Intro from Rowan
Some men arrive when the night is finished. He came with a mop and bucket, long after the team had gone, and found me still dripping sweat. I stayed behind because I knew he would come. Because sometimes the only thing you want is to be used.
Rowan
The locker room was emptying. Boots clattered against tile, laughter echoing down the corridor, the smell of sweat, tape, and liniment thick in the air. One by one the others left, calling their goodbyes, shoulders brushing as they pulled on jackets, bags slung heavy. I pretended not to hear, head down, fingers working the knots of my laces.
The truth was simpler. I was waiting.
I knew the cleaner would come. He always did, same time, same rhythm. The mop bucket’s squeak across tile was as reliable as a bell, the smell of bleach creeping in as the door swung open. I had seen him before, older, thick through the arms, rough hands that looked made for grip more than polish. We had exchanged glances once, a fraction too long, and something had shifted.
Tonight, I wanted it to shift again.
The showers had run cold, steam already fading from the air. My shirt stuck damp to my back, sweat drying to salt on my skin. I sat on the bench, untying, retying, stretching muscles I had already worked to exhaustion. Pretending I had reason to stay.
The door opened. The sound of wheels. A bucket sloshed. I did not look up right away.
When I did, his eyes were already on me.
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