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After the Win

The locker room still echoes with the roar of the crowd. Musab's jersey is half-pulled over his head when Arsala's hands find his waist, her short black hair brushing his bare stomach as she drops to her knees on the damp tile. Armish's silhouette fills the doorway, her ponytail swinging as she glances down the hall, one hand raised in a thumb's-up. Arsala's mouth is already hot and wet against the outline in his shorts, her fingers working the button loose while the fluorescent light buzzes above the row of metal lockers.