“It’s fine. It’s only football here this late, and they’re clueless.” We both laugh at that and I convince her to stick with me as we walk down the long hallway past a handful of open office doors, a few with players inside watching game film.

We get to the end of the hall and I fish out my keys from my pocket, locating the small silver one that I’ve had since freshman year. This key opens a few closets in this building, and it was passed down to my brothers from someone on the hockey team and they passed it down to me. I haven’t decided for sure yet, but I think I’ll hand it off to Gavin. He’ll be a sophomore next year and he’s a real grinder on the ice. The key might give him the confidence to grow into a leader.

“What is this place?” Laney asks as I work the key in and push the door open. I pull her inside and flip on the light after shutting the door behind us.

“This place is where Pete keeps literally everything,” I say, walking backward through one of the rows of shelving stacked with bins. “And I mean literally everything.”

I stop at a bin marked 1978 FOOTBALL and crack the lid open. The musty smell makes me take a step back, but I wave my hand and pull the lid off completely then snag the jersey on top. I hand it to Laney.

“Oh my God! This was back when they used to put the names on the back. I would have thought those guys got to keep these!” She unfurls a jersey that’s probably meant for a lineman and holds it against her chest, wrapping the leftover garment around her like a towel.

“That’s a blanket on you,” I laugh.

“They should go back to this look.” She runs her hands over the detailed stitching and the dark gray material highlighted with blue and gold.

“I bet that was sewn by hand, like by one woman who spent all day working on that jersey.” Laney hands it back to me and I do my best to refold it and tuck it back into the bin.

“No doubt,” she responds.

I guide her deeper into the room, and we spend an hour revisiting Tiff University sports history through Pete’s carefully documented storage system.

“I asked Pete about this place when he first showed it to me, and he said that the school won’t give him permission to give anything away and he doesn’t have the heart to destroy it, so he started stockpiling.” I toss a forty-year-old tennis racket to her and she takes a few practice swings before strumming the strings.

“I can’t believe these strings held up,” she says, moving in next to me and hanging the racket back up on the wall of honor Pete built. “Does he know you come in here?”

I shake my head vehemently.

“I get the feeling Pete likes to keep things a certain way and wouldn’t want anyone messing with his system, even if nobody at this school knows about this treasure trove.”

Laney chuckles and nods in agreement.

While she spends time with a box filled with bowling shirts, I sift my way through some of the bins stored on the top shelf near the very back of the room. I have to step on the second shelf to reach it when I see it, and thankfully my weight doesn’t send everything into a domino chain around the room. I come down with the reason I brought her here and kneel in front of the box on the floor.

“Okay, here it is. This is what I wanted you to see,” I say, opening the bin and sifting through the first few sets of warmups until I find twenty-three. I pull it out of the mix and close the box back up before handing it to Laney. Her eyes light up as she reads the embroidered slogan on the back of the jacket.

“Tiff Volleyball is Tiff Tuff.” She lets out a snort-laugh and covers her mouth when she looks at me, embarrassed I think.

“No it’s that funny, but also . . . pretty cool,” I say, holding the pants up between us so she can see the gold stripes down the sides of the dark blue satin. The entire outfit is quilted, made to withstand the Iowa winter. It’s hideous, yet somehow awesome.

“You want it?”

Her eyes flash to mine.

“I can’t take something out of here. I don’t think I could do that. Steal?” She whispers that last word even though we’re alone in a locked room far away from anyone’s ears.

“I figured you’d say that. Hand it over.”

Laney jerks her head around to look over her shoulder then comes back to me, clutching the jacket to her chest.

“I don’t know. It feels wrong.”

“That’s because it’s probably a petty theft misdemeanor and it is wrong, but also . . . fuck it.”

She chortles at my cavalier attitude then checks over her shoulder again.

“Laney, we’re all alone,” I remind her.

“I know, but I’m just . . . nervous,” she leans in and whispers.