I Prefer Not To Speak

The locker room felt like the inside of a sealed vault, thick with silence and heavy breaths. No music, no idle chatter, no slaps of cleats on tile. Just stillness. It wasn't the quiet of peace, it was the quiet of a battlefield after the cannons stopped firing. The air clung to their lungs, damp and tinged with sweat, tension, and the faint scent of liniment.

Everything was a mess. Wet kits lay in crumpled heaps across the benches and floor. Empty plastic bottles rolled underfoot. Towels were tossed haphazardly, some stained with blood, others soaked in sweat. But there was something intimate in the chaos, something real. These were not just players. These were soldiers, and this, this was the aftermath.

For a moment, no one dared speak. Even the flickering fluorescent lights above seemed to understand the weight in the room. They hummed softly but not loudly, casting shadows that moved as slowly as the breath of the players themselves.