Free Fading Out by Trisha Wolfe Page A

sort the good, decent, and not so good shower laundry.
    Fantastic.
    We huddle near the shower units, a pile of off-white tees, stained towels, and other miscellaneous whites piled high on a wooden table before us. Vee shrugs and reaches into her pack. She pulls out her ear buds and pops them into her ears, already drowning out the commotion of saws and hammers.
    I didn’t think to bring mine, so I try not to flinch at each loud bang, but my back seizes up with the high whir of the saw. As I sort, inspecting and folding and tossing, I inconspicuously look around for the team. Why did Vee want to be apart of this? So far, I haven’t seen a single player. They’re either at practice or a game, or somewhere else, far away from the ruckus.
    After half an hour of endless sorting, I bump my hip against Vee’s. When she pulls a bud out of her ear, I say, “You ready to hunt?”
    She gets a worried expression on her face, like she’s going to back out. I bite down on my bottom lip, stopping myself from calling the whole thing off—to give her an extra second to contemplate her part.
    I falter. “We don’t have—”
    “No. I’m in.” She nods repeatedly, as if she’s talking herself into it. “Those guys really do deserve a taste of their own medicine. And hey”—she smiles wide, fear evaporating—“he’ll definitely know my name after this, right?”
    I laugh a little nervously. “Oh, yeah. He will.”
    With deft movements, Vee reaches into her pack and pulls out a plastic bag. My knee jiggles anxiously as she tucks it under her hoodie. I feel like I’m back at camp, about to get busted for sneaking over to the boys’ side of the lake—which is pretty close to what we’re doing.
    Only we’re not crossing over to flirt—at least, I’m not. Vee’s seriously disturbed crush on Gavin is forcing her into cahoots with the outcast, and I think her brain just let go of her last reservations. By pulling a prank on Gavin, she’s basically pissing circles around the guy. Claiming him as her own.
    “Are you ready?” Vee whispers, pulling me out of my cycling thoughts.
    I brace myself. Suck in a deep, calming breath. I feel the need to count down, get ahold of the anxiety building beneath my breastbone. But I manage. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
    Then we’re off. Completely suspicious and not at all covertly as we note every person on our way toward the back of the locker room. Smiling awkwardly. Waving lamely. Oh, yeah. When this shit goes down, there’s no denying we were the culprits.
    Guilty as sin.
    Best to own it now.
    The jerseys for tomorrow’s game have been cleaned and covered, hung along a temporary metal unit while the locker room project is underway. For a second, I think about looking for Ryder’s uniform. I just have this weird need to see it, envision him wearing it, all sweaty and ripped muscles straining against the tight fabric…but I shut down that debasing thought, and try to focus on our mission.
    “Thank God, they already had these cleaned,” Vee says, lifting the plastic tarp-like covering. “At least they don’t make us sort these things.”
    I take one last glimpse around to make sure we’re in the clear, then look at the pile of neatly stacked jockstraps. “I guess the boosters have some dignity.”
    Vee laughs. “Right, because none of them would get a thrill out of handling their heroes’ ball bras.” She arches an eyebrow as she glances my way. “There is some pretty twisted idol worship going on with these people.”
    I actually do agree. But I refrain from commenting on the fact that the reason we’re even here is because Vee has the hots for one of the Bobcats. And is, in fact, handling his ball bra at the moment.
    “We need to sneak these things out like trash. You got the bag?” I ask.
    Vee smiles and whips out a new black trash bag.
    We start tossing the clean jockstraps into the bag. When the workers move on to the shower units, we make quick work of our plan. The