Buddy liked to joke that Hooker yelled because of a deep-seated resentment of being forced to listen to them shout his own terrible name. Matt always laughed, but he knew the head coach’s motivations came from a better, smarter place. Hooker cared.
Matt toweled off and then wrapped it around his waist. He grabbed his combination shampoo/body wash, stepped over his dirty practice clothes, and strode through the cloud of steam. His wet footprints trailed behind him. The lockers smelled like male sweat and old rust, and they were in alternating colors of scarlet and gold. Osborne proudly wore the same shade of scarlet red as the Huskers, but Matt’s locker was gold, because a team superstition asserted that the scarlet lockers were unlucky. Seniors always claimed the gold lockers.
Matt ground to a halt. His combination lock was missing.
CTE? Is that you?
He shook his head, pissed at himself, as he swung open the metal door. His helmet and deodorant were on the top shelf. The larger bottom space, which normally held his backpack and mesh duffel bag, was empty.
“Aw, fuck.” Matt muttered it. But then he slammed down the bottle of shampoo/body wash so hard that the entire row of lockers quivered in shock.
He glanced around the room. Nothing appeared to be out of place. He jerked open the gold door closest to his. Despite keeping it permanently unlocked—Buddy could never remember the combination—their teammates rarely stole or hid things from him. The usual items were still inside of it. Nothing else.
Matt looked under the row of benches. More nothing.
“Fuck. Fuck.”
He stalked toward the showers, annoyed that his own absentmindedness had led to this irritating prank, which was forcing him to re-dress in his soiled practice clothes. It meant that he’d have to stop by his house before Sonic to change. He’d also have to shower again, or Lauren would complain about the smell.
Matt rounded the corner, and his practice clothes were gone.
Perfect.
“All right, guys.” His voice was loud and deep, and it resonated against the steel lockers. “You got me.”
There was no reply.
“What do you want? A dick pic or something?” Matt kept the tone jocular. He was done with this week, but he refused to give his friends the satisfaction of knowing it. “Guess you should have taken my towel, too.”
The steam evaporated. The room grew cold.
He rubbed the hair on his arms. “Hello?”
The question echoed.
Even more than the silence, Matt felt his aloneness. He headed for the coaches’ offices. As expected, their windows were dark, and their doors were locked. Hooker and the assistants usually went home straight after practice, especially if it’d been a tough one. School rules required them to stay until the last student was gone, but they liked to give the guys an opportunity to vent and decompress without the fear of being overheard.
The entrance to the locker room was located beside the assistant coaches’ shared office. Matt readjusted his towel and cracked open the door. He peered into the dusk, half expecting—and very much hoping—to find the team waiting outside, phones raised to capture him in all his humiliated glory.
Nobody was there.
In the distance, a crowd murmured. It was the candlelight vigil for Haley. Parents and students and teachers were already gathering at the front of the school. His stomach dropped as he realized that he’d have to walk past them to reach the parking lot. He couldn’t do that in a towel. It would be disrespectful.
Matt closed the door and tried again. “Hello?”
Doubt crept in.
Did he see his practice clothes when he got out of the shower? The most logical explanation was that the guys had stolen them at the same time as his regular clothes, and that all his shit was currently in the back of someone’s pickup.
Matt weighed his options. He could call Buddy and beg for it back. He could call his mom and ask her to bring him something else to wear. Or he could call Lauren. No way. She’d tell her friends. The only other option was to wait for the vigil to end, but how long would that take? Two hours? And then he’d still have to drive home in his towel.
Wait.
Drive.
His keys and phone were in his pockets.
Matt shouted a long, lethal expletive. Anger coursed through his veins as he threw open every non-locked locker. Crouched on his knees and peered below the benches. Jumped onto the benches and peeked on top of the lockers. He looked in the showers, urinals, stalls, and under the sinks, but his belongings were nowhere to be found.
This was it, then. He’d have to walk home.
Matt lived in the newer neighborhood across town. He had never walked it, but it was probably only thirty minutes away. Still, the temperature would be below forty by the time the vigil ended. And he’d be wearing a goddamn towel.
Defeated, he sank onto the bench outside Hooker’s office. His body was a weary sack. Everything ached. Matt leaned against the cinder-block wall—right beside a telephone. He grabbed the receiver off its hook, scanning his brain for numbers.
It’s not CTE. No one memorizes them anymore.
The only number he knew was his parents’ landline, but when he called, no one picked up. He tried again. “Goddamn motherfucking answer the phone!” he said, and a cry emerged from the locker bay.
Matt froze.
Everything was silent. And then . . . someone whimpered.
Before this moment, Matt would have guessed that the sound of another human—no matter how distressed—would have launched him to his feet in fury. But something else kicked in. Instinct, perhaps. It was the only explanation for the overwhelming trepidation triggered by that single whimper. Why his internal sensors lit up on high alert.
His body was stone. He listened.
The person had gone silent again, but their presence was unmistakable. Matt gripped his towel and stood. He felt exposed and vulnerable, an animal lying belly up. He pressed forward without sound, yet his footsteps were still too loud.
He reached the lockers.
At the far end of the bay, at the far end of the bench, a slender figure sat with their back to him. Their hoodie was up, and their head was down. Their shoulders shook in a way that suggested crying. Matt couldn’t tell if it was a girl or guy, but it wasn’t one of his teammates. They were too small to play football.
“Hey.” He didn’t mean for it to come out so angrily.
The figure flinched.
Matt tried to calm his voice. “Who are you?”
The figure didn’t move.
Matt retightened the towel, keenly aware of his genitals. “Hey,” he said again, stepping forward. His tone was softer. “Are you okay?”
The figure sniffled, and Matt realized that it might be one of the special-needs kids. The second-string quarterback had a sister in the after-school program, so he knew they met in a classroom nearby. This might even be her. Sometimes Faith showed up near the end of practice and watched them run drills from the bleachers.
Matt approached with caution as he circled the wooden bench. Their face was still aimed at the floor. Matt kneeled before them, trying to get at eye level. “Do you need help? Can I help you?”
The figure raised their head. Slowly. Deliberately.