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Coverage

By: Wonderstorm



Melody May bristled with rage. She longed to reach over the desk and strangle the man across from her, to ring his neck until he relented. Everything – her entire future – was in his hands, and yet he was standing his ground, and standing in her way. But, despite the anger bubbling up inside of her, Melody remained cool and calm, professionally continuing her interview in a manner befitting an unbiased journalist. 

"Ludtke and Time, Inc. vs. Kuhn in 1978," Melody began, reading the name of the court case from her notebook. "Have you heard of it? The court sided with the plaintiff, Melissa Ludtke, against Major League Baseball and Commissioner Bowie Kuhn, effectively saying that women reporters are allowed in the men's locker room after games. To deny entrance would be to deny access to 'fresh-off-the-field' interviews, and to discriminate against women."

"This isn't about discrimination," Art Hull growled, from behind his desk. "It's about common decency. It's about players' privacy. It about a preservation of traditional notions of propriety." 

"But you can't allow one group of reporters access to the players that is denied to another," Melody stated flatly. She longed to get emotional, longed to shove her research down Hull's throat, longed to tell him what she really though of him and his new policies. Instead, she pressed on, imbuing each of her statements and questions with accusations and subtext. "What's next? White reporters are allowed in, but black reporters have to wait in the hall?"

Melody had found that the accusation of racism had the tendency to rile even the most well put-together of Southern gentlemen, and Art Hull was no different. He pounded his fist upon his desk, yelling, "God damn it! We've been through this seventeen times to Tuesday!"

He slammed his fist down again, causing Melody's slick-looking Dictaphone to bounce on the surface. He continued, "The men's locker room is for men. The women's locker room is for women. Period. End of discussion."

"Is that the end of the interview?" Melody asked sarcastically. Art Hull wasn't going to end this line of questioning that easily. 

He shifted uneasily in his seat, collecting himself. After a few moments of awkward silence, he said, "I've looked at Ludtke and Kuhn."

Melody's eyebrows were raised. "And...?"

"It's an opinion. Not legally binding outside of New York state. And for that matter, not legally binding outside of Yankee Stadium." 

"It's the precedent, though," the girl answered. "Bowie Kuhn tried to prevent women from coming into the locker room, even going so far as to encourage all of Major League Baseball's owners to do the same. Melissa Ludtke fought back, and the government sided with her – denying a woman access to her story was gender discrimination."

"And what about an individual's privacy?" Hull countered. "Reggie White, perhaps one of the greatest defensive ends of all time, pointed out that there's no legitimate reason for athletes to be forced to walk around naked with women who aren't their wives."

"On your entire roster, there are exactly zero players who are married. At the professional level, it might be a different story, but it's somewhat dishonest to claim that you're concerned for the spouses of a locker room full of twenty-one-year-old men."

"So what would you have me do?" Hull asked, leaning across the desk. "Male reporters aren't allowed in the women's locker room after a big field hockey game. How do you think that colleague of yours, Billy Bullock, would be greeted if he tried to force his way in? Isn't that gender discrimination?"

Melody tried to force the name of William Lee Bullock from her mind. If Hull's new policy of denying access to the locker room were enforced, it was the underclassman who would become the winner in all this, securing the beat that Melody had worked for over the years. This was the South – football was all that mattered in collegiate sports. 

"That's not the same thing," the girl retorted, shaking her head. "It's not like there are female reporters in there, either, with access to emotions and quotes that male reporters can't get."

"But if you wanted to cover field hockey, or girl's soccer, or girl's basketball, you'd be allowed in, while Bullock would be forced to wait outside?"

Melody couldn't quite figure Art Hull's angle. He'd been the football coach of the Palmetto State Stallions for over thirteen years, and had been coaching at various schools in various positions within the Southeastern and Southern Champions Conferences for a lifetime longer than that. He wasn't a particularly modest man, or even much of a churchgoer. Before that fall, he had never seemed particularly concerned with the issue of gender rights, either for or against. And yet, all of sudden, he seemed inspired to make a point. 

Being a football coach at a Division One school in the South awarded him a significant amount of power, even if Palmetto State University was not exactly one of the more traditional football factory schools. Luke Donovan, the athletic director, had bowed to Hull's new rule - as had the school's provost. Even the league commissioner had stopped short of stepping in, stating that the issue demanded "further study." Art Hull was a local deity, and his divine word was law. 

The options weren't good for Melody. She had filed a grievance, both with the school's administration and with the NCAA. The only available route that Palmetto State could take at this point, unless Hull himself backed off, would be to deny access for all reporters to the Stallions' locker room after each game. Having done significant research on the subject for this piece, Melody knew that such an outcome would leave her extremely unpopular with the rest of the Press. Michele Himmelberg of the Fort Myers News-Press had learned this the hard way in 1979, first facing an angry crowd of male journalists with deadlines to meet, and then being greeted in Tampa Bay with a barrier in front of the locker room – the Buccaneers' "Himmelberg Wall" – partitioning the players off from the reporters. If Melody pushed too hard, it would be a lose-lose situation for everyone involved. 

"In that case, I guess Bullock would have a right to complain, as well," Melody finally answered. Knowing Bullock, it would be just like him use the same logic to greet the ladies of the tennis team in their changing area. But Bullock's intentions were skewed; Melody just wanted to be able to write a good story. "If privacy is such a big concern, why are male reporters still allowed in? For that matter, why are male photographers allowed in? And male cameramen?"

"It's a men's locker room," Hull reiterated. "These men aren't seeing anything they haven't seen before."

"This may shock you," Melody quipped, "but it's not like I'm going to see anything in there that I haven't seen before." 

The coach rolled his eyes. "Look, I don't feel comfortable forcing my boys to give you interviews while they're wearing nothing but a jock strap and you're dressed head-to-toe in some pantsuit."

"So this is an 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours' thing?" the girl asked. 

"Call it whatever you want."

Melody saw her opening, if ever-so-slim and ever-so-desperate. At first, she simply saw a way to stick it to Art Hull, to portray him as a depraved old man who was playing at sexual harassment – women were only allowed in the men's locker room if they were willing to become his players' sexual playthings. But as the cogs worked inside her head, Melody began to realize that Hull might have left her a little wiggle room. 

"Let me rephrase what I think I'm hearing," she began, doing her best to spell it out for him. "A woman would, in fact, be allowed in the men's locker room if she were as naked as the most naked man present?" 

A smug smile came across the coach's face. He knew instantly what the girl was playing at, but simply smiled and replied, "If you'd like to shed your skivvies, Miss May, you're more than welcome in my locker room." 

It wasn't a real offer. It wasn't intended that way, at least. No part of Art Hull believed that this girl, this twenty-one-year-old blonde with illusions of Michelle Tafoya, would take him seriously. Even if he had, he would have expressed doubt that she'd have the courage – that she'd have the balls – to actually follow through. 

***

That first week, Art Hull had been right. Melody May, dressed in her khakis and blouse, had stood outside the Stallions' locker room, waiting with unease for the players to emerge. 

It had been a difficult loss for the Palmetto State Stallions, a team eager to prove that it was bowl game material. Quarterback Dave Lebeau, in his senior year and destined for the NFL Draft, had thrown three interceptions. Sophomore running back Anthony "Battleship" Adams had been held to thirty-eight yards. In every way, shape, and form, Mississippi Tech had simply manhandled their conference rival. On the Stallions' home field, no less. In their opening game. 

Obviously, emotions had been high as the players left the 6-26 rout behind them and returned to their changing room. According to Robert James Wheeler of the Columbia Free Times, Battleship had questioned the team's heart, kicker Percy Honeycutt's leg, and even Art Hull's coaching. Lebeau had confessed doubts about the Stallions' hopes the following week, against Southern Baptist, to correspondent Jack Jackson and a camera crew from WCIV, a local ABC affiliate. And Mack Elkins of the Charleston Post & Courier quoted cornerback D'Wayne Mitchell suggesting that the officials were calling the game in favor of the Trojans. 

Melody's story, by contrast, had been flat. "Stallions Felled by Trojans" consisted mostly of second-hand quotes and boring interviews with less-than-important players. While Lebeau was all over ESPN, WCIV, and even the local Danbury Shopper, Melody's story centered around the opinions of a second-string safety who only hung out in the hallway after game because he was waiting for his brother to pick him up. 

The editor for the Palmetto State Tribune had understood Melody's plight, but he was less than eager to give up an entire season's worth of football coverage because Melody had been assigned to the beat. She had begged John Stanton that first week, to at least give her a shot under the new regime, and had failed miserably. Thus, as the Stallions headed into their second game of the season, against Southern Baptist University, Stanton was ready to substitute one William Lee Bullock for Melody May.

Melody knew what she had to do to keep her job, and her job – at that point – was much more important to her than her dignity. Her father had been a football coach in her hometown of Linfield, South Carolina, and ever since she'd been a little girl, Melody had dreamt of covering football for a large paper. She didn't care if she was covering the Panthers, or the Titans, or the Hawks, or even the Saints – Melody would be in the big leagues. 

And so, Melody pleaded with Stanton once again. She insisted that the previous week had been a fluke, and that she'd be able to land the Tribune a better story than anyone else. Stanton hedged, eventually allowing the girl one last opportunity, based almost entirely on how good her piece about Art Hull had been a week and a half earlier. But Melody wouldn't be alone - Bullock was sent to cover the game, as well, and possibly get the quotes that Melody was denied because of her gender. 

With the roar of the crowds beginning to die away after the Stallions upset victory over the Missionaries, Melody found herself standing outside the men's locker room. She was sanctioned off from the doorway with a handful of other female reporters and throngs of groupies and autograph-seekers, a thin strip of yellow "caution" tape and a security guard away from her story. 

D'Wayne Mitchell had pulled down two interceptions, both of which had decidedly swung the game. Linebacker Justin Cox had sacked the Missionaries' quarterback Trevor Welch four times. Dave Lebeau had tossed three touchdowns and put up significant yards. And Battleship had rumbled to 171 yards over the school he had transferred out of that spring. It was an unexpected outcome, the Stallions being fourteen-point underdogs after their humiliating loss the week before. 

Bullock was already inside, as were Melody's male counterparts from dozens of other media outlets. ESPN and Sports Illustrated were both present that night, as were USA Today and Fox Sports Net. There was the usual collection of Charleston, Columbia, and Danbury papers, as well as all the local television news teams. All of whom were inside the locker room, basking in the victorious mirth of the Palmetto State Stallions. 

And Melody was about to join them. 

Standing five-foot-ten, Melody had a skinny, almost beanpole look to her. Her breasts were smallish, her ass nonexistent, and her hips narrow. Still, with her long, blonde hair and big, blue eyes, the girl was attractive enough to elicit attention from men and boys alike. After growing up a tomboy, Melody was still getting used to being hit on again and again every time she and friends went out for a drink. 

As she slipped under the tape barrier, the security guard stepped up to stop her, and Melody recognized him instantly. Surrounded by a handful of other geeks, this guy had hit on her just two weeks earlier at the Equine Tavern. Melody had turned him down then, and it was just her luck that he'd turn up here, waiting to deny her, in turn. 

"I'm sorry, miss," the guard apologized, grabbing her by the arm, "but I can't let you in there."

"I've got a press pass," she tried, waving her credentials in his face. 

The guard shrugged. "Coach's orders."

So this was how it was going to be. Melody dug through the large purse dangling on her forearm, emerging with her trusty waterproof yellow Dictaphone. The device had been a gift, partly in jest, from Stanton himself, after Melody had fallen into the school's pool while covering the girls' swim team as a sophomore. She had carried it with her since then, bringing it with her on every interview and every story. 

"A woman would, in fact, be allowed in the men's locker room if she were as naked as the most naked man present?" the Dictaphone played. Her own voice was recognizable to the guard, but not nearly as much so as the second. "If you'd like to shed your skivvies, Miss May," Art Hull growled on the recording, "you're more than welcome in my locker room."

The guard shook his head. "I don't think so." 

"I've got Hull's voice here, loud and clear," Melody replied, with the utmost confidence. "You can go get him, if you'd like, to probe him on the veracity of the quote." 

The guard had begun to doubt his own judgment. After all, it certainly did sound like Art Hull - his voice as familiar to the guard as it was to any college football fan within hundreds of miles of Palmetto State. And Art Hull's word was law. 

Melody knew that she had put him in a difficult position. If he let her in, he'd face the probable wrath of the Coach who had made significant headlines over the last few weeks because of his flap with female reporters. But if he didn't let her in, there was a very good possibility that he'd face the wrath of the Coach who had given this particular female reporter permission to enter, albeit under a strict set of guidelines. 

It wasn't much of as much of a quandary to the guard, however, as Melody might have hoped. At least, not so long as she was dressed. 

"Coach says right there on that tape that you're not allowed in, so long as you're all dressed up," the guard observed. 

"Yeah, but only so long as I'm as naked as the most naked man in the locker room," Melody countered. "We could poke our heads in there, and see much I actually have to take off."

He shook his head again. Shamelessly, he suggested, "There's a lot of men in there a lot of naked." 

"Fine," the girl huffed. She had hoped that she might actually make it into the locker room without taking her clothes off. "Just let me through the door, and I'll do as Hull says." 

But the guard was having no part of it. "Coach says right there on that tape that you're not allowed in, so long as you're still in your skivvies."

Melody glanced behind her at the gathered crowd. There were two other female sports reporters, as well as another two dozen people or so. What bothered Melody, though, was the handful of ten- or twelve-year-old little boys, waiting around for autographs from Lebeau, Battleship, or Art Hull himself. Could she really go through with this?

"You're not going to make me strip out here, are you?" she asked him, in disbelief. "I'll just take a step inside – I'll even hand the clothes back out to you." 

"Coach says right there on that tape –"

"Fine, fine!" Melody yelped. "Fine." 

She dropped her purse to the cement floor, eager to get the first round of today's humiliation out of the way. With a look behind her, Melody kicked off the high-heeled sandals she had been wearing. The floor was cold against her bare feet, but she doubted that it was the reason she had begun to shiver. 

Melody was wearing a simple white blouse, with sleeves rolled up to her elbow, and the top few buttons undone to reveal a fair amount of bare chest. Her small- to average-size tits weren't quite big enough to merit cleavage, at least called-as-such, but Melody had been showing off quite a bit of skin. As her hands traced down the front of the blouse, button by button, she continued to reveal that skin to the guard. 

Her back was turned to the people behind her, but Melody knew she'd only be able to get so far before all eyes were upon her. She braced herself, knowing that this particular embarrassment would pass – once she'd undressed, she could enter the locker room, and face an all new embarrassment.

The guard's eyes opened wide as Melody pulled her shirt apart. She was wearing a simple yellow cotton bra, which plunged downwards, revealing a fair amount of skin between the cups. It wasn't overly seductive, but the guard simply couldn't believe that Melody was actually going through with this. For Melody's part, she couldn't believe that she was, either. 

She readied herself before shrugging her blouse off. Knowing that there would be hoots and hollers, she did her best to steel herself against them. If she were to back out, and let Bullock file this story on his own, this would be her last opportunity to do so. If anything, the thought of Bullock's name in her byline urged her onward. 

"What the fuck?" someone shouted from behind her. 

"That girl's stripping!" came another. 

"What is she doing?" a woman asked. 

Melody let the shirt slide off her shoulders, down her arms, and back around her body. As she did so, she did her best to stare the guard in the face, making sure that he knew she was doing this to get past him. It was hard to make eye contact, however, given that the guard's gaze was locked squarely on Melody's chest. 

The reporter balled her shirt up and shoved it sloppily into her large purse. And, taking a deep breath, she reached for the button atop her fly. 

"Take it off!" one of the autograph-seekers yelled. 

"Slut!" yelled one of the groupies. 

Melody did her best to tune them out, but it was difficult. The crowd behind her had little else to focus on, all of whom were just waiting around for the players to emerge. She could hear them making comments about her body, about what a whore she was being, about the gall she was demonstrating by stripping in front of children. 

Still, she carried on. Her pants were gray, with thin, barely visible, white stripes running from low-riding waist to the flared ankles. They were tight fitting at the top, made from some ungodly combination of polyester, spandex, and rayon, and snug around Melody's ass and her upper thighs. As her fly descended, Melody knew that she was in all the way – there was no chickening out now. 


Coverage



She wriggled out of the pants, revealing a matching pair of yellow cotton panties to both the guard in front of her and the crowd behind her. The fabric slipped past her thighs, down past her knees, and down around her ankles. Now standing in just her bikini-cut panties and her bra, Melody squatted to pick the pants up, grabbing them and stuffing them just as carelessly into her purse as she had her shirt. 

There were catcalls and wolf whistles behind her, but Melody never turned to face the people behind her. So long as she kept looking forward, she might be able to deceive herself that she was undressing for the security guard and him alone. Still, the louder people got, the more difficult it was to ignore them, and their mixed cries of bawdiness, disgust, and shock. 

"Is it alright if I go in like this? Isn't this embarrassing enough?" she asked the man in front of her.

"Coach says on that there tape – "

"I'll take the rest off inside. Please!" she begged. "Please! There are too many people out here."

"There's a lot of people in there, too," the guard observed. "Besides, Coach says on that there tape – "

"Yes, yes," Melody grunted. "Out of my skivvies."

She reached behind her back, willing this humiliation to end. Once she was inside, with the players, she could go about being a journalist. Out here, in the hallways, she was nothing more than a fan willing to do anything to get inside the locker room. Plus, she told herself, she wouldn't be the only naked person around, even if she would be the only naked woman present. For that matter, she'd be the only woman present, clothed or otherwise. 

With a snap, her bra was unfastened, and Melody was able to slip it off. Her breasts, though barely B's, were nonetheless enthralling for the young man in front of her. Her bare back, on the other hand, was torture for the men behind her, and a chant of "Turn A-round! Turn A-round!" began to roar through the cement corridor. 

Melody didn't leave her nipples uncovered for very long, draping her left arm across them to block the guard's view. She knew she'd be unable to remain this modest over the next hour or so, but she told herself that she was still adjusting. There was no need to move too fast, or be too open, before she needed to be. 

She did, however, need to drop her arm in order to take off her panties. Thumbs firmly implanted on either side of her waist, Melody slipped the fabric down her legs, exposing her backside to the crowd. She was cautious about how far over she would bend, uneager to flash her more intimate areas at the men, women, and children behind her. Already, she could hear the "click, click, click" of cameras behind her, and she knew – even without looking – that people's camera phones were being put to good use. 


It was the security guard who was treated to the real surprise. Not only was Melody's pubic hair neatly trimmed (she knew this morning, after all, that undressing in public would be a likely possibility), but she also exposed a small, reddish-purple tattoo that had been hidden just below the front waistline of her panties. It sat up and to the left of Melody's pubic area, and had been barely hidden by the girl's underwear – in a more risqué pair of swimsuit bottoms, like the pair Melody had worn to Spring Break the previous year, it would have been exposed. 

To the guard before her, the tattoo appeared to be a lower-case "m" with a third hump. The final downstroke, however, dipped back into the "m" itself, crossing the line before it. If he had been able to remember the girl's name, he might have ventured a guess that it stood for her name, Melody May. But a person more versed in astrological signs would have identified the symbol immediately – Melody was a Virgo.

Panties and bra in hand, Melody shoved the last items of her outfit into her now-overflowing purse, and returned her left arm to its position over her nipples. With a disregard for the barks and meows from the animals behind the yellow tape, the girl slipped her sandals back on her feet, and looked to the guard for approval. 

Melody's more intimate areas were uncovered, but she wasn't exactly devoid of everything. An elastic still held her hair back in a ponytail. Her ears were adorned with large, golden hoop earrings. A loose, simple gold necklace hung around her neck, and a matching bracelet and anklet dangled from her right wrist and left ankle, respectively. And on her fingers were four different rings on four different fingers, each of varying designs. Her purse, stuffed full of her discarded clothing, hung over one shoulder.

"I can go in now, right?"

The guard's tongue was hanging out of his mouth. He, like Art Hull, hadn't actually expected Melody to shed her clothing to gain access to the men's locker room. But now that she had, he was still reluctant to let her in, partially due to the fact that he didn't want to lose sight of her. He worried about his job, and what Coach Hull or Athletic Director Donovan would say to him if he let this girl through. But the coach himself had obviously promised this girl access, if she was willing to shed a few pieces of clothing to do so – he had heard Hull say so himself on the girl's yellow Dictaphone. 

Satisfied that Melody had met the conditions of Art Hull's pledge, the guard had little choice but to let the girl pass. He leaned against the door of the locker room, pushed it open, and waved the blonde in. And, as she walked past him, he let out a soft, low whistle at the sight of her ass. 

***

There was a short entrance hall between the inner door and the outer door of the men's locker room. Behind her, Melody could still hear the roar of the crowd that had watched her undress. In front of her, she could hear the shouts and celebration of the players inside. Though she was tempted to put her clothes back on in that moment of relative calm, Melody knew that she'd be thrown out right away – Art Hull's new rules. 

Bracing herself as best she could, Melody took a deep breath and ventured forth. Her sandals clacked against the tile beneath her feet, and the din of the locker room grew louder as she approached the inner door. And, without giving herself another second to rethink what she was about to do, the girl leaned against the hard wood and pushed the door open. The locker room, with its bright overhead lighting and throng of half-dressed men, was now open and exposed to her. And she, in turn, was exposed to the men inside. 

The cacophony of the locker room didn't quite die as the naked blonde entered, but it certainly felt that way to Melody. It was still a madhouse throughout the large room, but the two dozen or so people that caught sight of her grew more and more quiet. 


It was a large facility, with nooks and crannies here and there, and lockers blocking direct view from one end of the room to the other. There were offices to one side, for Coach Hull and his staff, as well as a laundry room, examination rooms for the medical staff, and more than few storage closets. A shower block was off to the other side, down a narrow and poorly-lit orange-tiled corridor. There was a bathroom area, with stalls, urinals, and a dozen sinks, tucked away behind a high, blue-tiled wall. 

But while the layout of the locker room prevented everyone from seeing her at once, there were far more pairs of eyes upon Melody's body than she had been ready for. Doubt and mortification crept up on her, and the girl was frozen for a moment, looking at all the men who were looking at her. None of the players in her eyesight was completely naked – the most undressed of the group was still wearing the blue pants of his uniform, even if he was topless. 

None of the players or reporters said anything in that first minute or so. Melody doubted whether any of them even blinked. As it turned out, it was Art Hull's special teams coach, Paul Totora, who broke the relative silence.

"What the fuck?!!" he yelled, storming across the locker room. He looked furious and annoyed, and grabbed Melody roughly by the arm. "Get the fuck out of here!" he shouted, pushing her back against the inner door she'd just come through. 

"I've got Coach Hull's permission to be here!" Melody pleaded, catching her elbow against the metal frame of the door. "He told me himself." 

"Very, very, unlikely," Totora scoffed. "Why don't you put your fucking clothes back on and go home?"

Melody quickly replayed her conversation with Art Hull for the special teams coach. Sure enough, Totora recognized his boss's voice, but he wasn't as easily swayed as the security guard outside. 

"He was jerking you around. He was absolutely not serious, and I'm sure he didn't actually expect you come in here stark, fucking naked." He pushed her through the swinging door and back out into the antechamber between the locker room and the public corridor. 

"Whether he expected me to comply or not, he gave his word," the girl protested. She could sense her chance slipping away, and she wasn't quite sure if she was upset about not being able to get her interviews, or relieved that she might have to put her clothes back on. She pleaded, "Just ask him. Ask if he said it. Ask if he meant it. I took him at his word, and I did as he asked."

For whatever reason, Melody seemed to be getting through to Totora. He released her bare arm, and then scratched his head. "Fuck," he cursed, before turning to scratch his head some more. 

"Fuck," Totora repeated. Holding up one finger to the girl, he told her, "Wait here. I'm going to go fucking talk this over. But don't get your fucking hopes up."

Melody caught her breath after being left alone. So many eyes. So many stares. So much awkward silence. Was her job with the university paper really worth this? Did she really want a few quotes so badly that she was willing to sacrifice all of her dignity to get them? 

Ahead of her, the door creaked open, and Melody wondered how Totora could have reached Art Hull so quickly. Instead of the special teams coach, however, Melody was greeted by three eager faces, one of whom whispered to another, "See, I told you so." 

"Hi," Melody smiled, as casually as she could bring herself to do. 

"Hi," all three answered. 

The player in the middle, a white kid that Melody recognized as sophomore tight end Mike Gagnon, asked, "So, you're coming in?"

"That's the hope," Melody replied. 

"Like that?" 

"Coach Hull's rules," the girl shrugged. 

There was a moment of silence, and a look of glee spread across all three players' faces. Gagnon was the only one who spoke, offering simply, "Awesome," before letting the door swing shut once again.

Melody was left alone, once again. She wasn't cold, as the locker room itself seemed to be well over eighty degrees, and the heat crept out even into this antechamber. Her nipples were hard, but Melody suspected that was entirely due to fear, or excitement. She ran a hand across her pulled-back hair, still questioning herself as to whether she was ready to do this or not. But the hardest part was behind her. She had stripped down to her skin and had even made it into the locker room – the ball was in Hull's court now. 

There was chatter on the far side of the door, the players shouting to one another and whooping about their victory. Melody had the feeling that more than one of the yells was about the naked girl waiting to come into the locker room. 

She breathed deep, glancing at the door into the loud and crowded room full of men, and then at the door out into the loud and crowded hallway full of fans. If she put her clothes back on, she could walk away. She could escape the humiliation that was sure to follow. 

Instead, she steeled herself. The hardest part was already over, wasn't it? Melody had stripped naked in front of a crowd, and even made it in the doors of the locker room. Sure, she was only seconds away from being subjected to hoots and whistles, sexual comments, and lascivious stares. But she had already shed her clothes, and packed them away in her bag – she could simply ride the wave behind her from this point forward. 

That is, if Art Hull held up to his end of their bargain. 

The door swung open, and then shut again, leaving the middle-aged man alone with the naked girl in the antechamber. A dozen sets of eyes searched the far side of their coach, heads and necks contorted so that the players could catch a glimpse of Melody before the door swung back into place. 

Art Hull snickered as he took the girl in, running his eyes from her feet, to her thighs, to her stomach, and to her tits. After lingering upon her chest for a few seconds too long, he met her gaze, eye-to-eye, and smiled resignedly. 

"You realize, when I told you I'd allow you into my locker room if you were in the altogether raw, I was yanking your chain?" Hull growled. He didn't seem annoyed, or angry. Instead, as any older man might in the company of younger, less-clothed woman, he seemed to be enjoying himself. 

Melody had, of course, known that Art Hull had never expected her to follow through on an offhand comment. He had never expected her to take it at face value. But, he had made the throwaway stipulation, and it was Melody only way into that locker room. So, with a blank look upon her face, she replied, "No, sir. I did as I was told."

Hull chuckled again, and then sighed. "You and I are both too smart to play at this. You want in this locker room. I don't want you in. But you've proved you're willing to make some sacrifices, and so I must respectfully make some sacrifices, as well."

He turned, but not before winking at the naked blonde. "If you want to do this, Coach Gregg is waiting for you inside, to be your escort," he offered, referring to the assistant strength and conditioning coach. "But if you want to walk away, do so now. Don't let me catch you without your head held high – no fear, no shame. This is your choice, Miss May." 

"You're really letting me in there? Like this?" the girl asked, obviously stunned. She had expected that Hull would throw her out, or prevent her from entering, or fight her tooth and nail over the conditions he had set forth for her ticket into the locker room. Instead, the coach was subdued and yielding.

"I'm a man of my word," he replied. "Though, obviously, I need to be a bit more careful about offering my word in such a haphazard manner." He stopped for a moment, before pushing the door open, and added, "Besides, the boys put in good effort today."

And with that, Hull was gone, and Melody faced with her final opportunity to back out. She pushed the door open out of the antechamber, and followed the older man into the blue-and-orange tiled locker room. 

The two dozen athletes she had encountered on her first venture into the men's locker room had become three dozen, or maybe even four. Andrew Gregg was waiting for her inside, as was Mike Gagnon and a crowd of his teammates. Instead of catching them by surprise, Melody was greeted upon reentry by a crowd of appreciative football players, all waiting with both eyes on the door for the naked girl to join them. 

The blonde's first reaction was total mortification. She had expected to draw a fair amount of attention, but she hadn't quite been ready to be the absolute center of attention that she now found herself. She was stark naked, down to her jewelry, sandals, tattoo, and skin, and surrounded by big, sweating, muscular, frightening men. 

But Hull's words reverberated in her ears – she needed to hold her head high. This was, after all, her choice. She needed to have her few seconds of shame and fear, and then move on, or her article would suffer worse than had she remained in the hall with her fellow female journalists. 

They screamed and hollered for her as she entered their midst. Melody got whistles, hoots, and applause, exclamations of joy that rivaled those they had offered upon victory over Southern Baptist. Tongues hung out of the mouth of offensive linemen. The eyes of the Secondary were all as wide as dinner plates. And, though each and every one of the players was still covered from the waist-down by pants, towels, or even just jock straps, Melody knew that there were very few men around her that were still flaccid. 

Melody didn't want to be the story, though. If she remained the center of the attention, the big story in tomorrow's Tribune would be, "Naked Girl celebrates with Stallions," and not, "Stallions Clobber Missionaries." She had to do something, anything, for her situation to become light-hearted and negligible – or, as negligible as possible. Like her own few moments of humiliation, she wanted the Stallions around her to have their moments of lust and carnal desire, and then move on. 

So she spun for them. 

Arms in the air, smile on her face, and a wiggle in her ass, Melody turned and weathered the attention. She elicited whistles and catcalls from her crowd, but took them all in stride. Her grin was stretched ear to ear, and she even feigned a giggle for those closest to her – she wanted the Stallions around her to think that this wasn't bothering her, that she had confidence in her own body, that her nudity was not an issue to her. 

Of course, this was all just for show. Inside, an alarm was blaring in Melody's brain. She shouldn't have been there. She shouldn't have shed her clothes. And she shouldn't have acted like she was enjoying herself. 

But the tactic worked. Sort of. After Melody had allowed the football players to gape at her body, some of them went back to their own business, even if they did cast an occasional glance back towards the naked blonde. The initial novelty began to slowly wear off, though there were still more than a few linemen, backs, and receivers who were unable to tear their eyes from the gorgeous twenty-one-year-old in their midst. 

Of course, there were other reasons that the players began to look the other way. Some were unsure of how they would be viewed by Coach Gregg, the six-foot-six muscle-bound former offensive tackle standing a few feet behind the blonde. The strength and conditioning coach had earned their respect over the years, and more importantly, Gregg had earned the ear of Art Hull. Some of the men, like Mike Gagnon, had watched Coach Hull join Melody outside the locker room, and figured he had offered his approval. But others were uncertain about Hull's rules about women in the locker room, and didn't want to engender the wrath of their head coach. 

Still others, like Dave Lebeau watching from afar, were acutely aware of the media men and cameras around him. He was a quarterback with a future in the NFL and in the public eye, and more importantly, he was a quarterback with a girlfriend. Lebeau had little desire to be viewed as some sort of sexual predator, or even a participant in what he was sure could set off a local, if not national, scandal. 

Football players. Coaches. Equipment managers. Media. All of them men. All of them in various states of dress, but none as undressed as Melody. All of them aware of her, of her body, in one way or another. 

"Down to business," Melody muttered to herself. There had been more to this afternoon than just bending Art Hull's rules. There had been a purpose for doing so. And now that Melody was in the men's locker room, she was going to make sure her coverage of the day's game was worth her personal sacrifice. 

Across the room, an animated D'Wayne Mitchell was blathering on to the reporters gathered around him. His blue-and-orange shirt was off, but his pads were still on, and it was clear that D'Wayne hadn't had a second to himself since coming off the field. For good reason, Melody thought to herself, given the cornerback's two interceptions. On one, he had returned the ball forty-six yards in the opposite direction, setting up yet another Lebeau touchdown. On the other, Mitchell prevented Trevor Welch from connecting to his usually reliable slot receiver in the End Zone, effectively squashing any chances the Missionaries had in making a comeback. 




Coverage



If the cornerback had seen the naked female form across the room, he didn't appear to be interested. But as Melody approached him, with Gregg following three feet behind, she began to suspect that D'Wayne was intentionally avoiding her. In fact, as she got closer, the tempo of his answers increased, and he seemed to concentrate even harder on the reporter from WCIV. 

Melody thanked heaven that there was at least one person in the locker room who wasn't gawking at her. Nonetheless, as she began to pepper the cornerback with her own questions, she couldn't help but feel that much more uncomfortable, with D'Wayne seemingly incapable of even acknowledging her nudity. 

She asked him about the first interception, and about how he'd followed it with his eyes out of Welch's hands and into his own. She asked about the second, and about whether or not he had felt that was what had won them the game. All the while, Melody stood just inches from her fellow reporters, even though they were all dressed and all men. Their interest drifted from the nude collegian to the triumphant back, and back to the nude collegian once again. 

But D'Wayne's concentration was total. He kept his eyes straightforward, never once even glancing at Melody's pale skin. He fiddled with a crucifix that hung from his neck, and the reporter guessed that he might have been more religious than some of the other men around her, more religious than some of the athletes that had been harassing her since she entered. 

Though their eyes never met, Melody extended her arm and placed her yellow Dictaphone directly in front of the young man's mouth. His pace slowed, and his answers became more deliberate. Contrary to the exuberant and self-congratulatory boasting Mitchell had been offering to Melody's male counterparts, the cornerback simply offered straight, honest answers. She made him nervous. She put him off-guard. And, armed with nothing more than her tits before her, she was able to get him to expand upon his criticisms of the referees the previous week, offer insight into how the Stallions planned and packaged their defenses, and even his own, honest emotions about the success he'd had on the field that afternoon. 

D'Wayne's focus was remarkable. Though he continued to finger the silver cross around his neck uncomfortably, his eyes never broke their straightforward stare. 

Melody's focus was not nearly as good. As D'Wayne expounded upon his life, his play, and his earlier comments, the girl couldn't help but think about her situation. She desperately tried to concentrate on the work in front of her, but her mind kept coming back to her bare skin. Her nipples, sitting atop her smallish breasts, were still adamantine, even though the climate inside the locker room was hot and balmy. And she kept switched her weight from foot-to-foot, constantly aware of her posture. 

"It's a win," D'Wayne rambled on, his efforts to bring the interview to a close apparent. "It's a big win. Obviously, Baptist has been the cream of the crop within the SCC the past couple of years – them and Tallahassee. And we knocked off one of them this week, so we get to a take a big win into Georgia next week against Atlanta."

Melody refocused, well aware that she'd gotten more heartfelt and honest responses from D'Wayne in this interview than she had throughout the cornerback's entire sophomore season the year before. But, she was obviously making him uncomfortable, and in turn, he was making her feel even more awkward about her present state than she already had. In an effort to liberate them their embarrassment, Melody stepped away. As she turned, she swore she heard D'Wayne sigh with relief. 

Around the corner, in a recessed area of the locker room, Melody found Justin Cox, the Stallions' star linebacker. It had been a big day for the senior defenseman, as the Southern Baptist's quarterback could attest – Trevor Welch was likely in his own locker room, icing bruises and picking field turf out of his teeth. But the crowd around him was surprisingly small, consisting mostly of a few local print reporters. A glance across the confirmed why – Dave Lebeau, standing in a towel, was holding court at his own locker. ESPN, Sports Illustrated, Fox Sports, and the networks were all gathered around him, peppering him with standard questions, and being treated to standard responses. 

There'd be time for Lebeau later, Melody reasoned. Later, when she wouldn't have to muscle her way through the crowd, her naked skin rubbing up against a mass of male reporters. Here, in the far corner of the locker room, Melody had only a few clothed colleagues to compete with, and the strength and conditioning coach that followed her every step. 

"Justin," she called, catching the player's attention. Standing over six feet tall, Justin Cox was as perfect a physical specimen as any man in the room. Sweat glistened on his shaved head, as well as down his entire body. He smelled of it, but it wasn't a rank odor in Melody's mind, so much as a musky, competitive, cologne – the smell entirely male, and surprisingly alluring. Wearing just a pair of grey boxer-briefs, Cox smiled as he saw the girl approach. 

Though she was naked already, Melody couldn't help but feel she was being undressed again, given the way the linebacker was staring at her body. He let his eyes linger on her legs, as if attempting to part them and expose her further with his mind. It was clear, from the way the player's gaze drifted from her thighs to her pussy that he wanted to see more than the well-kept triangle of public hair. Melody imagined him imagining having sex with her, Cox lost in a fantasy of taking her onto his lap then and there, and fucking her in celebration of a game well-played. Though the blonde girl quickly brushed such thoughts away and forced herself to concentrate on the job at hand, the thought of riding the linebacker in front of Coy Prickett of the Danbury Shopper and Heath Wilson of Channel 15 left the girl a bit warm. She blushed. 

"Virgo?" Cox asked, jutting his chiseled jaw at the girl's tattoo. Unlike D'Wayne Mitchell, Cox seemed to have little difficulty in calling to attention Melody's nudity. 

"August twenty-third," the girl conceded, offering the linebacker her birthday. "I got it on my eighteenth birthday." 

Cox had now traversed up the girl's body with his eyes, but had only made it as far as the girl's breasts. Nonetheless, he continued the conversation, even if he seemed a bit distracted. "I got this one," he said, pointing at a Chinese character on the left-hand side of his neck, "on my eighteenth. It means 'strength.'"

"Nice," Melody answered. 

"You've got a great body," Cox offered, as tactful as Melody could have expected. His eyes, like D'Wayne's, never met those of the naked reporter. Cox, unlike the cornerback, was too busy devouring the girl's form. 

"Why, thank you," the girl replied sarcastically, eager to make Cox aware of how inappropriate this might become. 

Undeterred, the linebacker pressed on. "I mean, your legs are amazing. And your stomach? Oh, I could get lost in your bellybutton." He glanced at Prickett, and added, "And those breasts..."

"Okay! Okay!" Melody stopped him with two open palms. "I'm naked. I'm in the locker room. But, I'd hope that I'm not the first naked woman you've ever seen, so let's try to keep this professional."

"Professional?" Heath Floyd asked in disbelief, raising an eyebrow. 

"Yes, professional," the girl reiterated firmly. "I'm not an exotic dancer. I'm not your girlfriend. And I'm not exhibitionist. I'm here for a couple of quotes, a halfway presentable story, and to keep my beat with the Tribune. Period."

The four men, Coach Gregg included, stared at her blankly. Cox's gaze still hadn't progressed past her tits. 

"So," she went on, and pointed towards her face, "eyes up here. Together, we can get through this."

"I was just saying," Cox offered apologetically, finally making eye contact with Melody. "You have a nice body, is all."

"Thank you. So do you."

Cox was more attentive to the girl's questions and less to her body as Melody began, but over the course of the interview, his concentration lapsed time and again. Rather than call attention to it, though, Melody let the linebacker ogle her, as she felt chiding him was a losing battle. He was answering her questions honestly and to the best of his ability, perhaps more openly than he might have had he not been as distracted as he was. And besides, Melody WAS in his locker room stark naked, her breasts on display and even her pussy unshielded. Was she really going to make each and every guy in the room ignore her nudity? 

Instead, Melody did her best to imagine herself in a smart, professional business suit. Someone as uncouth as Cox might be staring at her breasts no matter what she was wearing, and the girl had little legitimate control over where the linebacker's roving eyes went next. Focused on her questions, and the player's answers, Melody was almost capable of blocking everything else out – the rowdy the locker room, the men standing all around her, and her complete and total lack of clothing. 

But it wasn't as if Cox was that much more clothed himself. The player was dressed in nothing besides his underwear. For what it was worth, Melody at least had jewelry and her shoes, her own state of undress entirely intentional. Cox, on the other hand, was in a much more transitory state – he certainly hadn't intended for Melody or her fellow reporters to see him in his boxer-briefs. It was little comfort, Melody knew, but the fact that she was in control of her situation, the fact that she had been fully aware of what she was getting herself into, the fact that she had intended to be seen like this since she first undressed in the hall, made it seem a bit more manageable. 

Of course, the linebacker wasn't embarrassed about his own partial nudity. Melody doubted that it even entered into his mind, while her own nakedness near consumed her. And never mind that Cox still had on his underwear, while Melody didn't even have that luxury. If she could have sacrificed interviews with D'Wayne and Cox in order to wear just her yellow panties that afternoon as she made her way through the locker room, she probably would have done so. 

Beside her, Melody caught sight of a player she couldn't place. The jersey hanging in his locker, number fifty-five, identified him as a linebacker as well, but obviously the young-looking dirty-blonde spent more of his time on the bench than the field. Like Cox, Number Fifty-Five had already shed his uniform and stood in just his underwear. Unlike Cox, the young man glanced at Melody, then at the other reporters, and stripped out his last article of clothing.

Melody did her best to stay on Cox, but she felt her eyes wander, catching a quick glimpse of the player's white buttocks as he reached for a towel. For just a brief second, she wasn't the most naked person in the room. Naked as, perhaps. But for a moment, regardless of gender, she wasn't the only one stark naked in a crowd of other people. 

Cox continued to ramble on, but Melody began to suspect that she'd gotten from him the juiciest quotes. He'd revealed more to her in this one question and answer session than she'd gotten from him all of the previous year, distracted perhaps by the woman standing before him. His mouth motored on, but it clearly was detached from the dirty thoughts that occupied his mind. 

Melody glanced again at Number Fifty-Five, clad in just his towel. The young linebacker excused himself through the three reporters and Coach Gregg, pushed his way across the locker room, and proceeded down the long, orange-tiled hallway to the shower block. The naked girl doubted that the player had done all that much that day, and wondered if he had truly worked up a sweat enough that he'd need a shower. 

She followed him with her eyes. It wasn't that he was all that good-looking, and Melody certainly wasn't attracted to him in any meaningful sense. But, as he disappeared down the poorly-lit corridor to the shower block, she couldn't help but long for what he represented. For an instant, she hadn't been a nude anomaly; rather, she'd been just another naked person, just one of many. Sure, she was the only girl, but she'd been on a somewhat level playing field. 

The crowd around Dave Lebeau began to disperse, as the all-star quarterback wrapped up the current interviews. Melody could hear him promise more, once he'd returned from his shower. As her eyes drifted from the young, benchwarming linebacker to the tall, dark-haired passer, she had an evil thought. Lebeau, clad in his Stallion-blue towel, descended down the hall to the showers.

"Thank you, so much," Melody said to Cox, again glancing across the locker room. She clicked the "stop" button on her Dictaphone, and smiled at the linebacker.

Clearly, the bald-headed Cox was disappointed. "Listen, if you're not doing anything..."

"You're sweet," the reporter cut him off. "But while my outfit may suggest otherwise, I'm not really here to throw myself at you guys."

She turned quickly, preventing Cox from hitting on her again. With Gregg a few steps behind, Melody b-lined for the shower block, knowing that the linebacker was following the bounce of her ass with every step. 

Had Melody ever taken a peek at the equipment of the players in previous forays into the locker room? Of course she had. She was young. She was sexually active. She was blessed with curiosity. In previous years, covering the football, basketball, and baseball teams, she'd been exposed to more male nudity that she was capable of recounting. She'd seen cocks of all shapes, lengths, and colors, the bare buttocks of dozens of young men, the nude forms of players as she chatted them up about their game-time performances. Most of the time, Melody had allowed wide berth to the athletes stripping in the locker room, preferring to interview them before they got naked, or after they'd changed. 

Something was different this time, however. The environment seemed more sexually charged, more stimulating. Most of it, Melody wagered, was the effect a naked woman had on a room full of young men at their sexual peaks. Men were, on the whole, more visual creatures than women, becoming more easily aroused by what they saw. But the reporter couldn't quite deny the effects that the muscular, sweat-covered, naked and half-naked forms were having on her own libido. 

Her nipples were still hard, having yet to calm down since stripping in the hall. As her sandals clacked against the tiled floor, she could feel the moisture build between her legs, could feel the warmth spreading from her pussy throughout the rest of her body. 

Melody was turned on by the naked men around her. She was turned on by the fact that she was naked among them. She was turned on by the way their eyes watched her, stared at her body, devoured her sexually. 

Upon reaching the long corridor that led to the showers, Melody stepped to one side and placed her right foot up on a nearby bench. She nodded at an offensive lineman who had recently emerged from those very showers, and was standing beside her, in a wet towel, at his locker. With a quick motion, the girl unfastened the buckle on her ankle, and shed her right sandal. A few seconds later, she'd taken off the left, as well. She shoved them both into her large purse, handed the bag to Coach Gregg, and explained, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

The strength and conditioning coach shook his head, even as he reluctantly accepted the purse. "I can't let you go down there."

"Are you going to stop me?" Melody asked, daring the man to physical restrain her. Given the awkward way the coach had interacted with her since he'd been given his assignment, Melody doubted he possessed the fortitude to touch her. 

Gregg glanced nervously over his shoulder, as if he were looking for Art Hull's advice. He sighed, and shook his head again, but relented. "I'm coming down there with you, but I'm going to wait outside."

"That's fine," Melody agreed. To be fair, she worried what might happen alone on the shower block with a dozen naked football players. Gregg's presence would keep them in line, even if he stood just outside the showers themselves. 

Still wearing her jewelry, but nothing else, Melody began her journey down the darkened corridor to the showers. She'd never dared to enter this particular area before, which had always been a refuge from the Media. But, the girl figured it might be her only opportunity to get a few words with Dave Lebeau, to have an exclusive interview with the NFL-bound quarterback. In addition, it might be one of the few times that afternoon when she was on equal footing with the athletes, all of them – Melody included, of course – completely naked from head to foot. 

The women's locker room, at Palmetto State's student gym, had shower stalls sectioned off from one another. A handful of the women's varsity locker rooms, however, had open shower blocks, much like the Stallion football team's. The soccer and field hockey teams shared a locker room, and as Melody rounded the corner onto the shower block, she noted the similarities in the layout. 

It was a large, rectangular room, covered in blue and orange tiles. At the center, a wall divided the showers in two, with an opening at either end. Spaced at a relatively comfortable distance from one another were showerheads and water knobs, placed along the both the outer walls and the inner divide that ran between them. And beneath each waterfall was a stark naked, soaped up football player.

The voices, laughing and hollering only moments earlier, became silenced as Melody stepped into the room. Each man present seemed to catch their breath with a look at their guest, stripped to her skin and ready to join them. 

"Are you fucking serious?" It was Lebeau's voice, from the right-hand corner of the shower block. 

Melody fixed her eyes upon the quarterback, and padded barefoot towards him. As she passed the other jocks, erections rose to attention to greet her. Even Lebeau, who didn't sound at all pleased to see the girl, could help but reveal his true feelings. Melody did her best to look at his face, but her roving eye couldn't help but catch a glimpse of his hardening cock. 

Armed with her waterproof yellow Dictaphone, the girl slipped under the berth to Lebeau's right, one of the few that remained empty in the room. To her own right, the team's large defensive tackle, Willie Mathis, looked on with interest. 

Chatter began to uneasily begin up again, but every man in visual range kept their eyes upon the skinny, naked blonde beside their team captain. 

"I can't get five fucking minutes to myself?" Lebeau asked, groaning at the girl's presence. Despite the protestation, the quarterback didn't seem angry. Maybe mildly annoyed, but Melody doubted that he minded a female presence with him in the showers. 

"Just a few questions," Melody replied, smiling. Water spattered off the dark-haired man's muscular body onto her own, even as she felt the splash of warm water falling from Mathis's shower behind her. She wasn't under the stream of water herself, but it was clear that she was going to get wet, whether she wanted to or not. 

Lebeau rolled his eyes, but nodded. There was, of course, the danger of scandal that could erupt should news of Melody's exploits leak out onto campus. But, at least hidden away from other reporters and the news cameras in the rest of the locker room, Lebeau wouldn't actually be seen with the girl. ESPN wouldn't know. The NFL wouldn't know. And, perhaps most importantly, his girlfriend Samantha wouldn't know. 

"One catch," the quarterback smirked. He reached to his right, past the girl's naked body, and twisted the knob of her shower. She gasped as the frigid water rained down upon her body, arching her back and squealing in surprise. Lebeau explained, "If you're in here, you're in here to shower."




Coverage



The water began to warm up, and Melody caught her breath. She certainly hadn't planned on taking a full-on shower, but if this were the condition Lebeau required for an interview, she'd accommodate him. After all, she was more than invading his privacy.


He reached for the yellow Dictaphone, snatching it from the girl's hands. At first, Melody was afraid he'd shut it off. Instead, Lebeau placed it onto the small soap shelf in front of him. She'd ask her questions, he'd answer, and her hands would be free to shower herself in front a room full of naked men. 

"So the game...," Melody began. 

D'Wayne had offered Melody honest answers because her nudity had made the cornerback nervous. Cox had responded honestly because he'd been distracted in ogling the girl's naked body. Lebeau, though, possessed the same calm and cool demeanor he had on the field, seemingly no more phased by Melody's exposed tits than by a three-hundred pound defensive end baring down upon him. He was collected, offering the same pat-and-dry answers he'd offer to any other reporter in any other setting, carefully choosing his words and spinning his responses to best complement his team and avoiding insulting the day's losing squad. 

As Melody pressed on with her questions, she wondered why she appeared to have no effect on the quarterback. His erection, she noted casually, had subsided, though his dick still looked enormous, even hanging limp. Did he simply not find her attractive? It was plausible, given his long-term relationship with the captain of the dance team. More than that, a good-looking and successful football star at a football-crazy state university probably had women hitting on him constantly. How could Melody hope to compete?

She pulled the elastic from her ponytail and ran her fingers through her hair, feeling the water soak in. Lebeau passed her a bottle of Old Spice body wash he himself had just used. Though Melody didn't need the soap, as she hadn't exactly been sweating and exercising on the football field, she accepted the offering, and began squeezing some of the gel into her hand. As she lathered it up and spread it across her chest, she luxuriated in how masculine it smelled. It was almost as if the soap called to attention how different she was from the other people in the room, it accentuated her femininity.

Melody rubbed the soap against her skin, never stopping the interview. As her fingers slid all over her body, from her chest to her stomach to her hips and legs, the reporter felt more and more turned on. All around her, linemen, linebackers, safeties, and special teamers watched her every move, sucked in by this thin, naked blonde in their midst. She swore she heard a whimper as she soaped up her inner thighs, but upon reflection, Melody wondered if it had been Melody herself. 

"I don't know," Lebeau carried on, Melody distracted by the tingling that had enveloped her entire body. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm good enough for the NFL."

This snapped the reporter back to attention. Dave Lebeau? Questioning himself? Questioning his abilities? She'd never heard anything but self-confidence emanate from this man's lips. Maybe he was caught off-guard by the interview setting. Maybe it was the naked blonde to his right? Maybe she had lured him into a moment of honesty and self-reflection, simply by showering alongside him, building a sense of trust and camaraderie. 

As Lebeau continued, he absentmindedly handed Melody his bottle of 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner. Though Melody loathed the idea of using it, and worried about what it might do to her hair, she wasn't going to refuse the offering. She wasn't going to do anything to distract the quarterback from what he was currently saying. Reluctantly, she accepted the offering, squeezed a modicum of shampoo into her palm, and began to apply it to her scalp. 

Lebeau had been the best his entire life. Pee Wee football. Pop Warner football. High School. He had been one of the most widely recruited quarterbacks coming into college, eventually choosing Palmetto State because of Art Hull and the financial package the school had offered. Though the Southern Champions Conference wasn't quite the SEC or the Big 12, Lebeau had nonetheless positioned himself to be considered one of the top two or three quarterbacks in the NFL draft that year, and it was unfathomable that he'd last beyond the first ten picks of the first round. And yet, in a moment of honesty beneath the shower, the quarterback openly worried about adjusting to the professional league, about flaming out like a Ryan Leaf or a Cade McNown or a Tim Couch, about the pressure he was facing about his future already. 

It wasn't the fact that Melody's body had won Lebeau over. She knew that others on the shower block found her attractive, but there was no way that she could have competed with the model-like figure of Samantha Montgomery. Instead, what seemed to be welcoming Lebeau's honest revelations was the fact that she was just another person in the showers, a buddy bathing alongside him. 

Melody rinsed her hair, thankfully ridding herself of the 2-in-1. She was still wearing the large hoop earrings, and had to be careful not to catch them on her fingers or in her hair. Her naked body, smooth, clean, and wet, shimmered beneath the dim lights overhead. The warm water felt sensuous against her skin. 

Unexpectedly, Lebeau wildly veered off topic, off football. Suddenly, he was questioning his relationship with Samantha, asking aloud whether or not she was girl for him, asking whether or not he was planning to build his life around her. The quarterback had given her a lot to use in her article, a lot of good quotes, honest assessments, and descriptive soul-searching. But letting Lebeau babble on about Samantha seemed almost cruel, as if Melody were somehow using her newfound influence for evil. 

"What about the Fighting Peaches?" Melody asked, eager to get back on football. The Stallions were traveling to Georgia the following weekend to lock horns with Atlanta University. And while the Peaches weren't expected to be in the same class as Palmetto State, Tallahassee, Southern Baptist, or even UNC-Raleigh, it was a conference game against a conference rival. 

Lebeau had let his guard down, and he welcomed the opportunity to get back in control of his tongue. He'd make a good quarterback in the NFL. And as long as he remained wary of shower-time interviews, he'd be a good, media savvy face of a franchise. 

The girl rinsed her nude body, letting rivulets run down her skin, carrying the soap and shampoo away with them. She half paid attention to Lebeau's response, but she was less interested in what he was saying than she had hoped to get him off too much more of the heartfelt confessions. Melody glanced to the corridor beyond the shower block, where Coach Gregg waited with her purse. She didn't have a towel, and wondered what her strategy was going to be when she stepped stark naked and dripping wet back into the locker room proper. 

Both the reporter and the quarterback had begun to prune up, having been in the shower for so long, by that point. Willie Mathis had been replaced by kicker Percy Honeycutt, and most of the men who had been in the showers when Melody arrived had already departed. They'd taken their looks at the girl's naked figure, soaked it in as they soaped up, and left with lingering memories of water falling down her tits and legs. Finally, the blonde girl excused herself, reaching for the Dictaphone, thanking Dave Lebeau with a quick squeeze on the elbow, turning off her water, and leaving the shower block behind. 

Gregg was waiting with an orange towel. 

"I figured you might need this," he explained, handing the soft cotton to the girl. 

Melody graciously accepted the gift, and began to dry herself off. She asked, "I don't suppose Coach Hull would be okay with me wearing this around the locker room?"

Gregg was confused, and shrugged. 

It was tempting, to be sure. But Melody certainly wasn't going to risk violating her agreement with Hull by finishing her interviews covered in a towel. No, she'd come this far. There was no need to endanger her presence in the locker room by chickening out now. 

She bent forward, and allowed her hair to fall down in front of her. Using the towel, she dried it as best she could, all the while well aware that her smallish breasts dangled beneath her. Satisfied that it was as dry has it would get, Melody took the hair elastic from her wrist and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. 

Melody emerged from the long, dim hallway, momentarily disoriented by the bright lights and loud noises of the larger locker room. Part of her had forgotten about the cameras, the reporters, the coaches, and the rest of the team. In the showers, she'd been lulled into a false sense of normalcy, just one naked person among many, naked in a setting in which nudity made a bit more sense. Out here, in the rest of the locker room, Melody was reminded again of her present situation, her uniqueness among the throngs of men around her. 

Gregg had handed the girl back her purse, and Melody extracted her sandals. She could stroll around the locker room barefoot, to be sure, but she wasn't sure that she wanted to. Hygiene issues aside, the high-heeled sandals gave the girl a little more height, and consequently a little more confidence. And, she admitted to herself, they made her legs and ass look better than if her feet were flat on the floor. 

The purse was large, and awkward, but Melody refrained from putting it down or cramming it in an open locker for fear of being separated from her clothes. She would, eventually, have to redress and go home. The thought of streaking back across campus to the safety of her apartment terrified her, forcing her to clutch the bag that much more closely to her body. After this afternoon, however, Melody wondered if her naked exposure could get much worse. 

As if to reaffirm just how much worse things could get, Billy Bullock chose that moment to show his face. Well-dressed in a button-down shirt and pressed pair of slacks, Bullock grinned as he caught his first sight of the naked blonde. He scanned her, from head to toe, as much to take in the girl's nude body as to further humiliate her. Billy and Melody had been competing for the football beat at the Tribune since Jason Kilpatrick had graduated the previous spring. With Art Hull's new dictum, it seemed as if Billy had won the position by default. 

But Melody had found a loophole. 

"Wow," Billy smirked. "The depths to which Melody May will sink to get a quote."

"Fuck off," Melody replied. 

"Funny choice of words," the short male reporter replied. "Just how far are you willing to go?"

She glowered at her counterpart. 

"Seriously, what were you doing back there?" He jutted a chin towards the shower block. Leaning in, and whispering in a smug, Southern drawl, Bill asked, "In the poorly-lit back corners of a men's shower room, the whore gets her exclusive? Tell me, Melody, how do you ask questions with a dick in your mouth?"

Gregg was too far away to hear the reporter's taunts, but unfortunately for Billy, Anthony Adams was not. As Melody balled her fist and prepared to the strike, the running back known to his teammates simply as "Battleship" grabbed the male reporter from behind. A rough estimate put Battleship at two hundred fifty pounds, while Billy Bullock couldn't have been more than one-sixty. 

"Apologize to the lady," Battleship ordered, squeezing the back of Bullock's neck. Gregg stepped in quickly, hoping to break the two apart. But Battleship was unrelenting, and squeezed tighter as the strength and conditioning coach reached for his bicep. 

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Billy screamed, knowing full well that the running back could break him in two, if he chose to do so. 

"You just lost your quote," the large, African-American man breathed, reaching for Billy's notepad. He pushed the scrawny reporter aside, and flipped through the pages, all the while ignoring Billy's high=pitched protestations. Eventually, Battleship found what he was looking for, which Melody assumed was an interview that he had given to Bullock, and tore the pages from the pad. 

"You're a fucking animal," Billy yelled as the notebook was tossed into his face. 

One step in Billy's direction, however, was all Battleship needed to send the reporter scuttling away, tail between his legs. 

"I don't think you're going to have much competition on the Tribune, anymore," Battleship laughed to Melody. "I'll let your editor know that Billy Bullock isn't welcome in the locker room." 

Melody smiled at Battleship, and thanked him. She added, "Unless he comes back naked?"

"I'm not sure the players are going to want to speak with him as much as they want to speak with you."

Billy's words had stung. After all, wasn't Melody a whore? Hadn't she used her naked body to get into the locker room? Hadn't she used her naked body to set D'Wayne Mitchell off balance? Hadn't she used her naked body to tantalize Justin Cox into giving her the best quotes? Hadn't she used her naked body to join a dozen men in the showers, and elicit the interview she'd wanted out of Dave Lebeau? If she'd been willing to go as far as she had, wouldn't she be willing to go further? If she was capable of getting an exclusive scoop, just where was the line? Had she already crossed it? 

Battleship's words soothed her. She may not have taken anyone into her mouth in the shower, but she honestly couldn't help but feel like a whore. And, despite the running back coming to her defense, and despite the fact that he planned on having a conversation with John Stanton about Billy Bullock, Melody watched Battleship's roving eye, and guessed that the back's intentions weren't entirely noble. 

As if to drive this point home, Battleship took the skinny white girl by her hand, and pulled her alongside him through a group of reporters gathering around him. Coach Gregg, obviously uncomfortable with both the confrontation that had just taken place and the physical contact between one of his players and the naked sports reporter, was a step behind, chiding the running back the entire way. Eventually, the trio reached the bench in front of Battleship's locker, where the football player stepped up onto the bench, and yanked Melody up alongside him. 

"Gentleman! Gentleman!" Battleship called, catching the attention of the Stallions and media men within vocal range. "I'd like to introduce you to my friend..."

He glanced at the skinny blonde. Melody stammered, "Melody...Melody May."

"...Melody May!" Battleship concluded. From the waist up, both were similarly dressed, Melody's uncovered breasts on display alongside Battleship's muscular pectorals. The running back, however, was wearing a pair of Palmetto State warm-up pants, while the reporter wore nothing from the waist down – aside from an anklet and her sandals. 

Melody was more than uncomfortable with the attention being called to her by the running back. But then, she'd been mostly uncomfortable for the better part of that afternoon, and all these men had seen her naked at one point or another since she'd first entered the locker room. She was the center of attention, whether she was standing on a bench and being point to or trying to stay low key on the tiled floor. At least here, in front the gathering Battleship was organizing, she was being honest with herself. 

"Coach Hull ruffled a few feathers when he said no more ladies in the locker room," Battleship huffed. "But Miss May has dared to show her face here today, anyways. Hell, she's dared to show her whole body!"

The men around her erupted with laughter, while the girl herself simply blushed.

"It took courage for her to be here to today, just as it took courage for all of you to show up for the Missionaries today! Miss May gritted her teeth, and put her game face on, just as all of you did this morning!"

Another round of hurrahs. 

"So, give this lady her props," Battleship carried on. "And give her her story! Because when we take the Peaches next week, I want her in Atlanta, celebrating alongside us!"

The players roared.

"And when we take Tallahassee, I want her there, celebrating alongside us!"

They roared again.

"And when we take the SCC title, and go straight to our bowl game, I want her there with us, too!"

In just a few short minutes, Battleship had gone from defending her from Billy Bullock to objectifying her in front of his teammates. Maybe she wasn't exactly a whore in the running back's eyes, but it was clear that she was little more than a piece of meat. On the other hand, Melody reasoned, at least she'd get her story. And Battleship seemed to be encouraging his fellow players to grant her the same exclusive quotes she'd gotten from D'Wayne, Cox, and Lebeau. Her body had gotten her into the locker room, but it had gotten her a lot more. 

As if to drive this point home, the running back pulled the girl down onto the bench to go off on the Missionaries' head coach. He had played for Southern Baptist the previous two years, but after butting heads with their coach on and off the field, after having his game and his heart questioned by the same coach, Battleship had set sail for Palmetto State. The junior back sat, legs astride the bench and inches from the naked blonde, ripping into his former coach and giving Melody the juiciest quotes that she ever could have asked for. Melody sat enraptured alongside the running back, her legs crossed and facing his locker, her bare back on display to the rest of the locker room. 

And Battleship wasn't the end of it. Melody moved from the running back to the team's star wide receiver, to the left tackle, to the tight end, the weak side linebacker, the strong safety, and even kicker Percy Honeycutt. Each granted Melody exclusive interviews, each giving out more information about a game than the reporter had ever gotten from any interviews before. It appeared that Battleship's words of encouragement had loosened the lips of his teammates. And Melody's naked body had lubricated their tongues. 

Eventually, Melody had filled two Dictaphone tapes with quotes, stories, interviews, and gossip. She had more than enough information to put together a killer piece for Monday's sports page, she was well on her way to writing a handful of spotlight pieces, and had more than enough to lay the groundwork for the following week's game in Atlanta. 

The locker room began to clear out, players heading home and reporters heading out to file their stories. Melody lingered, though, so caught up in the moment she was sharing with various Stallion players. That morning, she had expected herself to get a handful of halfway decent off-the-field interviews, get dressed, and hand her editor a quick piece on the game. But as the afternoon had progressed, Melody found herself more and more comfortable in her own body. Clearly, the football players found her attractive, and though Melody had always told herself that she didn't need others' approval, it was admittedly nice to be lusted after. 

Melody certainly hadn't forgotten her nudity – that would have been impossible. But she'd grown more accustomed to it, more confident in her narrow hips and B-cup breasts. As Honeycutt wrapped up his closing thoughts about how certain people didn't view kickers and punters to be true "football players," Melody was already contemplating the following week. Would she be ready to strip naked again? Would she be willing to put herself through the humiliation all over again? 

Given the stories she planned to write for the Tribune the following week, Melody was unsure if she could stop herself, even if she was scared of becoming known as the naked sports reporter. 




Coverage



"Coach wants to see you before you take off," Gregg told the blonde girl. As he'd been instructed, the strength and conditioning coach had not left her side since she'd entered the locker room. Melody wondered whether the man considered the assignment punishment or reward. 

Down a long, narrow hallway, and past a number of storage rooms, film rooms, and laundry rooms, the coaching staff maintained their offices. Despite being far, far removed from the men's locker room behind her and the few stragglers that remained there within, Melody gave no thought to putting her clothes back on. Later, she'd justify the oversight by reasoning that she was still, technically, in the locker room, and she dared not risk violating the spirit of her agreement with Art Hull. But the truth of the matter was that putting her clothes back on before sitting down with the old man didn't even occur to her. 

Hull's office was at the end of the long corridor, with windows overlooking the team's practice facilities to the northeast of Palmetto's Alumni Stadium. In addition to the door through which Melody entered, there was another, opening into a more formal Athletics Department lobby separate from the men's locker room. On every wall were bookcases, filled with book after book after book on football history, coaching technique, and scouting tips. In that same office, a week and a half earlier, Melody and Hull had shared their loud, contentious discussion about the head coach's new locker room restrictions. 

In a way, both had been able to claim some measure of victory. 

Melody sat down in one of the leather seats across from Art Hull's desk, the coach glancing at the naked girl as she stepped into his office. Her hair was still wet, even if the rest of her body had long since dried from her afternoon shower with Dave Lebeau and a dozen other Stallions. She laid her purse down beside her, but left the Dictaphone out, and recording, and placed it on the coach's desk. 

"When I told you that you'd only be allowed in my locker room if you were stark damn naked," Hull began, cutting to the chase immediately, "it didn't even cross my mind that you'd actually be crazy enough to do so."

"I called your bluff," Melody replied.

"Yes," the head coach nodded, rubbing his temples. "Yes, you did."

The old man glanced at the naked girl before him once again. He went on. "We live in a world in which equality is constantly being forced upon on us. But that equality only seems to go one way."

"I don't follow," Melody said. 

"I drove past a new gym in downtown Danbury back in August. Women only. Men need not apply." He stared the blonde. "Can you imagine if we erected a new gym that was men only?" 

Melody shrugged. "Men don't really seem to care about that sort of thing. But sometimes women want to work out without being hit on, stared at, or otherwise feeling like a sexual object." She caught herself towards the end, realizing that she had spent the better part of her afternoon naked in a men's locker room, being hit on, stared at, and otherwise made to feel like a sexual object. 

"When Palmetto College became Palmetto State, South Carolina forced the hands of the trustees and made the school go co-educational. Clemson, a few years before that, began to admit women. But even today, we have Converse College and Columbia College, neither of which admit men."

"So this is your line in the sand?"

Hull looked up from his desk, and across at the young, naked blonde.

"So if Billy Bullock strips to his skin, he'll be allowed into the women's locker room from here on in?" she asked. 

Hull shrugged. "Sounds fair."

"Your locker room is just one last gasp at an all-boy's club? Girls not allowed?"

"And even still, we're not allowed that one simple luxury. My boys aren't allowed one place they can have to themselves, once place where they can change and shower without a woman being present."

"Take a poll," Melody groaned. "I don't think many of them really care all that much."

"Damn it, I'm their coach. I'm looking out for them, for their futures, for their world. I can see what's best for them."

"What's best for them is keeping women out of their locker room?"

"As you said," Hull growled, "it's my line in the sand."

"And yet I crossed."

"And yet you crossed."

The two stared at one another for a few beats, before Melody finally sighed and leaned back in her chair.

"I don't suppose you're planning on repealing your rule," Melody stated flatly.

"No, I don't suppose I am," Hull answered. He rubbed his temples again, doing his best to keep eye contact with the young girl, though tempted by her bare body. "But you earned your story today. And I have to admire you for it. And I'll be expecting to see you next week, in Atlanta."

Melody smiled, and reached for her purse. She knew she was being dismissed. "So, tit for tat once again?"

"Tit for tat," Hull chuckled, reluctantly. The coach pointed to far door, the door leading into the athletics lobby instead of the men's locker room. "You can go ahead and leave through that door, if you'd like. No sense in going all the way back through." 

The girl nodded, somewhat thankfully. She didn't relish the idea of dressing herself in front of Art Hull, but she didn't much like the idea of dressing in the lobby, either. Cautiously, she poked her head out the door, and comfortable that she'd be the only one in the room for at least the next few minutes, she pushed it open. 

As the door was shutting behind her, Hull called out, "Miss May!"

Melody propped the door open, eager to finish the conversation and get dressed before some eager recruit or curious fan let themselves into the Stallions' sitting room. "Yes?"

"You might have to work a bit harder for stories next week," the coach warned her. "I've already gotten calls from WTAT in Charleston. They'll be sending their weather girl with their sports reporter next week."

Melody smiled, and gave the man's advice some thought. Part of her felt some measure of comfort in the idea that she wouldn't be the only naked reporter in the visitor's locker room the following week. But she also felt a twinge of jealously, given that she'd been the object of attention that week. Hull was right – she'd have to work a bit harder the following week. 

"I look forward to it," Melody smiled, and let the door close behind her.