Chapter 7: Locker Room Antics
The change was subtle, but in the hyper-observant ecosystem of a professional locker room, it was a klaxon. Eli was quiet, which was normal. But it was a different kind of quiet. The usual sharp, impenetrable aura around him had softened at the edges. He’d been humming yesterday, just two low, tuneless notes while tying his cleats. Marco Santos had frozen, a protein bar halfway to his mouth, and shot a wide-eyed look at their captain, Leo.
Now, post-training, the room was a steam-filled symphony of grunts, towel-snaps, and the hiss of aerosol deodorant. Eli sat on the bench, head bowed, methodically unwrapping the tape from his wrists. He wasn’t scowling at his phone. He was just… still.
“Bedfield,” Leo called from his own locker, his voice echoing off the tiles. “You get a new phone? One that doesn’t require you to glare at it?”
A few chuckles rippled through the room. Teasing Eli was a careful sport, like poking a sleeping bear with a very long stick.
Eli looked up, not with a glare, but with a faint, distracted blink. “No.”
“You sure?” Marco pressed, emboldened. “You’ve been… smiling. It’s disturbing. Did you finally get that puppy? The scary, scowling kind to match your vibe?”
“I don’t smile,” Eli grumbled, balling up the used tape. But the denial lacked its usual finality.
“He’s got a point,” Leo said, leaning back. “You’ve been less… murderous. Did you take up meditation? Find a cult? Spill.”
Eli stood, stretching his back. The movement pulled his training shirt tight across his shoulders. He said nothing, which was his default answer to everything. But his silence now felt charged, like he was guarding a specific secret, not just his general existence.
The locker room door swung open, and the usual Thursday noise dipped for a half-second. It was the flower delivery.
Hadley walked in, a tower of wrapped bundles in her arms, a clipboard wedged under her chin. Her blonde hair was tied up in a messy knot, tendrils escaping and curling in the humid air. She navigated the narrow aisle between the benches with practiced ease, ignoring the half-dressed athletes as if they were furniture. “Morning, gentlemen. Your weekly dose of aesthetic improvement.”
A chorus of easy greetings echoed back. She had been doing this for months, a fixture as regular as the physio. She was just “Haddie with the flowers,” quick with a joke, completely unimpressed by their fame. They liked her.
Eli had gone utterly still, his back to her. He was facing his locker, but his reflection in the mirror was caught, frozen mid-motion.
Hadley started distributing the small bouquets, placing them on the designated shelves above the lockers. “Santos, white lilies for your ‘pure’ soul. Leo, sunflowers, because you’re annoyingly cheerful in the morning…”
She worked her way down the line. The room’s focus had subtly shifted. They were watching Eli. He hadn’t turned around.
Hadley reached his locker. She paused, looking at the space next to his kit bag. Then she placed a small, rustic ceramic jar on the shelf. It wasn’t the usual clear cellophane wrap. It held a tight cluster of deep purple violets and a single, perfect white gardenia. The scent was immediate and distinct: crushed violets and something creamier, warmer. It cut through the sweat and citrus spray.
“Bedfield,” she said, her voice light and businesslike. “Something different this week. The violets are stubborn. The gardenia… needed a friend.”
He finally turned. Slowly. The room’s chatter had died to a low hum. All pretense of not watching was gone.
He looked from the jar to her face. A muscle jumped in his jaw. The air between them seemed to thicken, pulling taut. Everyone could see it. The way his entire focus narrowed to her, a silent conversation passing in the space of a breath. They could see the soil stain, now faded but still visible, on the hem of his grey hoodie hanging in his locker.
“They’ll rot in here,” he said, his voice low.
“Then take them home,” she replied, equally quiet, a challenge in her blue eyes. “Put them somewhere with a window.” She held his gaze for a second longer than necessary, then glanced down at his hands. “How’s the shelf?”
“Solid.”
“Barnaby misses you.”
A sound, almost a laugh, escaped him. It was soft, rough, and utterly disarming. The entire locker room heard it.
Hadley gave a small, knowing nod, tucked her clipboard under her arm, and turned to leave. “Gentlemen. Don’t forget to water them.”
She was gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft sigh.
The silence she left in her wake was profound. Then, all at once, it broke.
“What the hell was that?” Marco breathed.
Leo just whistled, long and low. “The shelf? Barnaby?”
Eli turned back to his locker, ignoring them all. He reached up and carefully lifted the ceramic jar. He held it, his large hands curiously gentle around the small vessel, examining the flowers. The violets. The lonely gardenia. His thumb brushed a petal.
The questions rained down, overlapping, incessant.
“Since when do you get personal bouquets, Bedfield?”
“Who is she? Really?”
“Is that why you’ve been all… calm?”
Eli placed the jar carefully into his kit bag, nestling it beside his boots. He zipped the bag closed with a definitive sound. Then he finally looked at his teammates. His expression wasn’t the brooding mask they were used to. It was something simpler, and for them, more terrifying: it was peaceful.
“She’s the florist,” he said, as if that explained everything.
He slung his bag over his shoulder, the weight of the flowers inside a tangible anchor. The path from his locker to the door felt longer than the pitch. He walked through their stunned, grinning silence, through the lingering scent of lavender and violet that now felt like it belonged only to him.
As the door closed behind him, the explosion of speculation was immediate and loud. He heard it muffled through the thick wood. He didn’t care.
Out in the sterile concrete hallway, the afternoon light was flat. He adjusted the strap of his bag, feeling the slight, precious weight of the ceramic jar bump against his side. He had a press conference in an hour. He’d have to wear a suit, face the flashing lights, and give nothing away.
But for now, he had violets and a gardenia in his bag, and the memory of her standing in his space, unafraid, leaving her mark on the air. He started walking, a slow, steady pace toward the car park. Toward the empty apartment that, for the first time, might not feel so empty when he walked in.