The overhead lights buzz softly. The showers are quiet. The steam’s long gone. Brody stands near the back corner locker, where someone’s scrawled “NO TOWELS OVER 17 INCHES” in dry-erase marker.
The door to the exit is shut.
Deadbolted.
And in front of it stand The Content Policies — shoulder pads gleaming, faces expressionless behind opaque visors. One of them is checking a clipboard, scanning for joy violations.
Sean wipes his face with the hem of his shirt.
“Well, that’s new.”
Brody kicks a locker in frustration. It clangs, then pops open — not the one he kicked, but a dusty one near the end of the row.
Inside: a perfectly folded tuxedo jacket, a bow tie, a green cummerbund, and a handwritten note.
“For emergency use only:
If the Content Policies have blocked your exit,
please put on this formal attire and charge.”
Brody stares.
Sean stares.
Brody reaches in, pulls out the clothes, and looks at Sean.
“Do we… do we honor the suit?”
“It would be rude not to,” Sean says, cracking his neck.
Cut to:
Both of them emerging from behind the lockers, dressed to the nines — tuxedo tops, cleats still on, matching team-issued jockstraps proudly on display below the waist because they never said formal pants.
Sean tightens the bow tie. Brody adjusts the cummerbund like a war sash.