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Viewing Single Post From: The locker room. A place of blood, mud, sweat and hijinks.
The Burned Handler
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I used to be a handler like you, then I turned into a horse.
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
(Mike Eastmund starting)

The door swung open, and Mike walked in like some conquering king, a wave of heat and building steam washing over him in a wave. Some of the soreness in his muscles vanished, flowing away in the tide as a blanket of warm air wrapped around him, congratulating him on a job well done. Boisterous greetings met him in the locker room, and somebody slapped him on the back. The hand stuck a forming bruise from a big hit he'd taken, and he winced, but he wasn't going to let on to that. No fear, no pain.

His locker showed up at some point in the gauntlet, and he gladly shed his uniform, pausing only to fish a small note from a pocket. Somehow, getting chatted up by a cheerleader and having her leave her number had stopped scaring him or making him suspect it was some kind of trick. The phantom of a kiss on his cheek was a pleasant little memory, rewarding him for his success in battle.

The rest? Well, that would have to wait for later, wouldn't it? He stashed the note in a pocket on his athletic shorts before anyone could see, could make some dumb comment guaranteed to turn him red, and peeled off the sweat-drenched UnderArmour shirt as well. Not only did it smell horrible, it felt like it was constricting him, squeezing the air out of lungs in serious need of a break.

Various marks and bruises were bared to the world around him, but he didn't mind. They had been well-earned out on the field, covering the quarterback and pushing hard on offence. He'd even scored a touchdown on a handoff from Cody, driving right through the centre of the opposing line. It had been glorious, the team moving as one to part the line before him like the Red Sea and give him one perfect opportunity to smash through - after that, the Pelicans had just been mopping up.

He looked over, a small smile touching his lips, and speak of the devil, there was the junior quarterback chatting with Miles Strickland. The smile faded slightly; the situation with those two was an interesting one. A few years ago he would have hated Cody, and it still surprised him that he'd grown to trust the quarterback as much as he had, and as for Miles... try as he might, he wasn't sure he ever quite liked the boy. They had known each other since they were kids, mostly because his father was good friends with the owners of Strickland-Bell, but the attitude Miles carried with him always put his hackles up. People who acted like they were better than everyone else because of what they were born with made Mike's knuckles itch.

That said, he might as well be polite, and there was still a pleasant warmth in his chest after their win, so he ambled over to the pair with a lazy little wave, leaning his back against a locker. The cool metal woke him up nicely, and felt good against the bruise.

"Surprised the whole team didn't beat me in here."
Edited by The Burned Handler, Sep 3 2012, 04:30 PM.
MurderWeasel getting impatient
Hiya, jerk! Please don't post until edits have been completed, as doing so causes confusion/messes up the queue.

18:48 Ruggawork I have faith in you!
18:48 Ruggawork and your ass!

16:35 Kilmarnock Maybe Iktor?
16:35 Kilmarnock Maybe Toben.
16:35 Kilmarnock hard to tell until they make out with me.
16:35 *** mib_6brm7d is now known as Irene

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The locker room. A place of blood, mud, sweat and hijinks. · Memories (The Past)