It was Kevin, the janitor. He stood there in the doorway of the locker room, mop in one hand, bucket in the other. His eyes were wide, staring at us—me leaning against the lockers, Coach’s arms around me, both of us half-dressed and sweaty. I froze, my heart jumping up into my throat. I figured he’d yell or call someone, report us for this mess we’d made right here on the floor. 

But Kevin didn’t move to leave. Instead, he set the mop and bucket down slowly, his face turning from shock to something hungry. He was a big guy, maybe in his forties, with rough hands from years of...