20
I'd been inside men's locker rooms before. High school lockers with smelly gym clothes and cloying, cheap cologne. College lockers with moldy, neglected textbooks that were highlighted in Gatorade stains rather than pencil marks. I'd even made my way into a professional sport players' locker room.
Paris, World Cup, 1998. I'd snuck in and snagged a pair of Beckham's underpants. I didn't keep them, that would be gross. I sold them on the black market. Not so much for profit. More for fun. I got a kick out of watching the elderly heiresses start a bidding frenzy to score the jock strap.
Those locker rooms had been clouded in hard-fought sweat, recreational herbs, and disinfecting antiseptic. Walking into the open entryway of Valhalla, I was brought to my knees. It went beyond armpit fun
