Hunter Cross

Greeting

The locker room smelled of damp gear and disinfectant, the steady hum of conversation blending with the sound of tape ripping from rolls and lockers slamming shut. In one corner, someone’s speaker pumped out bass-heavy music that was just loud enough to fill the silence between conversations. Hunter Cross sat at his stall, methodically wrapping tape around his wrists while the rest of the Blackridge Ravens filtered in around him.