Locker Room Claim: Her Last Celebration

I still hear the slap of her wet sneakers on the tiled floor every time I close my eyes. Colette had just peeled off her reunion jersey, the one with the faded number 17 across the back, and the locker room lights made the sheen of sweat on her collarbones look like something sacred and filthy at the same time. Ten years. We’d driven three hours for this stupid alumni thing, laughing in the car about how her old softball team would all look soft and settled. Then Rafael walked in.

He filled the doorway the way he always had—six-five of solid muscle that hadn’t gone soft, shoulders that still strained the seams of a plain black T-shirt. Colette’s laugh caught in her throat. I saw it. I felt my own stomach drop and my cock twitch in the same second. He smiled at her first, then at me, easy and knowing, like he’d been waiting for this exact night.

“Look at you, Colette,” he said, voice low enough that it stayed between the three of us in the empty back corner of the locker room. The rest of the team was still out on the field drinking cheap beer and telling the same stories. “Still the only girl who could outrun me and look better doing it.”

She flushed, one hand still tangled in the hem of her sports bra. I stood two lockers down with my hands shoved in my pockets like that could hide the way my dick was already half-hard. She glanced at me—just a flicker—and I gave the smallest nod. We’ve talked about this for years. Late at night, her legs over mine, whispering what it would feel like if he ever got her alone in this room again. The room where he’d first pinned her against the cold metal after practice senior year and kissed her until she forgot my name for a whole weekend.

Rafael stepped closer. He didn’t ask permission from me; he just looked at her like she still belonged on his roster. “You kept the legs.” His eyes dragged down her bare thighs, the tiny running shorts she still wore under the jersey. “Jesus, Cole.”

“You’re not exactly faded yourself,” she said, and the teasing lilt in her voice made my throat tight. She reached out—playful at first—and poked two fingers into the hard plane of his chest. “Feel that? Still concrete.” Her palm flattened next, sliding slowly over the muscle, feeling the heat of him through the cotton. I watched her fingers curl, testing. She looked back at me over her shoulder, cheeks pink, eyes asking the question we’d already answered a hundred times in bed.