The game would be intense.

But what would happen in the end?

We'd lose.

Brady would be on the top of his game and we'd still lose.

It was bullshit, you know? We killed ourselves to get it right. Every game, every practice, every day, and every night.

I ruffled my hair, taking a breath and accepting the loss.

"You ain't done shit, Will," someone would grunt to me on our way to the locker rooms, grabbing my arm, their breath smelling of blame, "you gotta learn to fucking pass the damn ball!"

I'd pull my arm away, walking into the locker rooms.

My very favorite kind of room.

They'd all argue, cussing back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"You didn't do shit the whole game."

"You're the same way at practice, ass wipe."

"Can you even dribble?"

"Pass the ball, dawg!"

"That's why coach got rid of your dumbass!"

"You didn't do shit."

I'd stand there, watching the fury in them boil up and out. They'd point fingers at whoever they could see in front of them, accusing them of whatever they could think of. This would go on for an eternity if it could.

But would I be listening?

Not really.

Because Jason would take his shirt off.

As would Kenyan.

And Timo.

And Brady.

And Worm.

All of them, chiseled and perfect. All of them just what any woman on the planet would literally kill to have her hands on.

I'd remove my shirt, my tattoo splattered on my left shoulder, my bare chest nowhere near as good as the other guys.

But at least I had the advantage of staring.

I'd go over to my locker and drop my pants and briefs, soon my entire body bare before I took a towel and covered myself.

I like those few seconds of standing there naked, though. I like those few seconds of just standing there, my entire body exposed, and the possibiity, just the possibility that one o' the guys is staring at me.

But I still put the towel on, the sensation gone and I walk over to the showers.

The fight is getting heated and I take the towel off behind the halfwall, picking up a sponge and walking to into the water. Kareem's next to me, burly as shit, and he dunks his whole face in his shower, his body wet and my eyes trying not to stare.

I start to bathe and the shit here gets loud. The yelling and the arguing just keeps pressing on, everybody from Jason to Timo to Jackson getting in on this.

After emerging my body in the water I move away from the showers and stand behind the halfwall so I can get a better view, my sponge on my chest going in a circle pattern. My attention is obviously not on actually bathing.

"You were playing you didn't even do shit!"

I turn to my left and there's Jason, in nothing but a towel screaming at another player. This accusation, however, starts up a whole new crowd of disorganized yelling and cusses and accusations.

Kareem comes next to me, looking at me with I cocked eyebrow, "You didn't do shit either, Buckman."

"Leave me alone." I say to him.

He shoves me, "The fuck you think you talkin' to, huh?"

I just continue to bathe, watching my teammates get angrier and angrier. The disorganized yelling and accusing is all about, but the conversation my mind seems to focus is on went around the lines of:

"What you do the whole game, man?" Timo to Worm.

"I scored eight of our 32 points, shorty. What you do? Just stand there and look pretty?"

"You musta been pretty damn distracted if that's what you asking me."

"What you say?" Worm stands, getting close to Timo, "What you callin' me?"

"Guys, guys," Battle says, "calm the hell down. I know Timo didn't do shit but don't kill him for it. We need him and his little two-points a game." Some snicker, Timo pushing Worm aside and yelling at Battle.

"You may've scored 12 but I scored 15 in our last game!"

"And I scored 16 in that one. You wanna keep going backwards with this?"

"Battle, Timo, both o' shut up."

"No, fuck off, Brady!"

"No, you fuck off, Timo."

"Jason, stop hogging the ball, you dumbass! If you didn't keep it than Ty wouldn'a made that three-pointer in the beginning!"

"Oh, so it's all my fucking fault now?" Jason puts his sweatshirt on.

"You damn right it is!"

"Go to Hell, Timo, you didn't do anything. Stop trying to prove you did."

"Oh, you watch you fucking-"

Before anything can be done Timo has Jason up against the wall, screaming at him. I see Coach slamming his hand against the other side of the wall just to make them stop, Battle and Brady doing a good enough job of separating the boys.

"Why you think everybody's scared o' you? I ain't scared o' you!"

Everyone is watching, Timo putting a towel around his neck and Brady watching him, as if trying to make sure he won't pounce or something.

"Why you always trying to act so hard all the time, man?" Jason walked off to his locker, "God, I'm sick o' you, man."

The arguments die down and I look down at my hand. I didn't realize how long I stood there, watching them argue, my hand now a prune, a wrinkly prune from all the distraction.

I dry myself off quick and wrap the towel around me, walking to my locker where I see Jason, sitting on the bench and looking pissed.

I stand by my locker still, asking quietly, "You okay, man?"

He looks up at me, as if trying to make sure it wasn't Timo. He tisks, cracking his jaw and saying after a second, "He's just so fucking hard all the time, man. Bitch gets on my nerves."

I nod, Jason standing and grabbing his stuff. Before I disrobe I watch him leave, Kenyan chasing after him and Worm trying to talk to Timo.

I stand at my locker, the door open and the towel around soon dropped to the floor, the sensation of being there, my entire body exposed and the possibility rushing thoroughly through me.