Page 4 of Slash Me Savagely

I bit my lip and surveyed the scene again. Blood-streaked uniforms crumpled on the ground where players had fallen. The aftermath hung heavy in the air like an unwelcome fog.

Rob practically bounced on his toes as we waited for the elevator. The doors slid open, and a uniformed attendant ushered us inside, flanked by other season ticket holders who wore matching jerseys and wide grins.

“This is it,” he whispered, eyes gleaming.

I swallowed hard as the elevator descended, the soft hum of machinery drowning out the distant roars of fans above us. The atmosphere shifted; excitement hung thick in the air like smoke.

The doors opened with a soft ding, revealing a dimly lit corridor lined with glossy photos of players in action. A faint echo of laughter and chatter reached us as we walked toward the locker room.

“Right this way!” a cheerful voice called from up ahead. A man in a polo shirt gestured us forward. “Welcome! I’m Dave, your guide for tonight.” He flashed a broad smile that reminded me of a toothpaste commercial.

Rob elbowed me again, this time harder. “See? It’s gonna be awesome!”

“Let’s hope so,” I muttered, half-heartedly smiling back at Dave.

We stepped into the locker room, and I was immediately struck by the overwhelming scent of sweat and leather mingling with a hint of something else—maybe liniment or fresh paint. The space opened up before us, revealing rows of dark wood lockers lined against one wall. Jerseys hung from hooks like banners waiting for their champions.

A massive whiteboard covered in scribbles and diagrams dominated one end, and scattered around were plush leather chairs that looked like they had seen better days. Posters of past glories plastered every surface—a shrine to victories carved out of blood and grit.

“Take your time! The players will be here shortly,” Dave announced while gesturing for us to settle in.

I glanced at Rob; his eyes sparkled with anticipation as he practically bounced from one foot to the other.

“Are they really coming?” I asked quietly.

“Of course! You didn’t think we’d just sit here and watch paint dry, did you?” His laugh echoed off the walls.

Just then, another group entered behind us—a couple of older fans who carried foam fingers emblazoned with slogans that made my skin crawl.

“Did you see that last hit?” one shouted excitedly, waving his hands animatedly as he leaned against a locker.

I took a deep breath and tried to shake off my nerves. Here I was, about to meet these athletes who seemed larger than life just hours ago. What if I said something stupid?

What ifhewas there?

I shifted nervously in my chair, the leather cool against my skin. The buzz of conversation surrounded me, laughter mixingwith the thud of footsteps. My heart raced as a group of players filed in, their presence electric, transforming the locker room into something almost sacred.

“Gemma! Over here!” Rob’s voice cut through the chatter as he waved me over. I reluctantly pushed myself up and followed him, my palms clammy.

“Guys, this is Gemma,” Rob introduced me to a couple of towering figures with broad shoulders and confident grins.

“Hey!” One player slapped his palm against mine, his grip firm. “You’re in for a treat tonight.”

I managed a smile while Rob chattered away about the game, throwing in jokes that fell flat for me but earned laughs from everyone else.

Then it happened. Rob spotted someone across the room and his eyes lit up like a kid who’d just found his favorite toy.

“There he is! Matt Sokolov!” He nudged me forward before I could process what was happening.

Matthew Sokolov.

The player from before.

Matthew stood tall, his hair tousled just enough to look effortless. His jawline was sharp, and his lips were pressed into a hard line. The red of his jersey contrasted sharply with the coldness in his blue eyes that seemed to draw me in.

Rob pushed me closer as if giving him a nudge was all it took to initiate an introduction.

“Sokolov! This is Gemma!”

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