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.