The Locker Room Page 1

Author: Meghan Quinn

Series: The Brentwood Boys #1

Genres: Romance



Rule number one in college: don’t lose your friends at a house party . . . especially when you’re drunk.

Technically this is a loft party though, so . . . am I really breaking the rule?

My head falls back against the wall, my empty red cup rests in my hand and is clutched to my chest as I scan the giant loft space on the third floor of a renovated warehouse. I climbed up a fire escape in heels to get here, risked the safety of my ankles to be a part of something special, because apparently this is the place to be on the weekends.

The Baseball Loft.

As I’ve been told by my best friends, this is where you earn a golden ticket invitation to the exclusive but highly sought-after locker room—where dreams come true.


Don’t take my word for it.

But rumor on the street is: the best orgasms take place in the Brentwood Baseball locker room. Legends say one girl had a five-minute orgasm on the tile floors of the shower.

Five-minute orgasm in exchange for a week’s worth of ringworm. Not sure I’m interested.

But alas, I’m here, drunk off my ass, boobs practically spilling out of my shirt, and my mascara slowly melting off my eyelashes and onto my face, morphing me from new-in-town college girl, to trash panda from the raccoon clan.

“Dottie, Lindsay,” I say weakly, moving my head from side to side. “Where art thou?”

“You need help?” a deep voice slurs next to me.

I look to my right through very blurry vision and make out what I’m going to assume is an incredibly attractive man. But then again, I’m drunk—the whole mascara melting off my eyes in full swing—and I’ve been fooled once before.

But hey, I think those are blue eyes. Can’t go wrong with that . . . reasoning that will be thought better of in the morning.

“Have you seen Dottie or Lindsay?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he answers, resting against the wall with me.

“Damn it. I think they’re making out with some baseball players. Have you seen any of those around?”

“Baseball players?”

“Mm-hmm.” I nod, shutting my eyes for a second but then shooting them back open when I feel myself wobble to the side. The guy catches me by the hand before I topple over, but thanks to his alcohol intake, he’s not steady enough to hold us up and . . . timber . . . we fall to the couch next to me.

“Whoa, great placement of furniture,” I say, as the guy topples on top of me.

“Damn near saved our lives.”

I rub my face against the scratchy and worn-out fabric. “How many people do you think have had sex on this thing?”

“Probably less than what you’re thinking.”

The couch is deep, giving me enough room to lie on my side with the guy in front of me, so we’re both facing each other. He smells nice, like vodka and cupcakes.

“So, have you seen any baseball players around? I’m looking for my friends.”

“Nah, but if you see any, let me know. I can’t find my room.”

“You live here?” I ask, eyes wide.

“Yup,” he answers, enunciating the P. “For two years now.”

“And you don’t remember where your room is?”

“It has a yellow door. If the damn room would stop spinning I’d be able to find it.”

“Well . . . maybe if we find your room, we’ll find my friends,” I say, my drunk mind making complete sense.

“That’s a great idea.” He rolls off the couch and then stands to his feet, wobbling from side to side as he holds out his hand to me.

Without even blinking, I take it in mine and let him help me to my feet. “Yellow door, let’s go,” I say, raising my crumpled cup to the air.

“We’re on the move.” He keeps my hand clasped in his and we stumble together past beer pong, people making out against walls, the kitchen, to an open space full of doors. “Yellow door, do you see one?”

I blink a few times and then see a flash of sunshine. “There.” I point with force. “Yellow, right there.”

His head snaps to where I’m pointing. A beam of light illuminates the color of the door, making it seem like we’re about to walk right into the sun. I’m a little chilly, so I welcome the heat.

“Fuck, there it is. You’re good.” Together, we make our way to the door, pushing past a few laughing people and into the quiet den of his room.

Black walls, white trim, one window looking out over the water; the guy has a nice place. I scan the space, looking for any sign of my friends but come up short, only finding a large bed with a black comforter, a metal-looking desk, and a large white dresser with a giant TV mounted on top.

Not a friend in sight but what a cozy spot to take a little rest.

“I don’t see my friends.”

He looks around. “I don’t either, but fuck, my bed.” He throws his arms out to the side and bellyflops on the mattress, bouncing a few times before settling his head on his pillow.

I stare at him a few moments. Tight jeans shaping his ass and thighs, white shirt that shows off every muscle in his back, handsome face. Not a bad view. But that’s not what’s enticing me to move forward. It’s the warm and fluffy-looking pillow right next to the guy.