SAINT-VÉRAN

THE LOCKER ROOM

I had never been inside the Saint-Véran rugby locker room.

I had no reason to be.

I wasn’t athletic.

I didn’t understand rugby beyond the fact that everyone seemed to enjoy throwing themselves at each other while chasing an oddly shaped ball.

And, more importantly, I had no desire to spend my afternoon surrounded by a dozen exhausted athletes.

Unfortunately, I was sent there anyway.

It started with a notebook.

My notebook.

The one containing three weeks’ worth of European History notes, two unfinished assignments, and enough scribbles in the margins to prove that I had absolutely no ability to pay attention for an entire lecture.

I had left it in the sports hall.

Or so I thought.

After the match, I remembered it.

So I went looking.

The sports hall was almost empty when I arrived.

The crowd had disappeared.

The field lights were still on, casting pale rectangles across the grass outside.

I checked the benches.

Nothing.

I checked beneath the bleachers.

Nothing.

Then I remembered seeing Lucien carrying my notebook earlier.

Of course.

I headed toward the locker rooms.

The door was slightly open.

I knocked.

“Hello?”

No answer.

I pushed it open.

And stopped.

Lucien was there.

Alone.

He was sitting on one of the wooden benches, elbows resting on his knees.

His rugby jersey was damp with sweat, his dark-blond hair still wet from the shower.

There was a bruise beginning to darken along his cheekbone.

Another marked his shoulder.

His hands were wrapped in white athletic tape.

He looked exhausted.

Not the Lucien everyone saw on the rugby field.

Not the golden boy.

Not the terrifying athlete who could silence an entire hallway simply by walking into it.

Just...

Lucien.

Tired.

Bruised.

Human.

He looked up.

Our eyes met.

Neither of us spoke.

I suddenly became very aware that I was standing in the doorway staring at him.

His eyebrows lifted.

“Can I help you?”

I blinked.

“I...”

My brain stopped functioning.

“I was looking for my notebook.”

He glanced around.

“What notebook?”

“History.”

He looked toward the bench beside him.

My notebook was sitting there.

Of course it was.

“You left it.”

I walked toward him.

“Thank you.”

I reached for it.

He picked it up first.

For some reason, neither of us moved.

He held the notebook.

I held the other end.

Our fingers were almost touching.

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

Then my eyes moved downward.

I noticed the bruise on his cheek again.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You said that last time.”

“And I was.”

“You were bleeding.”

“Technically, yes.”

I frowned.

“That’s not what fine means.”

He smiled faintly.

“You’re becoming bossy.”

“You make me worry.”

The words slipped out.

I froze.

So did he.

Lucien’s smile disappeared.

I looked away.

“I mean...”

My voice became smaller.

“You get hurt a lot.”

“Usually.”

“That isn’t reassuring.”

“I wasn’t trying to reassure you.”

“Clearly.”

Silence.

I could hear the faint hum of the overhead lights.

The locker room smelled like clean soap, grass, and something distinctly metallic from the sports equipment.

Lucien looked down at my notebook.

“You came looking for me?”

“For the notebook.”

“Right.”

I nodded.

“Yes.”

Another silence.

He looked strangely uncomfortable.

That surprised me.

Lucien was never uncomfortable.

He could walk into a room full of people and somehow make everyone else uncomfortable instead.

But now he couldn’t seem to look at me.

“How was the match?” I asked.

“Fine.”

“You won.”

“Yes.”

“By a lot.”

“Yes.”

“You’re very talkative.”

He glanced at me.

“You ask too many questions.”

I smiled.

“You like answering them.”

“No.”

“You do.”

He shook his head.

I laughed softly.

Then I realized he was still holding my notebook.

“You can let go now.”

He looked at our hands.

Then immediately released it.

“Sorry.”

Something about that made me smile.

“You look embarrassed.”

He stared at me.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m tired.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

He looked away.

“Go back to the dorm.”

I frowned.

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because what?”

He didn’t answer.

I looked at him again.

His face was slightly flushed.

Not from exertion this time.

At least, I didn’t think so.

And suddenly I understood.

He was embarrassed.

Lucien Valmont was embarrassed.

I tried not to smile.

“You really are.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Are what?”

“Embarrassed.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He sighed.

“Elias.”

I laughed.

“Okay.”

I took my notebook.

“I’ll go.”

I turned toward the door.

“Elias.”

I stopped.

“What?”

He hesitated.

“Nothing.”

I waited.

He looked at me.

For a second, his expression softened.

“Goodnight.”

I smiled.

“Goodnight, Lucien.”

Then I left.

I walked halfway across the corridor before I realized my heart was beating far too quickly.

I stopped.

Pressed my notebook against my chest.

And took a deep breath.

What was wrong with me?

I’d seen him before.

I’d seen him bruised.

I’d seen him angry.

I’d seen him exhausted.

I’d even seen him asleep.

So why did that moment feel different?

Maybe because, for the first time, I had seen him without the armor.

Without the reputation.

Without everyone watching.

And maybe because he’d looked at me as though I was the only person he was embarrassed to be seen by.

I didn’t know what that meant.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

That night, the dormitory felt smaller than usual.

Lucien returned almost an hour later.

I was already in bed.

Or pretending to be.

He turned off the main light.

The room fell into darkness.

I heard him move around.

A drawer opened.

Closed.

His sports bag landed on the floor.

Then silence.

I stared at the ceiling.

“Lucien?”

“Yes?”

“Does your shoulder hurt?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

A pause.

“A little.”

I turned onto my side.

I could just make out his silhouette across the room.

“You should put ice on it.”

“I did.”

“Good.”

Silence.

I closed my eyes.

A few minutes passed.

Then..

“Elias?”

“Yes?”

“Why were you staring at me?”

My eyes opened.

I stared into the darkness.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“I was looking at your injury.”

“No.”

His voice was quiet.

“You weren’t.”

My face became hot.

“Go to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

Another pause.

“I don’t know.”

I knew.

I didn’t say it.

Neither did he.

The room was quiet again.

Our beds were only a few meters apart.

It had never seemed like a small room before.

Now it felt impossibly small.

I could hear him breathing.

He could probably hear mine.

I turned onto my back.

He did the same.

We stared at opposite ceilings.

Neither of us spoke.

But I knew he was awake.

I knew because every time I moved, he moved too.

Every time I turned, the mattress across the room shifted.

Finally, I whispered:

“Goodnight.”

His answer came almost immediately.

“Goodnight.”

I closed my eyes.

But sleep didn’t come.

Because now I knew what Lucien looked like when nobody else was watching.

And worse, I knew exactly how it felt to be the person he was embarrassed to look at.

I wasn’t sure whether that frightened me.

Or whether some secret part of me liked it.

Across the room, Lucien shifted again.

Neither of us slept.