Chapter 3: Locker Room Serenade
The locker room was a cacophony of victory and exhaustion.Metal doors slammed.Showheads hissed. The air hung thick with steam and the sharp, mineral scent of sweat-soaked gear. Hyukjae peeled off his chest protector, the Velcro tearing through the noise like a gasp. His body hummed with a familiar, hollow ache—the price of a hard practice where every move had been a silent, furious retort to the man currently leaning against the tile wall three lockers down.
Donghae was already half-changed, his practice jersey dangling from his fingers as he laughed at something a teammate said.The sound was warm, easy.It grated. Hyukjae watched from the corner of his eye as Donghae’s bicep flexed, tossing the damp fabric into his bag. He noticed the line of Donghae’s spine, the way his shoulder blades moved under his skin.He looked away, furious at the catalog his mind kept without permission.
He focused on his skates, the intricate ritual of unlacing.Each tug was a punctuation mark. He’s just a player. A talented, infuriating, persistent player who leaves drinks in your bag.Who knows your sister. Who calls you—
The thought was cut off by the squeak of a rubber sole on wet floor.A shadow fell across his bench. Hyukjae didn’t need to look up.The air changed, tightening, becoming specific.
“You skated like you were trying to murder the ice today. It was kinda hot.”
Hyukjae kept his eyes on his skate. “Go away.”
“Thing is,” Donghae continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “all that effort makes a guy thirsty.”
A bottle appeared in Hyukjae’s line of sight.Condensation beaded on its cold, plastic surface. Strawberry milk.Already opened. A bright pink bendy straw was poked through the foil, bent at a cheerful angle.His throat, sand-dry from sixty minutes of panting, clenched. He remembered the empty carton in his economics bag, the saccharine ghost on his tongue. A secret he’d consumed alone.
“I don’t want it.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” Donghae’s voice dropped, softening around the edges. It was a voice for this space only, under the cover of shower spray and shouted jokes. He stepped closer, his bare knee almost brushing Hyukjae’s bent leg. The cool bottle pressed against Hyukjae’s knuckles. “You looked thirsty, princess.”
The nickname should have been a spark to kindling. Hyukjae braced for the flare, the shout, the shove.It didn’t come. A strange lethargy gripped him, a product of spent adrenaline and the undeniable, tactile reality of the chilled bottle in his hand. His fingers closed around it, the cold a shock against his palm.He could throw it. He could stand up and pour it over Donghae’s stupid, smiling head. He could dash it against the lockers and watch the pink rivulets mix with the shower runoff.He brought the straw to his lips. The first sip was an explosion of cold sweetness, a relief so profound it felt like a defeat. He took another, longer pull.The sugar hit his bloodstream, a quiet hum beneath his fatigue.
Donghae didn’t move.He just watched, the earlier smirk dissolving into something else entirely. His expression was open, unbearably fond.Satisfied.Hyukjae swallowed, lowering the bottle. “You’re still annoying.”
“I know.”
“This is harassment. With dairy.”
“It’s courtship,” Donghae corrected softly, automatically. His eyes were fixed on Hyukjae’s face.“You finished?”
Hyukjae hadn’t. He lifted the bottle again and drank until it was empty, the hollow gurgle at the bottom loud in the sudden pocket of quiet between them.He set the empty bottle on the bench with a definitive click.
A strand of his own damp hair, dark and clinging, had fallen across his forehead. Before he could swipe it away, Donghae’s hand was there.
His fingers were warm, a contrast to the bottle’s chill. They brushed the hair back, a gesture so simple and startlingly gentle that Hyukjae froze. The touch lingered, Donghae’s thumb skimming the curve of his temple. The noise of the locker room—the yells, the water, the clatter—muffled into a distant rumble. All he could feel was the path of that thumb, the slight callus from his stick grating against Hyukjae’s skin.
He should bite that hand.He should recoil.He didn’t.
Donghae’s smile returned, not triumphant, but wondrous. As if he’d been given a gift.“There,” he whispered.
The moment shattered as a wet towel snapped against a locker nearby, followed by raucous laughter. Donghae dropped his hand, but the warmth on Hyukjae’s temple remained, a brand.
“Practice tomorrow,” Donghae said, his regular voice too loud in Hyukjae’s ears. “Try to keep up.” He turned to go, then glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes sweeping from Hyukjae’s face to the empty bottle on the bench. “I’ll bring you another.”
Then he was gone, weaving through the crowd toward the showers, leaving Hyukjae sitting perfectly still on the bench. The empty plastic bottle beside him felt monumental.He picked it up, crushing it in his fist. The sound was weak, insufficient.He had drunk it.He had let him touch his face. He had sat there and allowed it.
The hatred he nursed, sharp and familiar, twisted in his gut, morphing into something more complex and sickeningly warm.It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't acceptance. It was a terrifying, silent acknowledgment of a game he no longer knew how to play, with rules written in strawberry milk and a touch so soft it threatened to unravel him from the inside out. He stood up, the crushed bottle tight in his fist, and walked toward the showers, the phantom press of Donghae’s thumb a rhythmic, accusing pulse against his skin.