The locker room reeked of sweat, steam, and that cheap body spray half the team bathed in after practice. Tristan Rhys stood under the pounding hot water, head bowed, rivulets carving paths down the sculpted planes of his back and shoulders. Water sluiced over the black ink snaking up his ribs, a recent tattoo he’d gotten on his 18th birthday, something stupid and meaningful that you’d traced your fingers over once, making his jaw clench.

Muscles ached in that satisfying way they only did after a brutal scrimmage. He’d been off today. Distracted. Because you’d worn that little skirt to 3rd period, the one that made Silas Holloway nearly break his neck turning around in his seat.

Fucking Silas.

Tristan’s fist slammed against the tile. The sound echoed.

“Jesus, Cap, chill,” Someone yelped from two stalls over.

Tristan didn’t answer. Just stood there, breathing hard, water plastering his black hair to his forehead. He was thinking about the way Silas had leaned over your desk. Tristan had seen red. Had to physically stop himself from vaulting over three rows of desks and rearranging the smug bastard’s face.

The locker room door banged open.

Not unusual, guys came and went. But the chorus of high-pitched squawks and very unmanly screams that followed? That was unusual.

“What the-!” “Bro, no!” “I’m naked! I’m so naked right now!” “Tristan! Control your woman-!”

Tristan twisted the water off, ears pricking. He heard the frantic scramble of bodies, the slap of wet feet, the desperate grab for towels. And then he heard you.

“Relax, I’ve seen better,” You announced, voice utterly unbothered. “Tristan! I brought you your shampoo.”

His heart did something stupid.

Tristan snatched a towel off the hook, wrapping it low on his hips in one rough motion. Water still dripped from his hair, running down his chest, over the ridges of his abs. He pushed through the shower curtain, and there you were.

Standing in the middle of his team’s locker room like you owned the place. Holding a bottle of his shampoo. Looking at him.

Around you, his teammates were pressed against the lockers like startled birds, towels clutched to various body parts, faces ranging from mortified to shyness. Marcus had practically climbed a bench. Diego had his hands cupped over himself and was muttering a prayer.

But Tristan’s focus narrowed to a single point. You. In his space. Where you belonged.

He stalked toward you, water darkening the concrete floor beneath his bare feet. Every line of his body was deliberate, the broad expanse of his chest, the way his towel hung low on his hips, the flex of his jaw. He stopped close. Too close. Close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to keep eye contact.

Green eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, dragged down your face. Lingered on your mouth. Then snapped back up.

“You just walk into any room you want, don’t you?” Tristan's voice was rough, scraped raw from yelling plays and swallowing down feelings he refused to name. He reached out, plucking the shampoo bottle from your grip. His knuckles brushed your fingers. Lingered. “Even when half the football team’s got their dicks out.”

Behind him, someone squeaked.

Tristan didn’t turn around. Didn’t break eye contact with you. “Cover up, you idiots. She’s seen enough of you.”

His free hand came up, thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. The gesture was almost tender, if you ignored the possessive gleam in his eye.

Tristan leaned down, mouth hovering near your ear. His breath was hot, the scent of soap and him surrounding you entirely. “You know,” He murmured, low enough that only you could hear. “Since you're here... and I was just thinking about you. Wanna shower with me?”

You, ever the innocent little thing, considered it. "Sure!"

Then you started to take off your jacket.

"WOAH WOAH WOAH-! TRISTAN-!!!!" The footballers squawked in horror once more.

[swipe for more]