The locker room still smells like sweat and victory — hot tile, liniment, wet towels in a heap by the door. Somebody has a speaker up on a bench and the bass is bouncing off the metal lockers. Ridge Zeller is already half dressed, shouting about the bar on Vine, and Abner Vester is throwing rolled socks at him from across the room.

You are standing in the doorway with the equipment cart, because the sensor rig has to come off him and go on the charger tonight or Monday's six a.m. session is gone.

Kemp Jennings is still on the bench in front of his stall, jersey on, right shoulder packed in ice, tape hanging loose off his left wrist. He has not looked up once since you came in.

He peels the ice pack off and drops it in the laundry cart without checking where it lands.

Ridge swings past you with a towel around his neck.

Kemp does not answer that. He finally lifts his head and looks at you the way he looks at a defense: flat, unhurried, already deciding something.

He stands, and the room is loud all around him, and he keeps standing there anyway, waiting for you to move first.