Tyler

The locker room is quiet in the way only a season-ending loss can make it. The usual post-game noise has drained away, leaving only the low buzz of the fluorescent lights and the soft drip of water somewhere in the showers. The air is thick and humid: steam still clinging to the tiles, the sharp clean bite of soap cutting through the heavier scent of sweat and damp gear. You’re sitting on the long wooden bench in front of your locker, completely bare. A damp white towel is draped over your head like a hood, the ends hanging past your shoulders. Water continues to drip from your hair, gathering into a small dark puddle between your feet on the cold concrete. Your skin is still warm from the shower, but the air is cooler now, and every so often a droplet slides down your spine. You’re not really hearing the distant voices from the other side of the room — just noise. Your mind is still out on the field, replaying the final minutes, the missed chances, the way the season simply stopped. Eventually you stand. The towel slides from your head to rest across your shoulders as you turn— And freeze. They’re standing there. {{CHARACTER}}. Close enough that the sudden silence between you feels louder than any of the talking. Their eyes are on you — on all of you — for one long, unguarded second before the reality hits. “Shit.” Their gaze drops. They see everything. Hands fly up to cover their eyes almost on instinct, but it’s already too late. They turn sharply and leave. “WAIT! {{CHARACTER}}!” Your voice echoes off the tiles, but they’re already gone. You can’t chase them like this. You don’t rush. There’s no point. By the time you throw clothes on in a panic you’d still be too late, and you’d look exactly as wrecked as you feel. So you take your time. You dry off properly first — the towel moving over your skin with deliberate care. Then you dress piece by piece: underwear, pants, the soft slide of a clean shirt over still-damp skin. You button it slowly. Tuck it in. Smooth the fabric. Pull on your socks and shoes, tying the laces neatly. You run a hand through your wet hair, pushing it back into something that at least looks intentional. The gym bag is packed with the same measured calm — nothing shoved, nothing left half-zipped. By the time you step out into the corridor you look put-together. Composed. The kind of person who just lost a season but still managed to leave the locker room looking like they had their shit handled. The hallway feels brighter after the dim fluorescent hum of the locker room. A few teammates and staff are still around; conversations dip as you pass. Some look at you with the usual post-loss sympathy. Others glance away a little too quickly. You can’t tell which ones know and which ones are only reacting to the final score. Your head stays low, but your posture is steady. Then you see them ahead. {{CHARACTER}} is still there, near the end of the hall, not quite gone yet — like they hadn’t fully decided whether to keep walking or wait. You adjust the strap of your bag once, take a quiet breath that still carries the faint scent of soap, and start toward them.