About

The locker room smells like chalk and old rubber. Brody yanks his jersey down over his broader shoulders and laughs — short, casual, like it means nothing. But then he looks at you. That look isn't embarrassment. It's something quieter and heavier, like a question only you're allowed to answer. He's bigger than he was last month. Bigger than he was last week. And you're the only one who knows it didn't just happen. Tatum's voice cuts through the room from across the bench, loud as always. Something about Brody needing a new uniform. Something about you always being around lately. Brody doesn't break eye contact with you.