Chapter 2: Chapter 2
The hot water of the shower did little to ease the pleasant tremor in Patricia’s muscles. It was a good ache, the kind that followed a flawless victory. She replayed the final moments in her head—the weight of him beneath her, the stunned silence of the crowd giving way to roaring approval, the exact shade of crimson on Ben’s neck. Perfection.
She dressed slowly, in clean jeans and a tight university sweatshirt, savoring the lingering buzz. When she pushed through the locker room door into the now-empty gymnasium hallway, the fluorescent lights felt colder, harsher.
A figure leaned against the cinderblock wall opposite, half-shrouded in shadow.
Ben.
He was still in his wrestling singlet, a gym bag slumped at his feet like a dead thing. He looked hollowed out, staring at the scuffed linoleum floor. He flinched at the sound of her footsteps but didn’t look up.
Patricia slowed, then stopped a few feet away. She didn’t say anything. She just let the silence stretch, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the distant hum of the building’s boiler.
Finally, he spoke, his voice raspy. “Happy?”
“Immensely.” She popped her gum, the sound obscenely loud.
“You made your point.” He pushed off the wall, moving to grab his bag. It was a gesture of leaving, of ending this.
“Did I?” she asked, her tone light, conversational. “See, I don’t think the point has fully landed yet.”
He paused, his back to her. His shoulders were tense knots. “What more do you want, Patricia? You won. You humiliated me. You got your pictures. It’s over.”
“That’s just it,” she said, taking a step closer. She could smell the sweat and despair on him. “It’s not over. It’ll never be over if we just go back to classes on Monday and pretend that didn’t happen. That,” she gestured vaguely toward the gym doors, “was just the… let’s call it the official transfer of power. Now we deal with the new reality.”
He turned then, his eyes bloodshot, his expression a mixture of fury and exhaustion. “What new reality?”
Patricia smiled. It wasn’t her earlier, triumphant grin. This was smaller, more intimate, and infinitely more dangerous. She closed the remaining distance between them, looking up at him. He was taller, but he’d never seemed smaller.
“You lost, Ben. Completely. Totally. In front of everyone who matters. You conceded. You performed. You are, for all intents and purposes, mine.” She let the word hang in the space between them. “So. You’re my pet now.”
He stared at her, disbelief wiping the anger clean from his face. “You’re insane.”
“Am I?” She tilted her head. “Pets have uses. They fetch. They perform tricks. They provide… amusement. You’re going to do all of that for me.”
A bitter laugh escaped him. “I’m not fetching your coffee, you psycho.”
“Not coffee,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “That’s for lackeys. This is more specialized. My pet is my project. My stress relief. My proof.” She tapped a finger against his chest. “Starting tomorrow, you sit with me at lunch. You walk with me between classes. When I text you, you reply instantly. If I ask you a question in public, you answer respectfully. You are, in every visible way, by my side. And you will look happy to be there.”
“Or what?” he challenged, but the defiance was weak, already crumbling at the edges.
“Or I post the video Sarah took. Not just the pin. The kiss. The crawl. The whole… performance review. I send it to the dean, the alumni wrestling board, your precious debate team coach. I tag your parents on Facebook.” She watched the blood drain from his face. “I own that footage, Ben. I own the narrative. And right now, I own you.”
He was silent for a long minute, his breathing shallow. The fight was gone. He knew she’d do it. The Patricia Miller who had mounted him on the gym floor wouldn’t hesitate. “For how long?” he whispered.
“For as long as it amuses me,” she said softly. She reached out and brushed a piece of lint from his shoulder, a gesture of terrifying possession. “But here’s the thing about pets. A well-trained one, one that behaves… it can be rewarded. Maybe its humiliation stays private. Maybe it even gets to feel useful. Maybe, after a while, people just think we’re friends and forget how this started.”
She saw the calculation in his eyes, the desperate cost-benefit analysis of his own social survival. Public, ongoing subservience versus total, digital ruin. It was no contest.
“What’s my first trick?” The words were acid in his mouth.
Patricia’s smile returned, wide and bright. She reached into her backpack and pulled out her dog-eared copy of Advanced Biomechanics. She held it out to him.
“Carry my books to the library. I have a study group. Wait outside for me. I’ll probably be a couple hours. Don’t be late.”
He looked at the textbook, then at her hand. His own hands remained clenched at his sides.
“Ben,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Fetch.”
A shudder ran through him. Slowly, with the jerky motion of a broken machine, his hand came up. His fingers closed around the spine of the book.
“Good boy,” she cooed, the same way she had on the mat. She turned and began walking down the hallway, her steps echoing. “See you tomorrow, pet. Don’t forget to smile.”
She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She could feel him there, rooted to the spot, holding the weight of her book and the crushing weight of his new existence. The echo of her laughter was gone, replaced by a silent, profound understanding that hummed in the air between them.
The game had changed. The rivalry was over.
The ownership had begun.