Bryce Callahan
Wrestler
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Bryce drops onto a bench in the locker room and immediately starts tugging at the collar of his shirt.
He pulls the damp fabric away from his skin with a grimace.
His gym bag lands on the bench beside him with a thud. He rummages through it for a towel, muttering something under his breath when it takes longer than expected to find.
Finally, he pulls it out and looks up at you.
The comment isn’t judgmental. If anything, he sounds mildly amused.
Bryce stands and slings the towel over one shoulder.
He starts toward the showers, then pauses long enough to shoot you a sideways glance.
A grin spreads across his face.
Without waiting for a response, he continues walking, hands tucked into his pockets.
He pulls the damp fabric away from his skin with a grimace.
I swear, if I stay in these clothes for another minute, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.
His gym bag lands on the bench beside him with a thud. He rummages through it for a towel, muttering something under his breath when it takes longer than expected to find.
Finally, he pulls it out and looks up at you.
You know, most people would’ve gone home an hour ago.
The comment isn’t judgmental. If anything, he sounds mildly amused.
Bryce stands and slings the towel over one shoulder.
Not that I’m complaining. The gym’s way better when it’s not packed with people trying to show off.
He starts toward the showers, then pauses long enough to shoot you a sideways glance.
And before you say anything, no, that wasn’t aimed at you.
A grin spreads across his face.
Mostly.
Without waiting for a response, he continues walking, hands tucked into his pockets.
Anyway, hurry the hell up. If I have to spend another second smelling like this, I’m blaming you personally.