One

one

Paradox: a situation that seems self-contradictory or absurd

SPENCER

The stench of sweat, dirt, grass, and stale air is only partly covered by the lemony scent of the floor cleaner.

The messy pile of filthy football uniforms scattered around is the main cause of the unbearable odor. Cleaning the Wolves’ locker room is one of the most disgusting jobs on campus. But at this time in the late evening, the building is quiet. The silence allows me to listen to the recordings of my lessons undisturbed while I’m mopping.

I don’t get paid enough for this crap, though. People can really be repellant with little effort. This level of carelessness says a lot about the jocks that were here an hour ago. Entitled, spoiled, rich jerks who have never worked one day in their lives. Not all of them of course, but most.

Professor Corder’s voice is clear through my earphones as he talks on and on about the importance of social stratification and deviance. I move all the damp towels in the basket and then go spray the all-purpose cleaner on the shower floors and walls. I check the time on my phone. It’s late. I need to finish up quickly; luckily the gym is already done—another fetid, virus-crawling nightmare that was.

My cell starts ringing, halting the professor’s lecture. I smile when Lori’s name appears on the screen.

“Nutso,” I greet him.

“You are a mean one, Mister Grinch,” his singsong voice answers back.

“ You are the meanest.”

“Apparently it’s because I’m short. I’m closer to hell.” How he can say that in a serious tone is beyond me.

“You’re ridiculous,” I scoff.

“Hey, attitude!” he scolds me, then in a cheery voice he asks, “What are you up to?”

“Working,” I reply, while gathering the stinky uniforms.

“Take five, mate. I’m sure you’ve earned a break.” Lori is such a roguish dude and a great friend. Thanks to him, my life changed radically. He’d say that it was mostly me who did it, but Gabe, one of Lori’s fiancés, made it actually happen.

“I’m behind already…” I start saying, but he interrupts me.

“Then take two. Get out of that foul-smelling, glow-killing, ghoul-infested room and take a big breath while we talk.”

I sigh. Ghoul-infested? “I guess I can take the uniforms and towels to the laundry room while on the phone.” And then come back to rinse the showers.

“I hope you’re wearing gloves, a mask, and a hazmat suit!”

I chuckle as I push the laundry cart out of the locker room—wishing I really had a biohazard suit. “I’m sporting the rainbow headband you gave me for my birthday. Does that count?”

“Take a picture! Take a picture! I want to see how it looks.”

“You’re wasting your two minutes.”

He blows a raspberry. “You work too hard, Spencer-Dancer. You need to chill more, and coincidentally, I have the best solution.”

“You do?” I ask suspiciously. Lori is a mischievous force of nature. His mind is rarely still, always planning something.

“As a matter of fact, I do. I’ll start the social psychology class with you in two days,” he screams in my ear.

“A cognate course?”

“Yes!”

Lori goes to the Kent College of Law, while I’m at Safford. I’m studying to become a social worker, Lori to be a lawyer.

“Every Wednesday for three months. Which means that I’ll help you find some…fun while I’m on campus grounds.”

“Fun,” I deadpan. “What makes you think I don’t get my fun already?”

“Your overly stiff shoulders and the downturn of your mouth. You need more snogging and shagging and less wanking.”

The way he talks is amusing and confusing at times. He’s older than me, even though he looks twenty at best. I don’t know his precise age; I don’t think anybody does or ever will.

“I get enough…shagging,” I grunt, as I tip the cart and let the dirty clothes fall inside the huge baskets in the laundry room.

“Mediocre fucks. You need a proper one. I have an eye for it. I’ll help you.” He sounds excited about it, the complete opposite of what I’m feeling right now. I know how persistent and relentless he can be when he gets an idea in his head—fuck the consequences.

I do believe him when he says he has an eye for it . Gabe is fucking gorgeous and kind of scary with his unfazed demeanor and cold stare. Pretty sure he’s fireworks in bed. The silent ones usually are. Bez on the other hand is crass and brusque. I interacted with him only a couple of times when he possessively warned me off Lori—like I’d ever hit on that bag of crazy.

But I find multiplicity fascinating—two or more personalities sharing one body. Next year I'd like to check the seminar on identity disorders hosted in the psychology department. It sounds captivating to me.

I make my way back to the locker room. “I’ll save a spot for you in class on Wednesday. We can compare notes afterward and study together.”

“Brilliant. Looking forward to it. You’ll need to help me out as well.”

“With?” I ask. Need to be cautious with Lori. Never know what he’s cooking up.

“A Krampus intervention!” Before I can question him much more, he hurriedly adds, “We’ll be revisiting the topic of your hookups then, too. Cheerio.”

When he hangs up, yesterday’s lesson recording resumes in my ears, and I sigh before pushing through the locker room door. When I reach the benches, I frown at the dirty uniform on the floor. I must have dropped it while I was talking to Lori. I’ll bring it to the laundry room on my way out.

I put the cart back near the wall and grab a couple of rags before moving toward the showers. The recording ends, and instead of being greeted by silence, I hear the sound of water falling in the showers. Before I can ask myself if I left it open there’s a hard thud, followed by a painful grunt.

Is someone there? Fuuuck! I haven’t rinsed the cleaner yet and it sounded like someone slipped on the slick floor.

I drop the rags and quickly round the wall that divides the room from the showers. I have only a second to glance at the naked blond god lying on the floor before my sneakers lose traction and I land face-first on a smooth, warm, wet chest.

His pec is certainly softer than the floor tiles, but it still hurts like a bitch when my nose smashes against it.

He lets out an “oomph” as I utter a “shit!” I fell on a mountain of wet muscles that smell like sweat and soil and cinnamon.

My elbow is stuck under me, spearing his belly, and I’m trying to straighten myself, but my shoes keep sliding on the slippery floor. I manage to move my lower body and straddle his very defined abs, my legs stretched out painfully on both sides of his waist. He’s huge. My uniform pants are rapidly getting soaked at the knees.

Panting and aching, I lift my head from his chest and meet the brownest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re filled with confusion and shock. The latter must be reflected in mine as well.

“Who are you?” he asks in a raspy voice.

“Who are you?” I echo his words.

“I’m a football player, clearly.” He lifts his hands, and I remember once again that I’m on top of him. “Can you move?” It’s more an order than a question.

“I’m fucking trying, man!” I flatten my palms on his golden pecs—nice ink he has there—and slide my torso down, attempting again to push my hips up to no avail. The soles of my shoes can’t stop gliding on the wet tiles. Fucking hell, I might have sprayed an exaggerated amount of cleaner on the floor.

“Stop!” The jock suddenly grabs on my hips, fingers to skin since my wet shirt rose up over my belly. I look into his widening eyes. Something flashes across his face as a pink hue starts forming on his cheeks.

Is he embarrassed or turned on? Maybe a little bit of both. I feel a hard muscle plumping against my ass—a very, very, very promising muscle. I’m dying to get a peek.

I smirk at him and wiggle my butt right over the stiff, big, bare cock under me. His calloused fingers dig into my skin, so deep I’m sure they will leave bruises.

His jaw clenches and his features are twisted in anger—hunger? I can see interest in his eyes, but also wariness. Pity, I’d have enjoyed a hard fuck in the shower. Lori is right in wanting to help me since I’m considering being fucked by a repressed jock. I sigh and shift my body to my left.

He tenses even more under me, lifting his head from the floor for a moment to glare at me.

“Calm down, I’m taking off my shoes.”

“Why?”

Are all jocks really dumb? I don’t have much experience with them. Bullies and psychos, tons. Athletes, none.

“My sneakers slip on the floor; my socks shouldn’t do the same.” I fucking hope. The water still falling from the showerhead a couple of feet from us has turned cold, but the guy under me feels like a furnace. Hot and hard. A tempting mix.

“Are you going to tell me who you are?” he asks, as I finish with the laces on one shoe and turn to the other.

I tap on the word cleaner under the college logo on the right pec of my uniform. His brows tighten, creating a cute frown line between them.

“What?” I question him, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Never met a cleaner that acts like you,” he replies, staring at my rainbow hairband.

Is he for real? I cross my arms and purse my lips before I clip, “And how the hell do I act?”

“Like that,” he has the audacity to reply.

“Now I have confirmation that football players are indeed careless fools, not looking where they are going unless there’s a ball involved,” I retort sassily. Fuck him!

Instead of giving me a vitriolic reply, his lips curl up at the corner. Then he chuckles low and deep as he wipes the water from his face and runs his fingers through his shoulder-length, light blond hair—his huge bicep bulges under my eager stare.

His big, brown eyes meet mine again as his large, calloused hand finds its place back on my hip, sending a shiver down my spine. The cinnamon smell coming out of him urges my tongue to come out and play. It’s a very bad idea to go there. But damn, he’s handsome.

“I think it’s time to get you back to dry and pristine again.” I lift my torso up and push my palms against his fabulous, hard, squeezable pecs again.

He frowns and then winces. I feel his half-hard dick right against my ass, and J-e-s-u-s, he’s packed.

“Pristine? Dude, you look like a mess, too.” His words register after a second.

I follow the direction of his gaze down to my damp shirt, half-drenched pants and socks getting soaked on the wet floor.

I hesitantly move above him, standing all the way up when I’m sure I won’t slip once again. My knee and elbow hurt, but the ache is manageable. Had much worse in the past. I shift away from him as he moves into a sitting position. My eyes fall on his still half-hard dick for less than a blink of an eye before he covers it with his hands and attempts standing up. Is he a gymnophobic? Is that why he’s showering alone?

He’s taller than me, and definitely bigger. It’s like being near a brick wall, if said wall had jumbo, rocky muscles sticking out from…everywhere and sexy, veiny arms.

His hands are unfortunately still on his groin as he takes a step forward.

“Easy.” I haven’t finished uttering the warning when he slips once again. This time, I’m there to catch him. His massive weight makes it impossible for me to hold him up, and I fall back against the wall with a thud. My shoulder hits the hard surface as the jock falls on me—him and his entire boulder-heavy body.

I just discovered the literal meaning of being caught between a rock and a hard place.

“Fuck! What the hell is wrong with the floor?” he pants near my ear with his smoky, rough voice, before pulling his head back. His nose is large and a bit crooked, and his chestnut brown eyes have some green in them.

“I sprayed some cleaner since I was cleaning ,” I say brusquely.

He keeps his hips away from mine, but his wet chest is plastered to my torso. I can feel his heartbeat pounding against mine.

He nods and swallows. His bobbing Adam’s apple catches my attention for a second. He’s so close, I can feel his warm breath on my lips. “We aren’t supposed to be in the locker room in the evening. I didn’t realize the time.” Is this supposed to be an apology?

A cold shiver makes me tremble all over. We’re both wet. “Let’s get out of here with all our bones in the right places.”

“Jesus, don’t jinx it, man.” Guess it’s true that jocks are a superstitious bunch. I mime zipping my lips. The silent gesture earns a chuckle from him, rumbly and deep. It fuels jolts of pleasure rocketing along my back.

I start sliding forward, holding him around his biceps and waist while he has one hand on the wall near my head and the other on his junk. We are almost out of the shower when I hear noises, and then four guys appear in front of us. They must be jocks as well, judging by their size and the arrogant way they carry themselves.

“What the fuck, TJ?” the shorter one snarls, his eyes quickly assessing my wet clothes and the jock’s—TJ—lack of them.

“The fuck are you doing?” another one asks with an accusing tone, gazing at my shoes in the middle of the shower floor.

Ah, the homophobic crowd. It always pops up unwelcome and jumps to the wrong conclusions. The spewing, nonsensical part should come up soon.

I snort. “I thought it'd appear obvious, we’re getting out of the shower.”

“Get off him!” the short one barks at me.

I hate being right sometimes. Can’t he see that I’m holding him up?

“Stop fucking touching him,” I hear another one hiss.

So this is my WTF-is-wrong-with-people moment of the day. I thought I skipped it today.

“Fuck this!” All of a sudden TJ gives my chest one hard thrust, forcefully shoving me back against the wall, and leaves the showers. I’m so taken aback by his strength that I slip and fall on my already aching knee. I grit my teeth against the pain and hear him add in a flat tone, “He’s just the cleaner,” as the fucker walks away without a backward glance, followed by the others.

The shorter guy stays behind to give me a disgusted look, to which I respond with an eyebrow lift and a middle finger as I slowly stand again on both feet.

I can clearly see the hatred in his eyes, and I prepare myself for the imminent attack. My hands ball up in fists when someone calls, “Josh! Come on.”

He takes a step back before uttering, “This doesn’t end here.”

“Here’s to hope.” I smirk at him before he turns and leaves.

Assholes.

I turn the water off and grab my soaked shoes before finally leaving the showers. I take off my shirt and squeeze it before yanking it back on—arduously. Wet fabrics don’t slide easily. I have a change in the janitor’s storage closet, so this has to do for now. I take off the socks and put my wet shoes back on. My feet will freeze on the way back to the apartment.

The locker room is empty. The cart with all the cleaners, rags, and sponges is tipped over on the floor. Some bottles are open, and the liquid soaps and cleaners have spilled on the floor.

Fucking macho dicks!

I roll my sleeves and start taking care of the mess as I anticipate how good my knuckles against those fuckers’ faces would feel.

When I finally get back to my apartment an hour later, I get a phone call from Patrick, my boss.

During which I’m informed that I’m fired.

Where I come from, payback is not a bitch, but a promise.