Chapter 18: Farting in his face
The smell of the gym hit him first. It wasn't just sweat anymore. It was a cocktail of his new reality: industrial cleaner, old mats, and the ghost of her triumph. Ben stood just inside the door, his backpack weighing him down with textbooks he hadn’t opened in days. He was here because the text had said to be.
The video, the one Jess had posted, had a half-life. He’d seen it loop on a phone in the dining hall, the sound off but the images screaming. Him on his knees. The laughter. It had created a new geography on campus: places where eyes slid away from him, and places where they lingered with a hungry curiosity. He navigated it like a minefield.
Patricia was already on the mats, not wrestling, just stretching with a few members of the team. Chloe was there, the one with the gym bag. She saw him and nudged the girl next to her. A ripple of quiet attention passed through them.
"Chair's here," Chloe said, not loudly, but the nickname landed like a stone in the quiet space.
Patricia finished her hamstring stretch and rose, a smooth uncoiling of muscle. She wore loose shorts and a tight tank top, her hair in its trademark ponytail. She didn't smile. She just looked at him, an owner assessing a piece of returned equipment.
"You're late," she said. Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact.
"I came straight from—"
"I didn't ask for an excuse." She walked over to a duffel bag near the wall and pulled out a plastic spray bottle and a roll of paper towels. "The bleachers. They're filthy from the rec league last night. Clean them. Top to bottom. Use this. And when you're done, the floors around the lockers need mopping."
She tossed the bottle at him. He fumbled, catching it against his chest. It was just generic blue cleaner, diluted and chemical.
"But I have a biochem lab in—"
"Does it look," she interrupted, her voice dropping to a chilled, dangerous register, "like I care about your biochem lab? Your lab is here now. Get to work."
A low chuckle came from one of the guys on the mats. Ben felt his face grow hot, a familiar flush of shame that was becoming a constant companion. He turned, his shoulders hunched, and climbed the empty bleachers. The metal steps clanged under his feet, a pathetic announcement of his ascent.
He sprayed the cleaner. The sharp, fake-lemon scent fought with the gym air and lost. He wiped. Back and forth, methodical, the gray metal emerging in damp streaks under the paper towel. From his perch, he had a perfect view of the practice. Patricia drilled takedowns with a sophomore named Derek. She was fast, aggressive, technically perfect. She swept his leg and drove him to the mat with a solid thump that echoed.
"Good!" Coach Davis called from the side. "Pat, your hip placement is excellent. Again."
They reset. Ben scrubbed at a stubborn streak of what looked like melted candy. The rhythmic sounds of exertion, the coach's sporadic instructions, the squeak of sneakers on the floor—it was all normal. He was the aberration, the silent, scrubbing specter in the rafters.
He was halfway down the second section when he heard the sharp whistle. "Thompson! Get down here."
Coach Davis was motioning to him. Ben's heart stammered. He put the bottle down and descended, his palms slick with something more than cleaner.
The coach’s expression was unreadable. He was a broad man with a permanently sun-reddened neck. He looked from Ben to Patricia and back. "Patricia says you need some conditioning work. That you've gotten slow."
Ben stared. Patricia stood slightly behind the coach, wiping her neck with a towel. Her eyes held a cool, challenging gleam.
"Is that right?" Coach Davis asked, his gaze fixed on Ben.
Ben’s mouth was dry. He nodded once, a brittle motion.
"Alright then. Since you're here, and you're clearly not doing anything else productive for the team," the coach said, his tone implying he knew exactly what this was, but saw no reason to stop it, "you can be the tackling dummy for the next drill. Put your stuff down."
The team had gathered, a loose semicircle of curious, amused faces. Chloe was smiling openly. Derek looked vaguely sympathetic, but he didn't move.
Patricia stepped forward. "Coach, if it's okay, I'll run the drill with him. He needs... specific corrections."
"Fine. Don't kill him. We need bodies for the tournament." Coach Davis walked away, his indifference a heavier verdict than any punishment.
Patricia gestured to the center of the mat. "Assume the position, Ben. On your hands and knees."
The command, so cold and clear in the middle of the public space, severed something inside him. The last shred of hope that this was some private, temporary hell evaporated. This was his public function now. He got down on the mat. The rubberized surface smelled of dust and old sweat.
"Good," she said, walking around him like a trainer assessing a dog. "Now, the drill is simple. I'm going to practice my sprawl. You're going to try to shoot in on my legs. You will not succeed."
He understood. He was there to be rejected. To fail. To be crushed, over and over, for everyone to see.
"Ready?" she said, not to him, but to the watching team.
He lunged forward, a clumsy, half-hearted attempt at a single-leg takedown. Before he was even close, her body dropped. Her hips slammed down, her weight driving into his neck and shoulders, flattening him into the mat. The air burst from his lungs with a painful grunt. Her entire body weight pressed down, her chest against his back, her breath in his ear.
"Pathetic," she whispered, the word for him alone. Then, louder for the audience, "See how easy it is to stop a weak shot? His head is down, no leverage. Again."
She rose. He pushed himself up, his arms trembling.
Again. Lunge, sprawl, crush. The impact jarred his teeth.
Again. His neck ached.
Again. A bright spark of pain shot through his shoulder.
Each time she flattened him, the impact was a public punctuation to his humiliation. Each time she rose, it was with an effortless grace that highlighted his graceless collapse. The team watched, some bored, some fascinated. A few muttered technical observations, as if discussing a broken piece of equipment.
After the seventh or eighth time, she didn't get up immediately. She kept her weight on him, her mouth close to his ear. His face was pressed into the mat. He could smell the rubber and his own sour breath.
"Say thank you," she murmured.
He lay there, suffocating.
"Say 'thank you for the training, Patricia.'"
He couldn't. The words were a solid block in his throat.
She shifted her weight, grinding her hip bone into his spine. A sharp gasp escaped him.
"Say it."
The circle of eyes felt like physical pressure. "...thank you," he choked out, the mat muffling the words.
"Louder. Let your team hear how grateful you are."
He swallowed a mouthful of dust. "Thank you for the training, Patricia."
She stood up, finally. "You're welcome." She addressed the team. "See? Repetition. Dominance. It breaks bad habits."
Coach Davis blew his whistle. "Alright, that's enough. Pair up for live goes. Pat, with Derek. Thompson…" He glanced at Ben, still on the floor. "Finish the bleachers."
Ben got to his feet, his body one giant throbbing ache. He didn't look at anyone. He just turned and walked back toward the stairs, the sound of live wrestling erupting behind him.
As he climbed, his hand closed around the phone in his pocket. He didn't pull it out. He just felt its shape. A text had come in while he was on the mat. He knew without looking who it was from and what it would say. Another errand. Another location. Another demand.
He picked up the spray bottle. The chemical smell was suddenly overwhelming. He squeezed the trigger, watching the liquid arc and spatter against the metal. He scrubbed, the motion furious and useless. Below, Patricia laughed at something Derek said, a sound of pure, uncomplicated power.
He scrubbed harder, the paper towel shredding in his hand. He was mapping the topography of his own defeat, one clean, meaningless square at a time. And the worst part, the truth that settled into his bones colder than the bleacher's metal, was the creeping sense of order in it. The rules were clear here. The expectations were set. There was a terrible, simple peace in having no choices left to make.