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I wave to Paul, the security guard who’s been working for the team for three decades. He sits up on his wooden stool and puts down his mystery book when he spots me.
“Maven. Do you need something?” he asks.
“Dallas left his phone in his locker. Do you mind if I run in and grab it?” I flash my badge and he laughs.
“Put that silly thing away. I know who you are.” He keys in a code on the punch pad on the wall then nods toward the door. “Go on in. It’ll be quiet. I’m the last one left.”
“When do you get to leave?”
“After the final security sweep. Should be any minute now.”
“Then I’ll move extra quick.” I wave and slip inside.
The door shuts behind me, and I look around.
I’ve never been in the locker room before. It’s only open to coaches and select members of the press in an effort to protect the player’s privacy.
I get it. With smartphones and social media, pictures and quotes can be shared in seconds. Conversations and situations can be taken out of context. Before you know it, someone has a P.R. nightmare on their hands that shouldn’t have started in the first place.
I know I said I’d be quick, but I take my time as I walk around the perimeter of the room. The carpet is plush and freshly vacuumed. The walls are a nice brown. The Titans logo is proudly displayed in the center, and everything smells clean, not like the sweaty balls and grimy uniform stench I thought would hang in the air.
The player’s lockers are a different story. I see the personalities in the way they organize their jerseys. In the pictures and personal items they have taped up. Some display their large families. Others are of significant others. Sam Wagner has eighteen photos of his dog in a bandana, and I need to ask if I can meet him.
I spot Dallas’s cubby, and I smile.
His cleats are lined up in a neat row and his jerseys are in color-coded order. There’s a dirty clothes hamper that’s almost overflowing, and his helmets are stacked into a pyramid.
I grab the chair sitting in front of his locker and jump on it. My hand sifts around the top portion, searching for his phone. The tips of my fingers graze it, and as I start to drag it toward me, my knuckles brush against something that feels like paper on the side paneling.
I frown and lean forward to try and see what it is, then my breath catches in my chest.
It’s a photo.
Of me, June and Dallas at the splatter paint room.
We took it before we left to get ice cream. Our cheeks are squished together and there is acrylic everywhere. I’m laughing. June is sticking out her tongue. Dallas is grinning, and his face is mid-turn, like he’s trying to look at me.
I stare at it.
And then I stare at it some more.
It feels like an eternity passes before I dare breathe again.
We look like a family.
A happy family, and it makes me emotional.
It’s dangerous to have that picture up there. Anyone could see it. They could find it and make their own assumptions about its significance.
I want to know whathethinks when he looks at it.
Walking back through the locker room feels like an out of body experience. I smile at Paul and make my way toward the player’s garage. I find Dallas leaning against the hood of his car and looking up at the ceiling.
His hair is still wet from his shower. His joggers are low on his hips, and his feet are crossed at the ankles. He looks peaceful, lazy, almost, and when he lowers his chin and meets my gaze, his smile is dazzling.
“I put your camera stuff in the car,” he says. “June is passed out in her car seat. That kid can sleep anywhere.”
“Great.” I swallow and nod. “Thanks.”
