Chapter 23: Chapter 23
The cold from the bottle seeped through his singlet, a small, precise contrast to the heat of his own shame. He watched a dust mote drift through a shaft of light from the high window, aimless and inevitable. Eventually, his body moved before his mind did, pushing him upright.
The walk back to his dorm was a study in perception. Every laugh from a passing group felt directed at him. Every glance was a diagnosis of his failure. His shoulder throbbed with a dull, consistent ache that felt earned.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t need to look. It would be another tag, another comment, another meme using his face. He kept walking.
Patricia’s dorm was in the newer athletic building, all sleek glass and reinforced concrete. He stood outside her door, the mesh bag of her clean, folded laundry hanging from his hand like an offering. He knocked, the sound too loud in the quiet hallway.
“It’s open.”
Her room was neat, almost sterile. Textbooks were stacked with military precision. A single framed photo showed her on a podium, gold medal gleaming. She was at her desk, typing, and didn’t turn around. “Just leave it on the bed.”
He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The air smelled like lemons and bleach. He placed the bag on the tightly-made comforter.
“Did you use the scent-free detergent?” she asked, still focused on her screen.
“Yes.”
“Good.” She finally swiveled in her chair. She wore sweats and a tank top, her hair down. She looked ordinary. That was the most frightening thing. “The view count is at eight-eighty. Picking up speed. The algorithm loves pathetic boys.”
Ben said nothing. He stared at a point on the wall behind her, a small scuff mark.
“I was thinking,” she began, leaning back. “The ‘hundred-thousand views’ rule is a little passive. It lacks… initiative. I’m not a passive person.”
He knew what was coming. A new condition. A deeper cut. He waited.
“From now on,” she said, her voice pleasant, “you’ll come here every Sunday night. Nine PM. We’ll have a session. A maintenance session. To keep you sharp. Or, you know, appropriately dull.”
“Why?” The word was out before he could stop it, a flat exhale of exhausted confusion.
“Because consistency is key to any training regimen.” She stood and walked over to the bag, pulling out the neatly folded singlet. She held it up, inspected it. “You did a good job with the armpits. See? You’re learning. You’re becoming useful.” She dropped it back on the bed. “Sunday. Nine. Don’t be late.”
He turned to leave, his hand on the doorknob.
“And Ben?”
He stopped.
“Wear what you wore to the Griffon Invitational. The blue one. I have a nostalgia thing.”
Sunday arrived with the slow, grim certainty of a scheduled surgery. At 8:55 PM, Ben stood outside her door again, the old blue singlet feeling like a papery second skin under his hoodie. He knocked.
This time, she opened the door immediately. She’d pushed her desk against the wall and rolled up the rug. A thin, padded exercise mat covered the floor. She wore leggings and a tight t-shirt. Music played softly from a speaker—something instrumental and pulsing.
“Right on time,” she said, stepping aside to let him in. “Get changed in the bathroom. Leave your stuff in there.”
Her hands pressed down on his upper back, forcing his chest toward the mat. He resisted instinctively, his spine tightening.
“Relax,” she commanded, not harshly. “You’re fighting a fact. Your body knows it’s supposed to be under mine. Let it remember.”
He exhaled, a shaky breath, and let his muscles go slack. She immediately settled deeper, her weight a solid, undeniable truth.
“Better.” One of her hands came up and gripped the back of his neck, not squeezing, just holding. A guide. “Now, I’m going to move you. Don’t help. Don’t resist. Just be moved.”
She shifted her hips, using the leverage to roll him onto his side. He was putty in her hands. She let him balance there for a moment, precarious, before applying pressure and flattening him onto his stomach. Her knee found a space between his shoulder blades. It was not aggressive. It was instructional. It was a demonstration of absolute physical certainty.
“See?” she said. Her voice was close to his ear, calm and instructive. “No effort. Just geometry and weight. You were always trying to force things. That’s your flaw. You try to overpower a reality you can’t change.”
She held him there for what felt like an hour. His mind emptied. The fight, the shame, the viral screens—it all receded into a white noise of pure physical submission. Her knee was a pin holding a specimen to a board.
When she finally released him and stood up, his body felt heavy, disconnected.
“Stand,” she said.
He let himself out, closing the door quietly behind him. The hallway was empty and quiet. He leaned againHis phone buzzed. A calendar notification popped up: “Session - P. Miller.” She’d put it in his calendar. He stared at the screen, the light harsh in the dim hall.