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The Locker Room Quotes
The Locker Room
by
Meghan Quinn29,849 ratings, 4.06 average rating, 2,646 reviews
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The Locker Room Quotes
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“I don’t want to be your friend. I want to be your boyfriend, your goddamn forever.” His hands drive up my sides, holding my ribs, holding on to me tightly. “I want you forever, Em.”
― The Locker Room
― The Locker Room
“She tilts her head to the side after taking a sip of her tea, studying us. “You know, I can’t get over how beautiful you two are together. One of those couples you love to follow on Instagram, you know, the really cute ones that are so sickening in love that you can’t get enough of them.”
Way to drop the love bomb, Mom.
Jesus.
Thankfully Emory doesn’t show any kind of hatred for the term but instead says, “Like Jennifer Lopez and A-Rod?”
“Yes,” my mom answers with excitement. “Oh my gosh, I’m obsessed with watching their stories. The little videos they do together, I just can’t get enough of them. J-Rod,” my mom says dreamily. “Oh gosh, what would your couple name be?” She thinks about it for a second. “Emox . . . or Knemory. Oh I love Knemory. Sounds so poetic.”
“Knemory does have a nice ring to it,” I add.
“I don’t know, what about Emorox?”
“Ohhh, that sounds like a name that belongs in The Game of Thrones.” Taking on a more masculine voice, my mom says, “Look out, Jon, Emorox is coming over the hill, with her fire-spitting dragons, Knemory and George.”
“George?” Emory laughs out loud, covering her mouth. “Why George?”
“Well, look at the names they have in that show? They’re all exotic names you’ve never heard before—Cersei, Gregor, Arya—and then in waltzes good old Jon Snow. It’s only fair that the dragons have a lemon in the bunch as well.”
“Uh, Jon is anything but a lemon, Mom,” I defend. “He was raised from the dead.”
My mom’s mouth drops, pure and utter shock in her face. “Jon Snow dies?”
Shit.
Emory elbows my stomach. “Where the hell is your GOT etiquette? You never talk about the facts of the show until the air is cleared about how far someone is in watching. You are one of those people who spoils everything for someone just catching up to the trend.”
*Ahem*
“I mean . . . uh . . . he doesn’t die.”
“You just said he is raised from the dead,” my mom says.
Feeling guilty, I reply, “Well, at least he’s still alive, right?”
She slumps against the cushion of the couch and mutters, “Unbelievable.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gentry, that your son is a barbarian and broke your GOT trust.”
Pressing her hand against her forehead, my mom says, “You know, I blame myself. I thought I taught him a shred of decorum, I guess not.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Emory coos. “You did everything right. It comes down to the hooligans he hangs out with. There’s only so much you can control after they leave the nest.”
“You’re absolutely right,” my mom agrees and leans across the couch to smack me in the back of the head.
“Hey,” I complain while rubbing the sore spot. I look between the two women in my life and I say, “I don’t like this ganging up on me shit.”
“You wanted us to get along, right?” Emory asks. “Well, I happen to like your mom, especially since she complimented my bosom.”
“Ah, I see.” I continue to look between the two of them. “You’re okay with my mom catching you with your shirt off now, moved past the embarrassment?”
Emory’s eyes narrow. “With that kind of attitude, it might be the very last time you see me topless.”
My mom raises her fist to the air, as if to say, “Girl Power.” And then she says, “You tell him, Emory. Don’t let him push you around.”
“I wasn’t pushing her around—”
“You keep that beautiful bosom under lock and key, and if you have a temptation to show anyone, just flash me.”
“Mom, do you realize how wrong that is?”
“Want to go to the bathroom right now, Mrs. Gentry?”
“I would be delighted to.”
They both stand but before they can make a move, I pull on Emory’s hand, bringing her back down to my lap. “No way in hell is that happening. Jesus, what is wrong with you?”
― The Locker Room
Way to drop the love bomb, Mom.
Jesus.
Thankfully Emory doesn’t show any kind of hatred for the term but instead says, “Like Jennifer Lopez and A-Rod?”
“Yes,” my mom answers with excitement. “Oh my gosh, I’m obsessed with watching their stories. The little videos they do together, I just can’t get enough of them. J-Rod,” my mom says dreamily. “Oh gosh, what would your couple name be?” She thinks about it for a second. “Emox . . . or Knemory. Oh I love Knemory. Sounds so poetic.”
“Knemory does have a nice ring to it,” I add.
“I don’t know, what about Emorox?”
“Ohhh, that sounds like a name that belongs in The Game of Thrones.” Taking on a more masculine voice, my mom says, “Look out, Jon, Emorox is coming over the hill, with her fire-spitting dragons, Knemory and George.”
“George?” Emory laughs out loud, covering her mouth. “Why George?”
“Well, look at the names they have in that show? They’re all exotic names you’ve never heard before—Cersei, Gregor, Arya—and then in waltzes good old Jon Snow. It’s only fair that the dragons have a lemon in the bunch as well.”
“Uh, Jon is anything but a lemon, Mom,” I defend. “He was raised from the dead.”
My mom’s mouth drops, pure and utter shock in her face. “Jon Snow dies?”
Shit.
Emory elbows my stomach. “Where the hell is your GOT etiquette? You never talk about the facts of the show until the air is cleared about how far someone is in watching. You are one of those people who spoils everything for someone just catching up to the trend.”
*Ahem*
“I mean . . . uh . . . he doesn’t die.”
“You just said he is raised from the dead,” my mom says.
Feeling guilty, I reply, “Well, at least he’s still alive, right?”
She slumps against the cushion of the couch and mutters, “Unbelievable.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gentry, that your son is a barbarian and broke your GOT trust.”
Pressing her hand against her forehead, my mom says, “You know, I blame myself. I thought I taught him a shred of decorum, I guess not.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Emory coos. “You did everything right. It comes down to the hooligans he hangs out with. There’s only so much you can control after they leave the nest.”
“You’re absolutely right,” my mom agrees and leans across the couch to smack me in the back of the head.
“Hey,” I complain while rubbing the sore spot. I look between the two women in my life and I say, “I don’t like this ganging up on me shit.”
“You wanted us to get along, right?” Emory asks. “Well, I happen to like your mom, especially since she complimented my bosom.”
“Ah, I see.” I continue to look between the two of them. “You’re okay with my mom catching you with your shirt off now, moved past the embarrassment?”
Emory’s eyes narrow. “With that kind of attitude, it might be the very last time you see me topless.”
My mom raises her fist to the air, as if to say, “Girl Power.” And then she says, “You tell him, Emory. Don’t let him push you around.”
“I wasn’t pushing her around—”
“You keep that beautiful bosom under lock and key, and if you have a temptation to show anyone, just flash me.”
“Mom, do you realize how wrong that is?”
“Want to go to the bathroom right now, Mrs. Gentry?”
“I would be delighted to.”
They both stand but before they can make a move, I pull on Emory’s hand, bringing her back down to my lap. “No way in hell is that happening. Jesus, what is wrong with you?”
― The Locker Room
“A man never reveals his true feelings after the fourth encounter. Don’t you know anything about love arcs?”
― The Locker Room
― The Locker Room
“Knuckles to balls. Fist to family jewels.”
― The Locker Room
― The Locker Room
“I might have a busy schedule and obligations, but there’s one thing I know with absolute certainty: when I’m invested in something, I don’t ever drop the ball.”
― The Locker Room
― The Locker Room
“I swear to the Lord Himself, I nearly faint. Feeling wobbly, I take a seat, unable to believe just how sexy this entire sport is. Diving men, rippling muscles, the element of surprise. How have I never spent any time watching baseball before?”
― The Locker Room
― The Locker Room
“He can’t see me like this. Holey sweatpants are one thing, but avocado face and roller head is an entirely different image that should only be shared after marriage, when there is no escaping.”
― The Locker Room
― The Locker Room
“I take a step in as she shuts the door behind me.
Still unsure what to do, I stand in her tiny entryway, hands stuffed in my pockets.
She’s the first to talk. “I watched the game.” She glances at the ground. “Congrats on the win.”
“Thanks. I did nothing to contribute.”
“You got hit by a pitch, that’s something.”
Shit, I hate that she makes me chuckle. “My grandma could stand there and do that.”
“Bet she wouldn’t have been able to walk it off though. Probably would have ended up with a cracked rib and a concussion, out for two weeks.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be fucking witty right now.”
― The Locker Room
Still unsure what to do, I stand in her tiny entryway, hands stuffed in my pockets.
She’s the first to talk. “I watched the game.” She glances at the ground. “Congrats on the win.”
“Thanks. I did nothing to contribute.”
“You got hit by a pitch, that’s something.”
Shit, I hate that she makes me chuckle. “My grandma could stand there and do that.”
“Bet she wouldn’t have been able to walk it off though. Probably would have ended up with a cracked rib and a concussion, out for two weeks.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be fucking witty right now.”
― The Locker Room
“Did you get the little package from me? It’s nothing like what you gave me, but it’s something.”
“I did. I love the cookies, fucking good. I was kind of hoping you were going to slip a pair of panties in there for me, something I could hold on to when I fall asleep at night.”
“I would never do that.”
“Not even a little thong?”
“No.”
“Come on.” I smile at her. “Loosen up, babe.”
“There is no way in hell I will ever send you panties in the mail. What if the package gets lost, then some creep is going to have my underwear hanging on his wall where he stares at it every night while gripping his crooked penis. No, thank you.”
“There are so many things wrong with that sentence, too many to ask about, but I do need to know one thing.”
“What’s that?” Her smile is so damn contagious.
“The panties, how are they hung up on the wall? Duct tape? Push pins? Nail?”
She doesn’t answer right away, just blinks a few times. Finally she asks, “What is wrong with you?”
“I’m going to take that as duct tape.”
― The Locker Room
“I did. I love the cookies, fucking good. I was kind of hoping you were going to slip a pair of panties in there for me, something I could hold on to when I fall asleep at night.”
“I would never do that.”
“Not even a little thong?”
“No.”
“Come on.” I smile at her. “Loosen up, babe.”
“There is no way in hell I will ever send you panties in the mail. What if the package gets lost, then some creep is going to have my underwear hanging on his wall where he stares at it every night while gripping his crooked penis. No, thank you.”
“There are so many things wrong with that sentence, too many to ask about, but I do need to know one thing.”
“What’s that?” Her smile is so damn contagious.
“The panties, how are they hung up on the wall? Duct tape? Push pins? Nail?”
She doesn’t answer right away, just blinks a few times. Finally she asks, “What is wrong with you?”
“I’m going to take that as duct tape.”
― The Locker Room
“I give her another once-over, taking in her long, toned legs, her smooth stomach, thankfully visible due to her why-bother-wearing-me top. Her body is drop-dead gorgeous, but when you reach her eyes, they speak nothing of vixen, rather more like pure innocence. A total contradiction that has my mind reeling. “So, what are you supposed to be? A cat?”
She glances at her outfit and sighs, taking another sip of her beer. She almost seems bored to be at the party. “I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be a panther but my roommates fell short in the costume department.”
“Yeah, really short,” I add, eyeing her barely-there skirt. “Please tell me you’re wearing something under that.”
“Nope,” she answers, sipping her beer and then smacking her lips. “I like to feel the wind in my undercarriage when I’m walking.”
I wince. “Undercarriage? Fuck, I don’t want you to call it that.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m not a lady of the night, Knox. Of course I have something under this skirt.” She lifts up the side, flashing tiny black boy shorts. “Honestly, I’m going to be a librarian. I need to be sensible.”
Sensible? More like hot as fuck. I saw partial ass cheek.
I grip my beer close to my mouth and take a deep breath. “A sensible librarian wouldn’t flash a horny college guy her underwear.”
“Well, maybe I’m more of a modern-day librarian then.” She winks and starts to walk away.
“Hey, where are you going?”
She looks over her shoulder. “I have more people to flash. Don’t think you’re the only lucky one.”
Damn, that doesn’t sit well with me.
Not one fucking bit.”
― The Locker Room
She glances at her outfit and sighs, taking another sip of her beer. She almost seems bored to be at the party. “I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be a panther but my roommates fell short in the costume department.”
“Yeah, really short,” I add, eyeing her barely-there skirt. “Please tell me you’re wearing something under that.”
“Nope,” she answers, sipping her beer and then smacking her lips. “I like to feel the wind in my undercarriage when I’m walking.”
I wince. “Undercarriage? Fuck, I don’t want you to call it that.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m not a lady of the night, Knox. Of course I have something under this skirt.” She lifts up the side, flashing tiny black boy shorts. “Honestly, I’m going to be a librarian. I need to be sensible.”
Sensible? More like hot as fuck. I saw partial ass cheek.
I grip my beer close to my mouth and take a deep breath. “A sensible librarian wouldn’t flash a horny college guy her underwear.”
“Well, maybe I’m more of a modern-day librarian then.” She winks and starts to walk away.
“Hey, where are you going?”
She looks over her shoulder. “I have more people to flash. Don’t think you’re the only lucky one.”
Damn, that doesn’t sit well with me.
Not one fucking bit.”
― The Locker Room
“Bud Light?” she asks in a distasteful tone.
“Did you think you would be getting a microbrew? It’s a college house.”
“Still”—she takes a sip and cringes—“I thought you’d have a little more class.”
“You’re giving me too much credit.” I nod my head toward the corner of the loft where there are less people. When she doesn’t initially follow me, I turn back around, grab her hand like I had to in class, and pull her across the loft until we’re settled in the corner. I lean against the wall and prop one leg behind me.
She eyes me, giving me a full once-over.
I do the same.
She’s damn hot, and I’m regretting my actions last Saturday, passing out mid grope.
Finally she says, “You seem to have lost your shirt.” She motions with her finger over my bare chest.
I look down at her legs and reply, “Must be where the other half of your skirt is.”
“Think they’re making out in a laundromat somewhere?” She takes a sip of her beer and cringes again. A few more sips and she’ll get used to it; always happens for me.
“If they are, I hope they use the gentle cycle.”
Her brow pulls together. “Not sure if that makes sense.”
“Oh, because half of a skirt and a shirt making out in a laundromat does?”
“In children’s books, sure.”
“What kind of perverted children’s books did you read growing up?” I counter.
“You know, the classics,” she answers causally. “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish and Skirt and Shirt, Lovers for Life.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot about that passionate yet eye-opening youth literature that took the New York Times by storm.”
“I have five signed first-edition copies in a box in my parents’ attic. Banking on them to clear out my student loans.” She sips her beer, flips her hair behind her shoulder, glances at my chest again.
“Five?” I answer sarcastically. “Damn, forget college loans, you’re set for life.”
“You think?” She glances around. “What the hell am I doing here then?”
“To see me of course,” I answer with a smile.
She rolls her eyes. “More like dragged to this party because my roommate has a crush on one of your freshmen.”
“Yeah, which one?” I look over her head, eyeing all the partygoers.
“No idea, but apparently he has amazing blue eyes.”
“Amazing, huh? Has to be Gunner. I was even stunned by his eyes when he was recruited.” No joke, the dude won the lottery for irises. I’m even jealous with how . . . aqua they are.
“Not ashamed to admit that?” she asks, shifting on her heels.
“Not even a little.”
― The Locker Room
“Did you think you would be getting a microbrew? It’s a college house.”
“Still”—she takes a sip and cringes—“I thought you’d have a little more class.”
“You’re giving me too much credit.” I nod my head toward the corner of the loft where there are less people. When she doesn’t initially follow me, I turn back around, grab her hand like I had to in class, and pull her across the loft until we’re settled in the corner. I lean against the wall and prop one leg behind me.
She eyes me, giving me a full once-over.
I do the same.
She’s damn hot, and I’m regretting my actions last Saturday, passing out mid grope.
Finally she says, “You seem to have lost your shirt.” She motions with her finger over my bare chest.
I look down at her legs and reply, “Must be where the other half of your skirt is.”
“Think they’re making out in a laundromat somewhere?” She takes a sip of her beer and cringes again. A few more sips and she’ll get used to it; always happens for me.
“If they are, I hope they use the gentle cycle.”
Her brow pulls together. “Not sure if that makes sense.”
“Oh, because half of a skirt and a shirt making out in a laundromat does?”
“In children’s books, sure.”
“What kind of perverted children’s books did you read growing up?” I counter.
“You know, the classics,” she answers causally. “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish and Skirt and Shirt, Lovers for Life.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot about that passionate yet eye-opening youth literature that took the New York Times by storm.”
“I have five signed first-edition copies in a box in my parents’ attic. Banking on them to clear out my student loans.” She sips her beer, flips her hair behind her shoulder, glances at my chest again.
“Five?” I answer sarcastically. “Damn, forget college loans, you’re set for life.”
“You think?” She glances around. “What the hell am I doing here then?”
“To see me of course,” I answer with a smile.
She rolls her eyes. “More like dragged to this party because my roommate has a crush on one of your freshmen.”
“Yeah, which one?” I look over her head, eyeing all the partygoers.
“No idea, but apparently he has amazing blue eyes.”
“Amazing, huh? Has to be Gunner. I was even stunned by his eyes when he was recruited.” No joke, the dude won the lottery for irises. I’m even jealous with how . . . aqua they are.
“Not ashamed to admit that?” she asks, shifting on her heels.
“Not even a little.”
― The Locker Room
“Keep it in your pants, Gentry,” Coach says, making me chuckle. “It’s a possibility, but you have to continue to work hard, don’t let up, and don’t settle.”
“I won’t, Coach, you know I won’t. I’m the first one to show up for practice and the last one to leave. I spend more hours in the batting cages than anyone, I practically have a marriage with one of the batting tees.”
“I do recall you proposed to it last year.”
“She’s been so loyal, I had to do something.”
He shakes his head and then pushes a few papers around on his desk. “Enough with the bullshit. Stay focused, set a good example, and show the underclassmen what it takes to make it to the majors.”
“I can do that.”
― The Locker Room
“I won’t, Coach, you know I won’t. I’m the first one to show up for practice and the last one to leave. I spend more hours in the batting cages than anyone, I practically have a marriage with one of the batting tees.”
“I do recall you proposed to it last year.”
“She’s been so loyal, I had to do something.”
He shakes his head and then pushes a few papers around on his desk. “Enough with the bullshit. Stay focused, set a good example, and show the underclassmen what it takes to make it to the majors.”
“I can do that.”
― The Locker Room
“Knox: Yo.
Oh wow . . . how prolific.
I chuckle, wondering what I was thinking, as if he was going to open with recited poetry or something. He is a “horny college student” after all—his words, not mine.
Shaking my head, I type back.
Emory: You have one chance to make a good first impression in student chat and you open with yo? I expected more from you.
Knox: I wasn’t going to waste a good opening on the possibility of you not accepting my chat.
Emory: Does that mean you have a secondary opening?
Knox: Obviously.
Emory: Do I get to read it?
Knox: I don’t know. I’m trying to decide if you’re worthy or not.
Emory: You’re the one who messaged me. I can sign out anytime I want.
Knox: You’re fucking brutal. Fine . . . ahem, here it goes; What’s up?
I laugh out loud, hating that he so easily entertains me. What a doofus.
Emory: Wow, I think you just blew my socks off.
Knox: See why I saved it? Can’t waste that shit on just anyone.
Emory: I hope you keep that opening a secret. Can you imagine the number of socks that would be flying off feet all over campus? It’s dangerous.
Knox: Lethal.
Emory: I’m glad you saved it for me. I’m indebted to you.
Knox: Really? ((Rubs hands together)) Should I cash in now?
Emory: I’m clearly kidding.
Knox: Nope, I have it in writing ^^^ right up there. You’re indebted to me. So I’m cashing in.
Emory: “Cash in” all you want, still doesn’t mean I’m going to do whatever you ask.
Knox: Stubborn woman.
Emory: ^^That’s winning you friends.
Knox: Come to the party tonight.
Emory: Just jumping right into it, are you?
Knox: There is no theme. It’s just to have fun. We have beer and some mixed drinks, and I can even offer you some pretzels.
Emory: Wow, you paint a beautiful evening. The pretzels are a real winning attribute.
Knox: I was going to save this as a last-ditch effort but since I think I might have you hooked with the pretzels, I’m going to bring my offer home and let you in on a little secret; just bought a fresh packet of Oreos. So if you play your cards right, you could be separating Oreos with me tonight.
Emory: Seriously? Oreos, how RARE! Well, then I must go because . . . Oreos.
Knox: Really? You’re coming?
Emory: No. Have a good night, Knox.
I shut the computer before he can respond and smile to myself as I look over to my closet, debating what I should wear tonight.”
― The Locker Room
Oh wow . . . how prolific.
I chuckle, wondering what I was thinking, as if he was going to open with recited poetry or something. He is a “horny college student” after all—his words, not mine.
Shaking my head, I type back.
Emory: You have one chance to make a good first impression in student chat and you open with yo? I expected more from you.
Knox: I wasn’t going to waste a good opening on the possibility of you not accepting my chat.
Emory: Does that mean you have a secondary opening?
Knox: Obviously.
Emory: Do I get to read it?
Knox: I don’t know. I’m trying to decide if you’re worthy or not.
Emory: You’re the one who messaged me. I can sign out anytime I want.
Knox: You’re fucking brutal. Fine . . . ahem, here it goes; What’s up?
I laugh out loud, hating that he so easily entertains me. What a doofus.
Emory: Wow, I think you just blew my socks off.
Knox: See why I saved it? Can’t waste that shit on just anyone.
Emory: I hope you keep that opening a secret. Can you imagine the number of socks that would be flying off feet all over campus? It’s dangerous.
Knox: Lethal.
Emory: I’m glad you saved it for me. I’m indebted to you.
Knox: Really? ((Rubs hands together)) Should I cash in now?
Emory: I’m clearly kidding.
Knox: Nope, I have it in writing ^^^ right up there. You’re indebted to me. So I’m cashing in.
Emory: “Cash in” all you want, still doesn’t mean I’m going to do whatever you ask.
Knox: Stubborn woman.
Emory: ^^That’s winning you friends.
Knox: Come to the party tonight.
Emory: Just jumping right into it, are you?
Knox: There is no theme. It’s just to have fun. We have beer and some mixed drinks, and I can even offer you some pretzels.
Emory: Wow, you paint a beautiful evening. The pretzels are a real winning attribute.
Knox: I was going to save this as a last-ditch effort but since I think I might have you hooked with the pretzels, I’m going to bring my offer home and let you in on a little secret; just bought a fresh packet of Oreos. So if you play your cards right, you could be separating Oreos with me tonight.
Emory: Seriously? Oreos, how RARE! Well, then I must go because . . . Oreos.
Knox: Really? You’re coming?
Emory: No. Have a good night, Knox.
I shut the computer before he can respond and smile to myself as I look over to my closet, debating what I should wear tonight.”
― The Locker Room
“You really live in the dorms?”
He hands me a napkin and then pops open the donut box between us. An impromptu meetup. I can’t say it doesn’t put a smile on my face.
“Yes, what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, I just don’t know many juniors who still live in the dorms, that’s all.”
“Oh, well, Lindsay and Dottie didn’t want to live in some skeezy place off campus, and since these were brand-new dorms, with all the amenities and a dining hall, seemed like a win-win. Don’t have to make food, we have maid service every Tuesday, and we don’t have to buy things like toilet paper.”
“Damn.” He leans back on the bench and splits the first donut in half—cherry lemonade—and hands it to me. “I’ve gone about this living situation all wrong. I have my own roll of toilet paper in my room that I keep hidden and take in and out of the bathroom with me, because no one ever refills the roll. Toilet paper is sacred in the loft.”
“You’re a smart man, Knox Gentry.”
His brows lift in surprise. “Yeah, you think so?”
“Don’t get too excited, you’re just smart enough in my eyes to carry around your own toilet paper.”
He winks at me. “It’s the basic survival skills that are the most impressive.”
― The Locker Room
He hands me a napkin and then pops open the donut box between us. An impromptu meetup. I can’t say it doesn’t put a smile on my face.
“Yes, what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, I just don’t know many juniors who still live in the dorms, that’s all.”
“Oh, well, Lindsay and Dottie didn’t want to live in some skeezy place off campus, and since these were brand-new dorms, with all the amenities and a dining hall, seemed like a win-win. Don’t have to make food, we have maid service every Tuesday, and we don’t have to buy things like toilet paper.”
“Damn.” He leans back on the bench and splits the first donut in half—cherry lemonade—and hands it to me. “I’ve gone about this living situation all wrong. I have my own roll of toilet paper in my room that I keep hidden and take in and out of the bathroom with me, because no one ever refills the roll. Toilet paper is sacred in the loft.”
“You’re a smart man, Knox Gentry.”
His brows lift in surprise. “Yeah, you think so?”
“Don’t get too excited, you’re just smart enough in my eyes to carry around your own toilet paper.”
He winks at me. “It’s the basic survival skills that are the most impressive.”
― The Locker Room
“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 raccoon 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.” ”
― The Locker Room
“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.” ”
― The Locker Room
“before I knew what I was doing, I walked”
― The Locker Room
― The Locker Room
