The Locker Room

by Meghan Quinn

Genres: Sports

Synopsis

Have you heard the rumor around campus about the locker room?

If you haven't, let me enlighten you: Legend has it if you bring a girl into the sacred after-game domain of the baseball locker room, it will end with a walk down the aisle. One rowdy and naked encounter against the lockers with the girl of your dreams will make her your wife.

Translation: baseball players are stupidly superstitious and believe the locker room has magical powers.

But not all baseball players are superstitious, me included.

So when the girl I've fallen for brushes me off, I start to question if I need to switch my way of thinking. Maybe it's time I finally hand out a coveted invitation to the locker room.

The only question is, will she accept?

Release date: June 20, 2019

Publisher: Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC

Print pages: 320

Reader says this book is...: emotionally riveting (1) entertaining story (1) satisfying ending (1) sex scenes (1) tearjerker (1)

Sample

Prologue

EMORY

Rule number one in college: don’t lose your friends at a house party . . . especially when you’re drunk. 

Technically this is a loft party though, so . . . am I really breaking the rule?

My head falls back against the wall, my empty red cup rests in my hand and is clutched to my chest as I scan the giant loft space on the third floor of a renovated warehouse. I climbed up a fire escape in heels to get here, risked the safety of my ankles to be a part of something special, because apparently this is the place to be on the weekends. 

The Baseball Loft. 

As I’ve been told by my best friends, this is where you earn a golden ticket invitation to the exclusive but highly sought-after locker room—where dreams come true.

Supposedly. 

Don’t take my word for it. 

But rumor on the street is: the best orgasms take place in the Brentwood Baseball locker room. Legends say one girl had a five-minute orgasm on the tile floors of the shower. 

Five-minute orgasm in exchange for a week’s worth of ringworm. Not sure I’m interested. 

But alas, I’m here, drunk off my ass, boobs practically spilling out of my shirt, and my mascara slowly melting off my eyelashes and onto my face, morphing me from new-in-town college girl, to trash panda from the racoon clan.

“Dottie, Lindsay,” I say weakly, moving my head from side to side. “Where art thou?”

“You need help?” a deep voice slurs next to me.

I look to my right through very blurry vision and make out what I’m going to assume is an incredibly attractive man. But then again, I’m drunk—the whole mascara melting off my eyes in full swing—and I’ve been fooled once before. 

But hey, I think those are blue eyes. Can’t go wrong with that . . . reasoning that will be thought better of in the morning.

“Have you seen Dottie or Lindsay?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he answers, resting against the wall with me. 

“Damn it. I think they’re making out with some baseball players. Have you seen any of those around?”

“Baseball players?”

“Mm-hmm.” I nod, shutting my eyes for a second but then shooting them back open when I feel myself wobble to the side. The guy catches me by the hand before I topple over, but thanks to his alcohol intake, he’s not steady enough to hold us up and . . . timber . . . we fall to the couch next to me. 

“Whoa, great placement of furniture,” I say, as the guy topples on top of me. 

“Damn near saved our lives.”

I rub my face against the scratchy and worn-out fabric. “How many people do you think have had sex on this thing?”

“Probably less than what you’re thinking.”

The couch is deep, giving me enough room to lie on my side with the guy in front of me, so we’re both facing each other. He smells nice, like vodka and cupcakes. 

“So, have you seen any baseball players around? I’m looking for my friends.”

“Nah, but if you see any, let me know. I can’t find my room.”

“You live here?” I ask, eyes wide.

“Yup,” he answers, enunciating the P. “For two years now.”

“And you don’t remember where your room is?”

“It has a yellow door. If the damn room would stop spinning I’d be able to find it.”

“Well . . . maybe if we find your room, we’ll find my friends,” I say, my drunk mind making complete sense. 

“That’s a great idea.” He rolls off the couch and then stands to his feet, wobbling from side to side as he holds out his hand to me. 

Without even blinking, I take it in mine and let him help me to my feet. “Yellow door, let’s go,” I say, raising my crumpled cup to the air. 

“We’re on the move.” He keeps my hand clasped in his and we stumble together past beer pong, people making out against walls, the kitchen, to an open space full of doors. “Yellow door, do you see one?”

I blink a few times and then see a flash of sunshine. “There.” I point with force. “Yellow, right there.”

His head snaps to where I’m pointing. A beam of light illuminates the color of the door, making it seem like we’re about to walk right into the sun. I’m a little chilly, so I welcome the heat.

“Fuck, there it is. You’re good.” Together, we make our way to the door, pushing past a few laughing people and into the quiet den of his room. 

Black walls, white trim, one window looking out over the water; the guy has a nice place. I scan the space, looking for any sign of my friends but come up short, only finding a large bed with a black comforter, a metal-looking desk, and a large white dresser with a giant TV mounted on top. 

Not a friend in sight but what a cozy spot to take a little rest. 

“I don’t see my friends.”

He looks around. “I don’t either, but fuck, my bed.” He throws his arms out to the side and bellyflops on the mattress, bouncing a few times before settling his head on his pillow. 

I stare at him a few moments. Tight jeans shaping his ass and thighs, white shirt that shows off every muscle in his back, handsome face. Not a bad view. But that’s not what’s enticing me to move forward. It’s the warm and fluffy-looking pillow right next to the guy.

Like a cloud calling my name . . . Emory, come here, Emory, rest your head on me. I make one of the best decisions of my life. 

Don’t mind if I do.

I propel my body forward like a dolphin slicing through the water and flop down on the mattress, resting my head right on top of pure heaven. 

Oh, that’s nice. 

Real nice. 

Smells like fresh soap and feels like my head is being hugged by cotton. 

See, best decision I ever made. 

The mattress shifts next to me, and I peep my eyes open to see the guy with the nice ass hovering over me. He glances down with heavy lids and then back up at me. 

I smile lazily up at him, a little nervous that I’m puckering my lips, but honestly, I can’t be in control of anything my body is doing right now.

He’s about to tell me I’m the most luscious and beautifully smelling girl he’s ever met—like a field of flowers on an epic spring day—

“Uh, your boob popped out of your shirt.” He points at my chest. What now? Spring flower—

That’s no spring flower compliment. 

I must be completely and utterly exhausted, because instead of reaching up to stuff the wayward boob back in my shirt, I cry out, “Oh, no,” but make no attempt to fix the problem.

 “Does it usually do that?” he asks, looking very concerned for me. “Try to run away?”

I shake my head, the softness of the pillow making my eyes heavy. “No, this is the first time the little lady tried to escape.” Barely able to lift my hand, I tap his forearm and say, “Be a dear and lecture the poor thing and stuff it back into place.”

“I’ve never lectured a boob before.”

“You got this. You’re a strong, confident man with a commanding voice. Give that breast a berating.” When he just continues to stare at me, I shift my head to the side and rub my cheek against the smooth fabric of the pillowcase. “Don’t be shy,” I encourage him. “Just lift it up and shove it back in.”

He rests his head next to mine, the mattress shifting and bouncing with his movements. Still staring at my boob, he reaches up and cups it in his hand. “Heavy,” he says quietly. 

How sweet. 

And utterly romantic. 

I’ve never been told I have a heavy boob, but by God, it makes me smile. Good job growing, Emory.

His abnormal but delightful compliment is the last thing I remember before I drift off and fall into a deep slumber. 

It’s the last thing I remember before I wake up in the middle of the night in a stranger’s room, passed out with my boob in said stranger’s hand. So much for tucking her back in. 

Welcome to Brentwood U.


Chapter One


**EMORY**

This map is useless. 

Easy to read, my ass. I need a magnifying glass to make out any of the color-coded buildings on this thing and unfortunately, I left my magnifying glass in my other skirt. That was sarcasm, if you didn’t catch it.

Standing next to a wonky-looking tree, I try to act as casual as possible—hip popped out, interested glances, the usual—as I hide a school map beneath the pages of Pride and Prejudice, while off-handedly looking for the MacMillan building. But the wind—though subtle—isn’t making things easy.

Recently transferred from Cal State, Fullerton, I’m attempting to avoid making a fool of myself on the first day of fall classes at my new school, Brentwood University. 

Unfortunately, I’m way out of my element. 

For one, I know nothing about this school other than they have the best library sciences program in the country. Making the transfer a no-brainer for me the minute I realized I wanted to be a librarian. I dabbled in business at Cal State, but who was I kidding? I had no right trying to figure out micro- and macroeconomics. 

A California girl through and through, Illinois is nothing like the palm trees and beaches I’ve grown up with. Don’t get me wrong, there are trees here, huge, plush, green trees everywhere, the kind of trees Bob Ross made dance on his canvas. But the smog . . . I have no idea where that is. Breathing fresh air almost feels wrong. And apparently pizza is a big deal here. I’ve heard at least three separate arguments since I’ve moved about which pizza in town is best. Let’s all be friends and be grateful there is good pizza here.

And even though this is a “small” school town outside Chicago, it’s larger than life with boisterous personalities and ivy-covered buildings that cause me to believe I’m walking on the hallowed grounds where the prosperous were educated.

Plus, I had to buy leggings for all my skirts, because the temperature doesn’t call for bare legs out here.

The wind picks up again, lifting my skirt and map at the same time. Not wanting to be known as the resident flasher on campus, I save the skirt—because even though I have leggings, I chose not to wear them today—and tamp it back down on my legs as the map lifts from my book, floats into the air, twirling and swirling only to smack a passing guy right in the face.

Whap. 

“What the—?” He startles and I jump into action.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, scrambling to hold my skirt down while clutching my parted book at my chest. 

The map is slowly peeled away and a pair of beautiful light blue eyes peek past the paper first, followed by the sharpest jawline I’ve ever seen, defined and tense. Light scruff matches his dirty-blond hair that is swept to the left and cut short on the sides. Dressed in a green Brentwood baseball sweatshirt and wearing a jaw-dropping smile, he chuckles and hands me the map while eyeing me up and down. 

Why is he so familiar?

Those eyes.

“Not a problem, but you could have asked for help if you were lost. Slapping me with a map is an aggressive tactic, effective, but aggressive.”

That voice, that smirk. I know it from somewhere.

Feeling a light blush creep up my cheeks, I say, “Not used to the wind.”

He nods and thumbs behind him. “Lake Michigan. It’s a bitch in the winter.” He studies me for a second and then nods at my map. “Where you headed? I can help.” There is the smallest southern drawl in his voice, nothing strong, but enough to tell me he’s not from Illinois. 

I know that voice. I remember specifically thinking it was hot. 

Tamping down my map and folding it in my book that I snap shut quickly, I say, “I promised I’d figure this all out on my own, but looks like I might need a little help after all.”

“Don’t blame yourself; this campus is a maze with no rhyme or reason. I was lost my entire first semester. Can’t tell you how many times I was late to class.”

“That’s reassuring.”

He tilts his head to the side and gives me a small once-over. “I know you.” I don’t say anything and just as his eyes land on my chest, a smile creeps over his face, a light bulb lighting in his head. “You’re the girl who helped me find my room on Saturday.”

Oh. 

Shit.

It’s the yellow-door baseball guy. 

He leans forward, hands stuffed in his pockets and says, “I never forget a good pair of tits.”

As if I wasn’t blushing enough already. 

“It’s a shame I passed out with my hand holding one. I’m usually smoother than that. If anything, I think I owe you a nipple tweak.”

If I opened my book back up, would I be able to sink into the pages, allowing the literature to swallow me whole?

“I didn’t even remember passing out with a tit in hand until my buddy told me he walked in to make sure I was okay, saw me cupping you while we were both passed out.” He scratches the side of his jaw. “Still getting shit for that.”

I . . . what does someone even say to that?

“Don’t worry,” he adds. “I won’t reveal your identity. Clutching a tit is between said man and a lady. No gossiping here. How’s your boob, by the way? Still trying to run away?” He chuckles. I’m mortified.

I push my hair behind my ear and stare at my Mary Janes. “Uh . . . everything’s intact. Thank you.”

“Good, you calmed the old girl down.” He takes in a deep breath, acting so casually. “Where you off to?”

Why are guys like this? So easygoing, as if they weren’t humiliated enough to warrant crawling back into your mother’s womb? I’m pretty chill, but reliving a moment like Saturday night isn’t a top priority of mine. More like “let’s forget it ever happened” because passing out with my boob in a strange man’s hand isn’t one of my finest of moments. Nothing to scrapbook.

Wanting to move on from reminiscing, I say, “I’m looking for the MacMillan building. I have class in ten minutes, and I have no idea if I’m in the right area or not.” I need to get some distance from him. “I can figure it out though. Uh, good to see you again.” I start walking away, showing confidence in my shoulders even if I have no idea where I’m going. 

“Hold up.” He grabs my shoulder before I can slink away and turns me in the opposite direction. “Going the wrong way.” Oh hell. “I’m headed there as well, so you can walk with me.” Of course he is. He grips the straps of his backpack as he nods in front of us, casually directing me where to go. 

“Oh, that would be great. Thanks.” Not really, but doesn’t seem like I have a choice at this moment. I fall in line next to him and immediately feel awkward, unsure of what to say to this guy whose hand became my boob’s overnight cushion as we drooled on his ultra-comfy pillows.

Do I compliment his pillows?

Ask him if he still thinks my boob was heavy?

Tell him I don’t normally let my breasts fall out of my shirt?

Lucky for me, his easygoing personality reflects in conversation. “Are you a freshman?”

“No. Junior transfer. What about you?” Might as well fill in the awkward silence.

“Junior as well, but I’ve been here since I was a freshman.” He holds his hand out to the side. “Knox Gentry.”

I take it and give it an uncoordinated shake as we keep walking forward. “Emory Ealson.”

“Well, Em, what class are you headed to?”

Em. Not even my parents call me that, but I’m not about to make a stink about it, not when he’s my personal tour guide. 

“Developmentally Effective Learning Environments.”

“Huh.” He smiles at me, sticking his hands back in his pockets. “Me too.” That’s unfortunately convenient. “What are you majoring in?”

“Early education. I plan on getting my master’s in library sciences.”

“Is that why you’re hiding a map of the school in your copy of Pride and Prejudice?”

Busted. 

“Was it that obvious?”

“No one is that into the insufferable Mr. Darcy.” He tacks on a dramatic eye-roll, and, even though he’s insulting one of the greatest heroes ever written, I can’t help but get a little excited because it seems like he’s read it. 

I mean . . . he called Mr. Darcy insufferable. My little literature heart beats wildly because an attractive man has clearly read my favorite book of all time.

“You’ve read Pride and Prejudice?”

“Fuck, no. Watched the BBC special. Colin Firth was the shit, a real dick to Lizzie.”

Poof, there goes my excitement. Only a man could think that being a dick to Lizzie made Colin Firth the shit. This man is completely classless. 

“And don’t get me started on the exhausting mother. Stop pawning your daughters off on people. Show a little self-respect, lady.” 

We reach a grey stone building with the smallest plaque I’ve ever seen tacked onto the side. MacMillan Building. I would have never found this place. 

“It was her duty as a mother to marry her daughters off,” I reply, following him closely as a stampede of students make their way through the narrow halls. 

“Maybe if she chilled out and wasn’t so shrillingly annoying, there would have been a longer line of suitors waiting to scoop up the harlots.”

“Harlots? Elizabeth and Jane were anything but harlots. Lydia, on the other hand . . .”

He stops at a door and rests his hand on the handle. “Jane, as a single woman, goes to Bingley’s Netherfield Park at his request and happens to spend the night? Harlot.” He opens the door for me and waits for me to step in, but I don’t budge.

“She was sick. She didn’t spend the night to have relations.” I’m nearly spluttering my responses to this dweeb. But, relations, Emory?

“Sick because the crazy-as-shit mother sent her on horseback during a storm. Fucking insane asylum, that’s where she belonged.” He ushers me into the classroom with his hand to my back. “Maybe if the mom sat back with some brandy, things would have been different. Their love could have matured organically.”

“Without her meddling, Elizabeth and Jane would probably have ended up as old maids or with intolerable suitors like Mr. Collins.”

“He was good enough for Charlotte Lucas.” He shrugs as if the statement doesn’t peel the nails off every Janeite in the country.

“He was a travesty,” I shoot back, literary passion taking over. Now, he was insufferable.

Ignoring me, Knox walks down a few steps into the lecture hall and turns down a row toward two other guys wearing the same sweatshirt as him. Both tall in their seats, the one wearing a backward hat is broader than the other, but they both seem just as commanding as Knox. Just as confident . . . just as cocky.

I stand in the stairway, unsure what to do. Do I follow him? Sit next to him? Or find my own seat? After all, he did consider Mr. Collins a good enough suitor. The horror!

When he notices my hesitation, he rolls his eyes dramatically with a sigh, walks back to where I’m standing, grabs my hand and ushers me down the row until we both join the other two guys.

“What’s up, Gent?” the one with the backwards hat asks and then eyes me over Knox’s shoulder. “Who’s your friend?” Oh, please God, don’t say the girl whose boob made me pass out the other night. I’d rather die.

“Em,” he answers simply while leaning back in his chair and adjusting his hood. “Junior transfer, she slapped me with her campus map.” He glances at me and gives me a sly wink before turning back to his friends.

And right there, in that moment, despite our fresh disagreement, I know he’s a nice guy. 

He could have been an obnoxious dick and pointed me out to his teammates, but instead, he kept it simple. 

Cool.

I respect him for that. 

“He’s been slapped by worse,” the guy with the backward hat says before holding out his hand. “I’m Carson, and the guy sitting next to me with his face glued to his phone, that’s Holt.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking his calloused hand. 

Holt barely glances up from his phone and says, “Hey,” and then tunes us out returning to the digital world. 

“Where did you transfer from?” Carson asks, leaning on the small desk attached to his chair, fist to his cheek, peering over at me as if he has a schoolgirl crush. 

I push a piece of my long brown hair behind my ear and say, “Cal State, Fullerton.”

“She’s a librarian,” Knox adds for me, screwing up the facts. 

“Hope to be a librarian. I want to master in library sciences.”

“No shit,” Carson says, giving my bare legs a quick glance. “Never saw a librarian in such a short skirt before. It’s hot. Makes me want to check out some books.”

Oh Jesus. 

“Dude, that was lame.” Knox chuckles to himself while shaking his head. “And don’t get all heart eyes on her, she has some fantasized opinions about Pride and Prejudice.”

“Ah, hell,” Carson groans and leans back, as if he’s done with me. “Let me guess, she doesn’t believe the Bennet sisters were whores.” 

“Correct.” Knox stares forward with a smirk playing at his lips.

“That is an awfully harsh word for a pair of women who didn’t even show ankle,” I counter, crossing my arms over my cropped sweater vest. I might have taken the sexy-school-girl look a little too far today with my plaid skirt, button-up white blouse, and navy sweater vest. At least I’m not wearing knee-highs. Just simple Mary Janes. 

“As far as you know,” Knox replies, with a wiggle of his eyebrow. “They did enjoy showing off their dirty hemlines.”

I’m about to counter with a serious tongue-lashing when the professor walks in and drops his suitcase on his desk, sounding off a loud pop in the small lecture hall. 

“Developmentally effective learning environments, that’s the class. Get out if you’re in the wrong place. I’ll give you ten seconds.” He holds out his wrist and stares down at it. 

Yikes.

“This should be a fun class,” Knox grumbles under his breath while shifting in his seat. 

At least we can agree on that.


***


“He was a fucking whack job,” Knox says as we step into the fresh air. 

“Yeah, the fact that he was sneering at us the whole time doesn’t bode well for us,” Carson says before taking a sip from his water bottle. “I’m heading to the gym. What about you two?”

“Gym,” Holt answers, still plugged into his phone. 

“I’m grabbing something to eat,” Knox says and turns toward me. “Want to come?”

“To get something to eat?”

“Yeah. Food. Are you hungry?”

Am I hungry? Yes, it’s lunchtime, and if I don’t eat my meals I grow fangs and get real nasty, but do I really want to eat with Knox? It’s bad enough he was writing notes to me on his computer, continually pointing at the screen during class, so I don’t know if I should spend more time with this guy. 

His notes to me were simple: see that kid in the red, third row up? He’s a Rubik’s cube genius, and, girl two seats in front of you keeps giving you the stink eye. 

And this professor has the sweatiest armpits I’ve ever seen. 

I might have laughed at that one. 

“Look at her trying to decide,” Carson says, calling me out. “She’s unsure, man, so you need to convince her.”

“Yeah, show her why your company is worth her time,” Holt says, pocketing his phone and looking at me for the first time. 

Squaring his shoulders, Knox gives me a once-over and says, “What do you need to know? Name it.”

Uh, I wasn’t expecting an inquisition for a ticket to lunch, nor was I expecting an invitation at all. 

“He’s the cleanest in the loft,” Carson says, sticking up for his friend. 

“Cooks the best steak on the team,” Holt adds. 

“He also can dance like a two-year-old.”

Knox’s face scrunches. “Fuck you. I dance like a goddamn king.”

Holt points at Knox’s hips. “Great pelvic action.”

“Knows how to work his hands.”

“Can’t sing worth a damn, but loves to sing anyway.”

“Sleeps in matching pajama sets.”

“No, I fucking don’t,” Knox says quickly and then shakes his head at me. “I sleep in boxer briefs.”

“Give him a chance, and he’ll pay for your lunch. He has an unlimited dining card,” Carson says, really trying to show up his friend. 

“And he knows people, so he always ends up getting free dessert.”

“It’s true,” Knox says, with a shy smile. 

They drive a hard bargain, but there is no way I can eat lunch with this man. Not when I can barely look him in the eye after what happened on Saturday. It’s bad enough I have a class with him. It almost sounds as though his friends are trying to sell him to me, as if they think I’m deciding whether to date him or not. And that would be a big no, given I just got out of a relationship and am not looking for another.

I shift my bag on my shoulder and pull out Pride and Prejudice. I clutch the classic to my chest and say, “Sorry, I have a date with Mr. Darcy. I’ll catch you later.”

I spin around and start walking away just as Carson and Holt make a raucous sound due to my dismissal. 

From behind me, Knox calls out, “Hey.”

When I turn around, I find him standing there proudly, hands clipped to the straps of his backpack, a lift to his chin, and a devastating smile on his face. He’s not affected one bit from my brush-off. “Darcy is a tool. Want a real hero? You know where to find me.” Cocky ass.

I can’t help the lift of the corner of my mouth as I turn around and continue walking away, unsure where I’m going, just trying to get as far away from Knox Gentry as possible.  He’s obnoxious, opinionated, and very much the typical jock. He called Jane and Lizzie harlots. There will be no friendship between Mr. Gentry and me. Mark my words.