not what a professional reporter should be thinking about, and also that’s such a huge violation—

“Excuse me,” someone says, brushing past me. I flinch, then open my eyes. It was a player headed out the double doors— and he barely even stopped to notice me. In fact, no one seems to have noticed me. The three previously-naked guys are now wearing towels; everyone is going about his post-game ritual without so much as a glance my way. I lower my arms, and realize that with all the noise, they likely didn’t hear me come in— or my frantic apologies. Which, given how many reporters I now see scattered among the players, were unnecessary anyhow. I guess sports reporters just have to get used to seeing a few naked players now and again?

This is so not at all like covering the fine arts section.

I plaster a smile on my face and walk forward again, waiting for someone to make eye contact with me so I can swoop in for a question or two. I feel tiny and inconsequential, like a little girl wandering through a forest. Only instead of a forest, it’s actual human guys with bodies the size of redwood trunks. I try to take note of how the other reporters are doing it— most of them are bright, bubbly men with personalities that easily capture the attention of players. There are a few women here and there, each a flawless blend of charismatic and professional. They’re all sporting sleek ponytails or buns, apparently having anticipated the locker room humidity.

This is fine. I can do this. Just start with someone who’s by himself, someone who usually doesn’t get a lot of reporter attention. I scan the room— surely there’s some lowly freshman player somewhere who’d love for a reporter to corner him. Even a reporter who wore the wrong hairstyle, wrong shoes, and freaked out when she saw some naked guys about five minutes ago.

My eyes finally land on a player whose back is to me, his head ducked into his locker. He’s moving slowly, deliberately, and is entirely on his own— no reporters, no other players, no one. He’s wearing a towel around his waist, and as I draw closer I can make out back muscles so perfectly carved and toned that he looks like he’s made of stone. There’s a tattoo on his shoulder of the Bowen mascot— a bear— which seems fitting, given that this guy is practically the size of a grizzly. At only a few feet away, I realize he must be a foot and a half taller than me. Still, he’s on his own, so there’s something a little less intimidating about him.

“Uh, hello?” I say, trying to sound confident.

And then he turns around.

I’m not a boy-crazy type of girl, but this guy is the most attractive human I’ve seen in real life. Everything about him looks photo shopped, from the perfect, ice-cube shaped muscles of his abs to the slate gray color of his eyes. He lifts an eyebrow when he sees me so close to him, and it arcs perfectly, like it was painted in that new position. I don’t know how I thought for a moment that this guy was “less intimidating”— everything about him is powerful and massive and intense. I think that the locker room has gone a quiet behind me, but it feels just as possible that this football player is simply absorbing all sound and light and existence.

“Yes?” he asks. There’s a hint of amusement in his eyes, and I’m pretty sure it’s at my expense.

“Hi. I’m, uh—“ I scramble for the lanyard around my neck, and hold up my press pass. “I’m with the Bowen Blaze. Can I ask a few questions about the game?”

“A few questions,” the guy says, as if he’s not so sure he likes the idea. When he breathes, his pectorals lift, and it’s impossible not to wonder how my palm would feel pressed against them. It’s impossible not to wonder how I would feel pressed against him—

“Just a few. Do you mind?” I press.

The guy leans back against his locker, looking for all the world like one of those classical Grecian statues. His forearms are corded, and I can see the bulge of his leg muscles through the white towel around him. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“I—uh, yeah. I’ve never covered sports before. I’m normally on the fine arts beat,” I say quickly, with a little shrug.

“Ah. That’s why you don’t know me,” he says, shaking his head, a scoff in his voice. “I don’t talk to reporters.”

Maybe it’s because Devin’s texts are still rubbing me the wrong way, but there’s a swell of irritation in my chest at this degree of arrogance. Seriously, dude? You think everyone at this school should know you just because you throw a football around on a field? What the actual fuck.