The locker room is steamier than I was expecting for the hour before bouts have even started.

It might be that some guys are washing off the grime from early morning practice, or maybe some are just looking to wake themselves up with a hot shower.

Either way, the warm, hazy mist that wrapped around me like blanket as I walked in was a welcome greeting coming from the freezing waiting room.

Color started to return to the surface of my skin, which hopefully helped mask how flush my face felt. Michael was walking in front of me, his butt still pushing at the back fold of his towel. I needed to get my pulse under control before he turned around.

I try to take a few slow breaths, but the air in here hangs thick and heavy on my lungs. It’s like trying to suck oxygen out of a pool of water.

Michael glances over his shoulder to make sure I’m still following. I nod at him to keep going.

He turns a corner into a square block of lockers. Immediately facing us is a mirrored wall, with two rows of stacked lockers jutting out on either side.

Between the lockers are half a dozen wrestlers chatting and milling about. They’re all completely naked.

Michael crouches down to a bottom locker, and starts fussing with a combination lock. I whip around, my heart slamming, and rush away.

“Bathroom!” I call back. I hope Michael didn’t catch my reaction.

The bathroom — just a few stalls and urinals placed across from the showers — is around the corner. I step into a stall shut the door behind me.

I put the toilet seat down and sit in my towel, trying to just calm my pulse.

Two bare feet step into view beneath the stall door.

“Dude, you should have shit before the weigh-in! You could have dropped into a lighter class.”

It’s Michael. I can see through the tiny gaps on either side of the door that he’s not wearing a towel — but I can’t see much else. Nonetheless my heart picks up even faster.

“Ha, yeah. I think it’s just… uh, gas.”

Shit, that was probably the least cool excuse I could have possibly used.

Michael chuckles, “Well, every ounce counts. Next time, loosen up and let it out.”

He slaps a black wrestling singlet over the door.

“Put this on when you’re done, and meet me out on the mats. I’m gonna go get dressed.”

I see his feet turn and step away. The further he gets the better I can see him through the slits of the stall — another glimpse of his stupidly perfect butt.

He pauses. Can he feel me staring at him?

Without turning his head, he brings his right hand back and lightly slaps his own ass. At the same time, he lets out a terribly fake fart noise from his mouth.

I laugh, probably too loud.

This guy is ridiculous.

Once he’s completely out of sight, my heart calms down. Despite the humidity of the locker room, I can feel my lungs fill with air again.

I stare up at the singlet hanging over the top of the stall door. It’s not mine, which should be stuffed in my gym bag and locked up in its own locker.

It’s the right colors for our school — black with gold detail — but it must be from one of the past seasons. I wonder why Michael has been carrying an extra singlet.

It can’t possibly be his own, we wouldn’t be the same size even if I grew three inches and gained fifteen more pounds.

And why is he giving it to me? Weird.

He is team captain. Apparently. I guess he must carry a few extra in case someone on the team has one… rip? That would be embarrassing.

I stand up and throw my towel over the side of the stall. Grabbing the singlet, I take a cautious test sniff — smells like detergent. Thank god.

I pull it on and, surprisingly, it fits pretty well. It feels odd being in someone else’s spandex, but at least I got to change behind closed doors.

I keep my eyes on the ground as I walk through the locker room, headed out towards the gym where the wrestling mats are set up. The last thing I need before grappling with Michael is a boner.

In fact, I better not think about it too much.

I walk around the corner from the lockers and push through the door that opens into the gym.

The stands are empty for the time being, since doors are closed until closer to the start of the bouts. A few guys are stretching or pumping free weights that their team has carted in. In the center of gym, seated on the ground with his legs spread out in front of him, is Michael.

His uniform is a different. The colors are inverted so that the singlet is predominantly gold with black detailing. As I get closer, I realize how thankful I should be for the color of my own uniform — the lighter color on Michael means you can make out every detail of his body. And with the way he’s seated, legs spread out facing me, I really do mean every detail.

Shit.

There’s no where to run and hide at this point. Why did I ever think this was a good sport to join?

I keep a steady pace as I approach, and only stare above the shoulders.

He grins when I’m a few feet away and tosses me black headgear to strap on. He stands up as I’m fussing with the straps, and clasps a hand on my arm.

“Let’s see how well you can throw your new weight around.”

I step back, take a deep breathe, and get into position.

Damn, he looks good in that singlet though.

This is going to be rough on so many levels.