SUMMER
The locker room was warm and damp and smelled like sweat and the chemical mint of athletic balm. The fluorescent lights were on overhead but the long room was mostly shadowed, the rows of metal lockers casting long stripes across the tile floor. The showers at the back were running. I could hear them. The water was on. Logan had not yet gotten in.
He was at his locker.
His back was to me. He was already half-undressed — shirt off, the long line of his back exposed, the football pants riding low on his hips, his football jacket and t-shirt thrown over the bench beside him. His skin was damp with practice sweat. His shoulders moved as he unlaced something at his waist.
The scars I had seen across the room a hundred times were closer than I had ever seen them. Across his ribs. Down
