Chapter 6: The Locker Room
The bleachers were cold beneath her thighs, the metal biting through the thick wool of her skirt even with the tights she'd tugged on that morning. Miri had never owned tights before—not like these, anyway, the kind that made her legs look like they belonged to someone else entirely. She'd stood in front of the mirror for twenty minutes, tugging at the hem of the sweater that hugged her ribs in a way her usual baggy ones never did, wondering if she looked ridiculous. Wondering if she looked like she was trying too hard.
She'd almost changed three times.
But now, watching Leo sprint across the field, she was glad she hadn't. The sweater was a deep burgundy, soft against her skin, and the skirt fell just above her knees in gentle pleats that made her feel like she'd stepped out of a different decade. His decade, maybe. The kind of girl who belonged on the arm of a guy like him.
Except she wasn't on his arm. She was sitting alone on the bleachers, clutching her thesis notes like a lifeline, trying not to stare.
Failing spectacularly.
Leo moved like water. That was the first thing she'd noticed about him, even back at that party—the way he navigated the world with a fluidity that seemed almost supernatural. Now, on the field, it was magnified. His body coiled and released, muscles bunching beneath his practice jersey as he dropped back, scanned the field, and launched the ball in a perfect spiral that seemed to hang in the air forever before dropping into his receiver's hands.
Miri's breath caught. She didn't know anything about football. She'd never cared to learn. But she knew the way his shoulders rolled when he threw, the way his jaw tightened with concentration, the way his fingers flexed afterward like he was already thinking about the next play.
She knew the way those fingers had felt tangled in her hair behind the humanities building.
Heat crawled up her neck.
"Fuck," she whispered to herself, pressing her thighs together beneath the pleated skirt. The motion was instinctive, involuntary, and it only made the ache worse.
The girl two rows down glanced back at her, eyebrows raised. Miri recognized her—one of the cheerleaders, blonde and glossy, the kind of girl who'd never had to wonder if she looked ridiculous in anything. She was staring at Miri with an expression that hovered somewhere between confusion and disdain.
Miri looked away.
She'd been getting those looks all afternoon. The other girls on the bleachers—and there were several, clustered in small groups, their laughter carrying on the autumn wind—kept glancing at her, whispering behind their hands. She knew what they were thinking. What is she doing here? Who invited her?
Leo invited her.
He'd texted her that morning, as she was stumbling out of her medieval history seminar with a coffee stain on her sweater and three hours of sleep weighing down her eyelids. Practice at two, he'd written. Come watch. I want to see you after.
She'd stared at the message for five minutes, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Now she was here, and he was there, and the distance between them felt like both an eternity and nothing at all.
Leo dropped back again, scanning the field. His eyes swept past the bleachers, past the clusters of girls, and landed on her.
He grinned.
It was a quick thing, there and gone, but it hit Miri like a punch to the chest. Her fingers tightened on her notebook, crumpling the corner of a page. She tried to smile back, but she was pretty sure it came out as more of a grimace.
The girl two rows down snorted.
Miri ignored her.
She focused on Leo instead—on the way his thighs bunched as he scrambled out of the pocket, the way his arm cocked back, the way the ball shot from his hand like it had been fired from a cannon. She thought about the weight of those arms around her, the way they'd felt when he'd pinned her against the brick wall behind the humanities building. She thought about his mouth, the way it had moved against hers, hot and demanding, tasting like coffee and something sweeter underneath.
She thought about the fact that she, Miranda Hayes, had kissed a boy.
Not just any boy. Leo Castellano, who could have any girl on this campus, who had probably kissed a hundred girls before her, who was currently sprinting across the field with sweat darkening his jersey and a look of fierce concentration on his face that made her stomach flip.
He caught the snap, dropped back, and threw a perfect strike to his tight end.
Miri exhaled.
The practice dragged on. She watched every second of it, her notes forgotten in her lap, her coffee growing cold on the bleacher beside her. She watched Leo run and throw and shout and laugh, watched him slap his teammates on the back and jog back to the huddle with a bounce in his step. She watched the sun sink lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the field, and she watched Leo's skin gleam with sweat beneath the fading light.
By the time the final whistle blew, her thighs were aching from clenching them together.
The players dispersed, some heading for the locker room, others lingering on the field to talk. Leo broke away immediately, his eyes scanning the bleachers until they found her.
He walked straight toward her.
Miri's heart stuttered in her chest. She stood up, her legs shaky, her notebook slipping from her lap and hitting the metal bleacher with a clatter. She bent to grab it, and when she straightened, he was there.
Close enough to touch.
He was taller up close. She always forgot that, somehow—the way he loomed over her, six-foot-three to her four-foot-ten, his shadow falling over her like a blanket. His practice jersey was soaked through, clinging to his chest and shoulders, and his skin was flushed with exertion. His hair was dark with sweat, plastered to his forehead, and his eyes—those warm brown eyes that had haunted her dreams for the past three nights—were fixed on her face like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
He smelled like sweat and grass and something fundamentally male, and it was the best thing Miri had ever smelled in her life.
"Hey," she managed.
"Hey yourself." His voice was rough, still breathless from practice. He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing against her cheek. "You came."
"You asked me to."
"I know." He grinned. "Didn't think you would."
"I almost didn't."
"Why?"
She shrugged, her face burning. "I don't know. I thought maybe you'd changed your mind."
Leo's expression shifted, something soft and serious flickering behind his eyes. He cupped her face in his hands—those big, rough hands that could throw a football fifty yards but were impossibly gentle on her skin—and tilted her head up.
"I don't change my mind about you," he said.
Then he kissed her.
Right there, in front of everyone. In front of the cheerleaders and the other players and the coaches and God and everybody. His mouth was hot and insistent, tasting like salt and exertion, and Miri melted into him before she could stop herself. Her hands found his chest, pressing against the solid wall of muscle beneath his jersey, and she felt him groan against her lips.
Someone wolf-whistled.
Someone else laughed.
Miri didn't care.
She kissed him back, rising up on her toes, letting him pull her closer until there was no space left between them. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her slightly, and she felt the ground disappear beneath her feet for just a moment before he set her down again.
When they broke apart, she was dizzy.
"Wow," she breathed.
Leo laughed, low and warm. "Yeah. Wow."
He took her hand, threading his fingers through hers, and led her away from the bleachers. Miri followed, her legs trembling, acutely aware of the eyes on her back. The cheerleader who'd been glaring at her looked like she'd swallowed a lemon. Miri bit back a smile.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Locker room."
She stumbled. "What?"
"Relax." He squeezed her hand. "I need to grab my stuff. And I'm not leaving you out here alone."
The locker room was a squat brick building attached to the field house, its door propped open with a cinder block. Steam curled from somewhere inside, carrying the sharp tang of chlorine and the heavier musk of sweat. Miri hesitated at the threshold.
"I can just wait out here," she said.
Leo looked at her like she'd suggested he run a marathon. "No."
He pulled her inside.
The air hit her like a wall—hot and humid, thick with the scent of exertion and soap. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh white light across a forest of metal lockers and wooden benches. Somewhere in the back, she could hear the hiss of showers.
There were other players around, but Leo didn't seem to notice them. He walked her past the main lockers, past a group of guys who looked up and grinned at her but said nothing, into a smaller, dimmer alcove where the equipment was stored.
Then he let go of her hand and started pulling off his clothes.
Miri's brain short-circuited.
He tugged his jersey over his head in one fluid motion, revealing a torso that belonged in a museum. Broad shoulders, defined chest, abs that looked like they'd been carved from marble. A thin trail of dark hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his shorts, and Miri's eyes followed it before she could stop herself.
He kicked off his cleats, peeled off his socks, and then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and pushed them down.
She should look away. She knew she should look away.
She didn't.
He was wearing boxers—just boxers—and they weren't leaving much to the imagination. The fabric was dark gray, cotton, clinging to his thighs and tenting slightly in a way that made Miri's mouth go dry.
She felt a pulse between her legs, a heavy throb that she'd never experienced before. Not like this. Not this intense.
"See something you like?" Leo asked, his voice teasing, but his eyes were dark with something else.
Miri blushed so hard she thought her face might catch fire. "I—you—"
He walked toward her.
She backed up instinctively, her shoulders hitting the wall behind her with a soft thump. He kept coming, closing the distance between them until he was inches away, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his skin.
"I've been thinking about you all practice," he murmured.
"I—you have?"
"Yeah." He reached up and pulled the pencil from her bun, letting her hair tumble down around her shoulders. "Every single play. Every single second. Kept looking over at you on those bleachers, all wrapped up in those little tights and that sweater..."
He traced the neckline of her sweater with one finger.
"Drove me fucking crazy."
Miri's breath hitched. "Leo—"
He kissed her.
It was different this time—harder, hungrier, his mouth slanting over hers with an urgency that made her knees buckle. His tongue swept against her lips, demanding entry, and she opened for him without hesitation. He tasted like salt and vitality, and she carded her fingers through his sweaty hair, pulling him closer.
He groaned against her mouth.
His hands found her waist, then her hips, then her thighs. He gripped the backs of her thighs and lifted her like she weighed nothing—which, to him, she probably did—and she wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively, her skirt riding up around her hips.
Her back hit the wall.
She gasped into his mouth as he pinned her there, one hand braced against the concrete beside her head, the other sliding up her thigh. His fingers caught the waistband of her tights, and he paused.
"These," he said, his lips brushing against her jaw, "are fucking criminal."
"You like them?"
"I like them on you." He nipped at her earlobe, and she shivered. "But I think I'd like them better off."
His fingers slid beneath the waistband, beneath the thin cotton of her panties, and Miri's entire body jolted.
"Leo—"
"Shh." He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Let me touch you. Please."
She should say no. There were people nearby, anywhere, the door was open, the showers were running, this was insane—but she nodded, her head falling back against the wall, because she wanted this, she wanted him, and she was so tired of being afraid.
His fingers found her in the warm dark between her legs.
She was wet—so wet, embarrassingly wet, her body responding to him in ways she'd never experienced before. His fingertips brushed against the slick flesh, tracing slow circles around the spot that made her see stars, and she heard herself make a sound she'd never made before. Something high and desperate.
"That's it," Leo breathed. "That's my girl."
His thumb pressed down. His fingers slid lower. And Miri stopped thinking about anything except the way he was touching her—the pressure, the rhythm, the way his thumb moved in tight circles while his other fingers explored lower, dipping inside her just barely, just enough to make her gasp.
"How does that feel?" he asked.
"Good. God, it's—" She couldn't finish the sentence. Her hips bucked against his hand, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything.
"You like that?"
"Yes. Yes. Don't stop."
He didn't stop. He watched her face, his eyes hooded and dark, tracking every flicker of pleasure across her features. He knew exactly what he was doing, how to touch her, when to press harder and when to ease up. He was an expert at this, and she was drowning in it, her thighs shaking, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"I've got you," he murmured. "Let go, Miri. I've got you."
She was close. She didn't even know what she was close to—she'd never been here before, never felt this building pressure in her core, this coiling tension that seemed to tighten with every stroke of his thumb. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her head thrashed against the wall.
"I—something's—"
"I know. It's okay. Just let it happen."
He pressed down harder, moved faster, and the pressure snapped.
Miri came with a cry that she couldn't have held back if she'd tried—a loud, shaking, whole-body convulsion that left her trembling in his arms. She felt her inner muscles clench around his fingers, felt the wetness that seemed to flood, felt everything all at once until she was nothing but a heap of raw nerves and shock.
She'd never felt anything like it. Not once. Not ever.
When she finally came back to herself, Leo was holding her, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath coming hard and fast. His fingers were still inside her, gentle now, stroking her through the aftershocks.
"That's my girl," he said again. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."
"I—I just—" She couldn't find the words. She was still shaking.
He withdrew his hand carefully, brought his fingers to his mouth, and licked them clean while she watched.
Her face burned.
"You taste like honey," he said, and then he was kissing her again, softer this time, letting her taste herself on his lips.
"I want to touch you," she said against his mouth. "Leo, please—"
He hesitated. "You don't have to—"
"I want to."
She reached for him, her hand landing on the hard plane of his stomach, then lower, feeling the heat of him through his boxers. He was hard—so hard, the outline of his cock pressing against the cotton like a promise. She traced him through the fabric, and he made a sound low in his throat.
"Fuck, Miri."
"Can I—"
"Yeah." He pulled his boxers down.
She'd never seen one before. Not in person—not up close. He was thick and long, arcing up toward his stomach, the head flushed dark and glistening. Her mouth went dry.
"That's—" She swallowed. "That's a lot."
He laughed, breathless. "We'll go slow. Whatever you want."
"I want—" She hesitated.
He waited, patient, his hands gentle on her hips.
"I want to touch it," she said.
"Go ahead."
She wrapped her fingers around him—or tried to. Her hand looked tiny against him, her fingers barely spanning his girth. He was hot and silky and impossibly hard, and when she squeezed gently, his hips jerked.
"Fuck," he hissed. "Your hands feel so good."
She stroked him slowly, learning the shape of him, the way his breath caught when she ran her thumb over the head. She watched his face, the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes fluttered closed. She did that. She made him feel that.
"You're so beautiful," she whispered.
His eyes snapped open. "Me?"
"You." She stroked him again. "All of you."
"Jesus, Miri." He captured her mouth in a kiss that was almost desperate. "You can't just say shit like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm trying to be a gentleman here, and you're making it really fucking difficult."
She laughed against his lips. "Maybe I don't want you to be a gentleman."
He groaned. "You're going to kill me."
And then he was kissing her again, and his hands were on her thighs, and he was lifting her, positioning her, and she felt the head of him pressing against her entrance, and everything stopped.
"Wait," she said.
He froze immediately. "What's wrong?"
"I just—I've never—" She couldn't finish the sentence.
"I know." He pressed his forehead to hers. "I know. We don't have to do anything you're not ready for."
"But I want to."
"Then let's just—" He shifted, sliding against her but not into her, the head of his cock pressing against her clit in a way that made her gasp. "Let's do this first. Just like this."
He began to move against her, slow, the length of him sliding through her wetness, against her clit, not entering but so, so close. The sensation was electric—different from his fingers, more intense, more intimate. She clutched his shoulders and held on.
"Feel good?" he asked.
"Yes. Don't stop."
He didn't. He rocked against her in a steady rhythm, and she could feel every inch of him sliding against her, the head catching on her clit with every stroke. She was building again—that same coiling tension—and this time she knew what was coming.
"Leo—"
"I know. I've got you. Come for me, Miri. Let me feel you."
She came again, her body clenching around nothing, her thighs squeezing his hips, a broken moan tearing from her throat. He watched her face the whole time, his eyes dark and hungry, and when she finally stopped shaking, he kissed her forehead.
"You're so fucking perfect," he said. "I can't—"
He broke off, his hips jerking against her, and she felt the hot splash of his release against her stomach.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. They just held each other, breathless and trembling, the world slowly coming back into focus around them.
Then, from somewhere in the locker room, someone cleared their throat.
"Uh, Leo? You decent?"
Leo's head dropped to Miri's shoulder. "Fuck."
Miri started to laugh. She couldn't help it. The absurdity of it all—the fact that she, Miranda Hayes, was wrapped around a mostly naked football player in a semi-public locker room, with his come sliding down her stomach—hit her all at once, and she dissolved into giggles.
Leo lifted his head, and he was smiling too.
"You're laughing at me."
"I'm laughing at the situation." She kissed his cheek. "You should probably answer him."
"In a minute." He kissed her lips, soft and lingering. "I'm not done with you yet."
"Leo."
"Just—one more minute." He buried his face in her neck. "Please."
She held him, her fingers stroking through his hair, and wondered how she'd ever lived without this. Without him.
Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Inside, the locker room was quiet, and Leo was warm against her, and Miri felt—for the first time in her life—like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
"Hey," she said softly.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
He lifted his head, frowning. "For what?"
"For not giving up on me." She touched his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "I know I'm not—I'm not easy. I'm awkward and I'm scared and I don't know how to do any of this. But you keep showing up anyway."
Leo turned his head and kissed her palm.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
And Miri believed him.