In a university gym, a young man in a blue basketball uniform entered through the gates. He wore latex gloves and carried a large trash bag. Upon entering, he began collecting the empty water bottles and soda cans left behind by the crowd from the previous game.

"If the university held a basketball game every day," he mused, "I could easily make fifty bucks collecting these. That would let me buy Sylvia an iPhone 11 for her birthday!" Trevor Sanderson looked around the cluttered gym with excitement.

Midway through his collection, a group of tall male students emerged from the locker room, each carrying a bucket of dirty basketball uniforms. They approached Trevor.

"Hey, Trevor, we've got a job for you," said the red-haired student in the middle of the group, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He tossed his bucket at Trevor's feet. "Wash these. Ten dollars a bucket."

"We're the basketball team," he continued, "and we're looking out for you. Take the job." Bernard Collins, the red-haired student, waved a hand, and the others threw their laundry toward Trevor. "I asked everyone to save their dirty clothes all week, so you can earn more. Smells ripe, doesn't it?" He picked up a sock and threw it at Trevor's face.

Before Trevor could react, the sock landed squarely on his face, its pungent odor hitting him like a punch. He suppressed a curse, shook off the sock, and flushed. He couldn't offend Bernard; the money was too important.

Trevor wasn't from a wealthy family. A poor college student with no connections or marketable skills, he relied on weekend part-time work and doing errands and homework for classmates to pay for his education. Ideally, he wouldn't work with someone as obnoxious as Bernard, but he needed the money. He took a deep breath, picked up the sock, and tossed it into the bucket. "Fifty bucks for all of them," he said.

Bernard pulled out his wallet, tossed some money at Trevor's feet, and smirked. "Here's fifty-five for the clothes, and another errand: pick up a parcel at the school gate and take it to the locker rooms for Dennis Cooper, the team captain." He left with his teammates.

Trevor picked up the money, clenching it in his fist. "I hate dealing with that jerk, but the money's good," he muttered.

After finishing collecting the cans and bottles, Trevor went to the recycling center, then retrieved the parcel and headed to the locker rooms. Along the way, he counted his earnings. He was tired, but the sense of accomplishment warmed him. Humming happily, he approached the locker room.

A woman's groan stopped him. "That voice… it's familiar," he thought. A squeal of delight followed, making him blush and his heart pound. The horrifying realization dawned on him: the voice was Sylvia Farrow's, his girlfriend's.

"Oh, Dennis, I love it when you touch my breasts like that… Don't stop…"

"Come on, Sylvia, no rush. I got you some sexy lingerie. Put it on later, and we'll have more fun."

Trevor's blood boiled. "Sylvia? What are you doing?"

He kicked open the door, stunned and horrified by the scene before him, an image indelibly seared into his memory.