The JereMike Collection

Locker Room

(Continued from the previous chapter)

The hollers and hoots from the crowd still haven't died in the last ten minutes. Mike snarls to himself as the sound beats through the locker room door.

There's no one else in the room with him, and there was a good reason why that was. It was a respect thing; you let the participates cool down after a match and shake hands and say good game and the rest of the usual sportsmanship shit. Then they both go back to being buds, or at least warm acquaintances. But in this case; it's probably going to be a while before he'll willingly talk to anyone again.

Not to mention trying to talk to the losing side after a core match could get your neck broken. Especially with Mike Schmidt.

His nose is bleeding, and he hasn't been able to stop it since the end of the match. But right now, it was the least of his concerns. Sure, his white tank was getting ruined, and he didn't look exactly quite as handsome with face partly caked with blood, but it's hard to pay attention to the tiny things like that when there's much bigger issues on your mind.

An image of wide emerald eyes appears suddenly in his mind, and Mike finds it very hard not to break his locker door off it's hinges.

Go figure that the best boxer in the state lost a match because a puny kid on the sidelines was so utterly distracting.

Ignoring his nose, he adjusts his beanie and focuses on his hands. The bandages wrapped them are bloodied at the knuckles, which luckily for him, are drier than what was on his face. He remembers his old couch reminding him to change them after every round, not just after a match. 'To prevent friction on the skin', he said. Mike roll his eyes at the memory. His knuckles were just as scraped underneath the wrappings as they would be without them.

He grinds his teeth, tuning out the loud cheering coming from the rink as he sticks two fingers in the first layer of the bandage, ready to pry them off. His brows furrow as he tugs, the wrappings not budging. Shocked, he brings his hands up to the front of his face, eyeing them carefully. God fucking dammit He was shaking. The loss was actually making him shake.

Too engrossed by the cheers and his hands, he doesn't hear the door creak open behind him.

"...H-hi...."

Mike whips around, instinctively baring his teeth. For a split second, he thinks it's Freddy, even though the voice is much too pitched for the chubby man. As he opens his mouth to snap at the newcomer, he freezes.

Because there in the locker room with him, all alone with no defense, is the same little photographer that indirectly ripped away his beloved title.

Motherfucker. This kid had a death wish.

The brunette is unable to look him in the eye, nervously wringing his hands around his camera bag straps. "I..uh, w-wanted to say I-I'm sorry...." He stammers, staring down at his worn sneakers. They're childish looking, with tiny stars dotted on around the hems. "Y-you know...for f-flashing you back at the r-rink-"

"You"

Mike's tone is incredibly dark. He doesn't care to soften it when the brunette's head pipes up, startled both at the voice and the blood trailing from the boxer's nose.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

He can feel his hands twitch into fist, fingernails digging into his palm. The urge to hit something is strong, and growing. But as the brunette anxiously eyes his hands, he resists the urge and stills them best he could. He wanted answers first.

Green iris dart around the room, lingering on the door a split second before steadying. "I wanted to apologize..." He mummers. "I d-didn't mean to catch you off g-guard like t-that...I-I just wanted a picture. I didn't k-know that-"