Chapter 1: The Reckoning
The polyester blend of the athletic towels was scratchy against his cheek. It smelled of detergent, stale sweat, and the faint, chlorine-tinged perfume of the girls’ locker room. Bartholomew Higgins – Bart to the three people who ever used the name – held his breath, listening to the echo of cleats on tile, the slamming of metal locker doors, and the vibrant, overlapping chatter that was his current obsession.
He had planned it like a military operation. Wait for the final whistle. Watch from the janitor’s closet window as the team trudged off the court. Sprint, heart hammering, to the locker room while the hall was empty. The large, wheeled towel bin by the showers was perfect. He’d emptied half of it into a spare sack, climbed in, and pulled the plastic lid down until only a hairlines worth of light remained.
Now, he waited. The din of the team arriving washed over him.
“My shoulders are on fire,” someone groaned.
“No kidding. Val’s spikes are literally murder now. I think she left a bruise on my forearm that’s gonna spell her initials.”
A laugh, sharp and clear, cut through the steam. “That’s the point, Chloe. If you can’t take my hits, you’ll fold against Westside next week.” Valeria Petrova’s voice was a low, commanding instrument. It didn’t ask for attention; it confiscated it.
Bart shifted minutely, his body cramping. He risked lifting the lid a millimeter. A forest of toned, glistening legs passed by. He saw a flash of a crimson uniform, a hand ruffling damp, dark hair. His palms were slick.
He didn’t consider himself a pervert. Not really. He was a scholar. An anthropologist of feminine perfection. The volleyball team were like distant goddesses, and this was his field research. In his regular life, he was a system of elbows and knees, a guy who communicated better with circuit boards than people. Here, submerged in their world, he felt a terrifying, electric proximity.
A shadow fell over his slit of light. It paused.
The general locker room noise seemed to dip, just for a second. A pair of feet, adorned with tough-looking athletic tape around one ankle, stood directly before the bin. They were hurricane-still amidst the chaos.
Bart’s blood turned to ice. He didn’t breathe.
The lid was wrenched open.
Light and steam flooded in. He blinked, eyes scrambling to adjust, to process the form looming over him. He saw the sharp cut of hip bones above a towel, the damp ends of blonde hair, and a pair of fierce, brown eyes that regarded him not with shock, but with cold, simmering recognition.
“Well,” Val said, her voice no longer booming but dangerously quiet. “What do we have here?”
The last thing Bart saw was not her face, but her fist. It wasn’t a wild swing. It was a precise, almost professional-looking jab, pulled just short of full force. It exploded against his jaw with a bright, white cosmos of pain, and the world snapped off.
A dull, throbbing ache was his first conscious sensation. The second was the hard, unyielding press of tile against his back. The third was the circle of faces blotting out the fluorescent lights above.
He was on the floor, in the center of the locker room. Surrounding him was the entire varsity volleyball team, now shrouded in towels, sweats, and expressions ranging from curious disgust to open amusement. They were giants from this angle. Shoulders broad from years of serves and spikes, legs that went on for miles, all casting long shadows over his splayed-out form.
Val stood at his head, a Colossus in a damp grey sweatshirt and gym shorts. She crossed her arms, which were, Bart noted with a distant, academic horror, thicker than his own. Her gaze was analytical, like he was a particularly grubby bug.
“He’s waking up,” she announced.
A girl with a neon green streak in her hair – Chloe, he remembered – snorted. “Took long enough. You didn’t kill him, Val. Coach would be pissed.”
“Doubt it,” Val said, her eyes not leaving Bart’s. “His internal hard drive probably just needed to reboot.”
Bart tried to sit up. A wave of nausea rolled through him. He managed to get his elbows under him, the tile cold and slippery. “I… I can explain,” he croaked. His voice was a stranger’s.
“Oh, this’ll be good,” another player chimed in, popping a bubble of gum.
“I was… I was looking for my phone,” Bart stammered, the lie forming clumsy and wet on his tongue. “I think I dropped it. Must have… fallen in…”
“Into a towel bin you had to literally climb into?” Val finished, one eyebrow creeping toward her hairline. “With the lid closed? While we were showering?” She leaned down, planting her hands on her knees. Her face was suddenly very close. She wasn’t smiling. “Try again, Peeping Tom. Use smaller words if you have to.”
Tears of pure panic welled in his eyes. The scholarly detachment was gone, incinerated by raw terror. These weren’t distant goddesses. They were actual, powerful people, and he was at their absolute mercy.
“Please,” he whispered, the word barely audible. “Please don’t call the cops. Or the Dean. My mom… she’ll… please.” He looked from face to unforgiving face, finally landing back on Val’s. “I’ll do anything. Just don’t ruin my life.”
For a long, excruciating moment, there was only the drip of a distant shower and the hum of the lights.
Then Val straightened up. A slow smile spread across her face. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was the smile of a chess player who has just seen an unexpected, but perfectly useful, move.
A low chuckle started somewhere in the circle. Then another. It spread, a contagion of mean, girlish laughter that echoed off the lockers and closed in around him. They weren’t just laughing at him; they were laughing at the sheer, pathetic magnitude of his predicament.
Bart shrunk into himself, wishing the tile would swallow him whole.
Val held up a hand. The laughter died down to snickers and giggles. She looked at her team, then back down at the crumpled form of Bartholomew Higgins.
“Turn you in?” she said, her voice laced with a predatory warmth. “Come on, Higgins. We’re not monsters.”
She crouched down again, bringing them to eye level. Her expression was one of almost gentle condescension.
“We have a much better plan for you, dork.”