The shower water has long since run cold. Those laughing, jeering voices have echoed into nothingness. Still I stand here, shivering and cowering, hoping like hell I am truly alone. Soon I will climb out of this cold, thundering stream and run through to the changing room. Naked. Those bastards have taken my towel and my sweaty cricket gear, even my box, shoes and socks.nnI flick the tap off, momentarily staring down at my pale, goose-pimpled body. I'm tall, around 6'3". Since I've gained height in a hurry over the last two years, I often feel uncoordinated. My wet arms are long and thin; lean, my Dad calls it. I'm like that all over. Sparse, black hair forms a triangle at the top of my chest and trails like ants to my pubes. To each soft, erected hair, a few tiny droplets of water cling, resisting the urge to run down my skin and join the rest on the floor. My nipples are blushing pink and have hardened in response to the cold air and water. Despite the temperature, the bruises are beginning to show on my chest. They sting a little as I move. I think the pressure of the shower has stirred them up. nnI'm not the sort of guy that cries. No, I grin and bear this sort of shit, give some lip and a fist back where I can. But today, grinning and bearing it doesn't cut the mustard.