“Yo Jeff, you got a diary too?” Karl-Anthony asked, having walked into the locker room to see Jeff Teague sitting by himself in silence, writing in a small journal. “Lemme see!”
Before Jeff could keep the diary from this teammate, it was snatched from his grip. “Hey, that’s mine,” he said weakly, knowing that he had no hope of retrieving the collection of private writings from the larger, stronger Karl-Anthony. “Give it back.”
“I hope yours is a lot less pathetic than Taj’s,” Karl-Anthony said as he flipped through it to find the entry that Jeff had been working on at the time of the theft. “I don’t know if I can take any more of those horrible love poems he writes.” Karl-Anthony then became silent as he came to the most recent entry and began to read to himself:
“Everybody compares me to Ricky. Everybody. But they will suffer soon. All of them will suffer. And Ricky, the pretty boy, the darling, he will suffer the most. They don’t know what I’m capable of. But I’ll show them.”
The entry continued, but Karl-Anthony didn’t want to read further. He silently closed the book and handed it back to its owner. “Cool diary, man. Here, you can have it back.”
Jeff Teague stared with a blank expression at his teammate for a bit, then wordlessly took the journal and slipped it into his gym bag.
“We all think you’re cool,” Karl-Anthony continued awkwardly. “We really like you as a player, and, you know, as a friend. Don’t do anything crazy, alright?” He went to pat Jeff on the shoulder, then thought better and withdrew his hand.
Jeff didn’t answer. He just glared at Karl-Anthony until the situation became uncomfortable enough that Karl-Anthony picked up his own bag and walked out.
“You’re next, Ricky,” Jeff mumbled to the empty room.