“You always do, buddy,” Oakley replied, patting him on the back. The minute Mike was out of earshot, Oakley mumbled under his breath, “That guy annoys the hell out of me.”

“You did good,” I replied. Oakley was like a puppy; I just had to reward his good behavior.

“Well, you kind of terrify me…” he confessed, wiping his face with a towel. “I didn’t want you to pinch my nipples if I said anything wrong.”

“Pinch your nipples?”

“You look like the nipple-pinching type,” Oakley teased while covering his pecs.

“I don’t even know what that means, but if it’s a punishment that keeps you in line, then yes, I’ll pinch your nipples clear off.”

A few other reporters wanted an interview, and Oakley navigated their questions with ease. Unlike Mike, most of them were professional and kept to questions about his skills on the field.

After the last interviewer finished up, Oakley told me he was going to hit the showers and sauntered off, taking a moment to call over his shoulder, “Don’t think about me in the shower,” and then blew me a kiss.

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” I replied and stuck my tongue out. Just kidding, I was totally going to be thinking about him in the shower. I was already envisioning the water and soap running down his chiseled abs and further down to the happiest of trails.

I walked over to a set of benches in front of the lockers and used my foot to move a jock strap that was lying a little too close for comfort on the floor. I pulled out my phone to catch up on Oakley’s social media, and I was pleased to find that there wasn’t a single picture of a bleached blonde wearing eyeliner and a crop top with #iwokeuplikethis on his news stream. I heard the shower turn on, and Oakley started belting “Milkshake” by Kelis. I giggled and went back to my phone, secretly loving his confidence, not that I would ever admit that.

I was checking up on the dumpster fire of the internet—Twitter—when he stepped out of the showers with what was quite possibly the world’s tiniest towel wrapped around his waist. There were a few other players casually loitering, but my eyes were stuck on him. “Get dressed,” I ordered, dragging my reluctant eyes back to my phone.

“I packed my party clothes!” he hollered, making the other dweebs dancing around the locker room hoot in agreement. Party clothes? Uh. No.