Ava took a seat facing him. “Heads up,” she whispered. “Your mom and my dad are watching.”
Matt scanned the faces around them. Sure enough, two tables away, to his right, William presided over a theatre crowd. Molly sat at a table on his left, nodding absently while some nerdy guy—probably one of herBeakly Newsbuddies—babbled. Both William and Molly had positioned themselves with strategic views of the dining area. Matt felt them watching his every move.
Moves Matt would NOT be making had also been negotiated—at his and Ava’s insistence. No physicality. No hugs. No hand holding. Not even a peck on the cheek. If people saw them together and jumped to the wrong conclusions, so be it. But he and Ava would not say or do anything to nudge people towards those conclusions.
“You referred to Molly as your dad,” Matt whispered. “Does that mean she’s your group’s Godfather?”
Ava shook her head and laughed. “No. We’re not into any of that cloak-and-dagger Mafia drama. I was just referencing the fact that she’s the masculine one and William is theeffeminate one.”
Matt laughed. He couldn’t argue with that.
“Watch William’s face,” Ava said. She reached over to Matt’s tray, picked up a piece of fried okra, and popped it in her mouth.
Matt watched William watching Ava eat the okra, saw William roll his eyes, this being confirmation of William’s belief that lesbians “hoovered up” any food.
Matt laughed.
Ava did it again.
Time passed quickly.
Chapter 17: Locker Room Rendezvous
Monday, September 4, 1995
After wishing Ava goodnight, Matt hustled to the building known to students affectionately as Knobby Knoll, MCU’s original fieldhouse, long since eclipsed by the glitzy Willis Athletic Center (WAC).
He retrieved a duffel bag from the back of his Jeep and squeezed into the building through a small side door, using the key Coach had lent him. The building was empty, spooky dark, there being few windows, none in this back hall. The air was warm and sticky after hours of non-circulation.
He flipped only the switches necessary to light his way to the men’s locker room.
He hurried. William would be there any minute.
William thought—might have been led to believe—that they were meeting just to talk, that the locker room as venue would allow Matt to finish up some of his cleaning duties.
Matt had other plans. So, yeah, he was being dishonest and manipulative. Not his finest moment, but it was for a good cause.
The locker room was a no-frills shoebox, exactly what one would expect from a 1950’s shoestring budget. Cinderblock walls painted in the school colors. Linoleum floors curling up at the edges.
The front of the shoebox was the changing area where guys either stripped off their street clothes and kitted out for practice or games, or where they returned from the showers, toweled off, and changed back into their street clothes. Either way naked bodies, male bravado, horseplay. This area sported a long bank of rusting lockers on one side and a little vanity with two sinks on the other. Eight benches were bolted to the floor.
The back of the shoebox was divided between the shower and bathroom facilities.
The shower room was a tiled cave, its open mouth yawning to the dressing area. Twelve showerheads, some perpetually leaky, spurted lukewarm water onto sweaty, jostling male athletes.
The bathroom facilities consisted of a couple urinals and toilet stalls, those stalls being the only spaces in the shoebox where guys had any modicum of privacy—modicum being the operative word since everyone offered commentary on the sounds and smells emanating from them.
A lone ceiling fan dangled precariously over the dressing area. It groaned to life, its dust-clabbered blades creaking.
Matt set the duffel bag by one of the benches, its props easily accessible.
He stepped to his locker, stripped, and hung his clothes on the hook. He slipped into a jock strap, arranged himself (no Downward Dog position tonight), and tousled his hair for good measure. Then he placed a clean towel on the bench near the duffel bag, slung another over his shoulder, and waited for William’s knock at the side door.
It was showtime.
When William arrived, Matt greeted him wearing only the jock strap and the towel slung over his shoulder. He had remembered William’s affinity for athletic supporters.
William stood in the dimly lit hall, appraising Matt.
