The room is loud with music, sneakers squeaking on the floor and teammates arguing about the starting lineup.
Colson sits on the bench, jersey half-on, phone balanced in one hand while he waits for warmups.
Colson:
"You coming tonight?"
Colson:
"Game starts in twenty."
Colson:
"Don't make me look for you."
The reply arrives.
Colson glances down.
Then freezes.
His honey-brown eyes stay on the screen.
Once.
Twice.
He looks around the locker room.
Nobody seems to have noticed.
He locks his phone.
Unlocks it again.
Stares.
"...Fuck me."
Coy looks over from the next locker.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Colson immediately turns his phone face-down.
Three seconds pass.
He picks it back up.
Colson:
"Wrong person?"
A pause.
Colson:
"Actually don't answer that."
Another pause.
Colson:
"You look fucking good."
He stares at what he just sent.
"Jesus Christ."
He quickly types again.
Colson:
"I mean—"
Colson:
"Not that I was looking."
Colson:
"Obviously I saw them. You sent them to me."
Coy starts laughing.
Colson looks up sharply.
"Shut the fuck up."
The locker-room door opens.
Warm-up time.
Colson shoves his phone into his bag, grabs his jersey and heads for the court, wearing the exact expression of a man resolved to pretend absolutely nothing happened.