Chapter 28: Cleat Cleaning Ceremony
The walk from the laundry basement to the locker room was a blur of fluorescent corridors and echoing stairwells. Ben moved numbly, flanked by Patricia and Avery, with the rest of the soccer team trailing behind like a casual, chattering procession. His cheek still felt the phantom smear of Patricia’s sweat.
“Almost done for the day, promise,” Patricia said, her voice sickeningly cheerful. She pushed through the heavy door marked with a large ‘W’, releasing a wave of humid, shampoo-scented air into the hall.
The women’s locker room was a tiled expanse of noise and steam. The post-practice rush was over, leaving only a few stragglers. A girl at a far sink glanced over, eyes widening briefly at the sight of Ben, before she quickly looked away and continued brushing her hair. The message was clear: this was Patricia’s domain, and her rules applied here.
“Gather round, ladies,” Avery called out, clapping her hands. “Workshop time.”
Patricia guided Ben, his resistance worn to a faint, electrical hum, to a central bench. Around them, cleats sat in haphazard piles, caked with dark mud, torn grass, and God-knew-what else from the practice field. She shoved him down onto the cool plastic slats.
“Maintenance is important,” Patricia announced, picking up a particularly grim-looking cleat. Clumps of dirt and grass clung to its neon-green studs. “But it’s tedious. Luckily, we have a volunteer today.”
Ben stared at the cleat. “No.”
“The video from the dryer is pretty funny,” Avery mused, leaning against a locker. “But I feel like the one from the wrestling match has wider appeal. More dynamic.”
Patricia dropped the cleat into his lap. The impact was heavy, final. The earthy, sour smell of the field rose from it. “You don’t have to do all of them,” she said, her tone conversational. “Just the starting backline. Four pairs. Consider it a tribute.”
A girl with a towel wrapped around her torso whistled. “Make him start with Martinez’s. Hers are always the worst.”
Laughter bubbled around him. Ben’s hands trembled in his lap. The threat wasn’t just the videos anymore; it was the normalization of this. Each chapter—the wrestling match, the leash, the dryer—was a brick in a wall boxing him in. Refusal now would just make the next humiliation worse, and they all knew it.
“Clock’s ticking,” Patricia sang.
He picked up the cleat. The rubber was firm, the plastic stiff. He brought it closer to his face. The debris was a mosaic of mud, shredded turf, and brown, decaying grass. He closed his eyes.
The first touch of his tongue to the cold, dirty stud was a jolt. The taste was overwhelmingly earthy, bitter, and granular. He gagged instinctively, pulling back as grit stuck to his tongue.
“Uh-uh,” Patricia chided. She placed a hand on the back of his head, not forcing, just resting it there. A reminder. “A good lick. Get in between the studs.”
He tried again, swiping his tongue along the jagged underside. The mixture of soil and synthetic turf fibers was foul. He spat, a dark speckled mess hitting the tile floor.
“Tastes better than your GPA, huh loser?” Patricia said, her voice bright. The line landed perfectly, sparking fresh giggles from the team.
“My turn,” Avery said. She’d toed off her own cleats. Now she placed one bare foot, still damp from her shower, on the bench next to Ben. Her soles were pink and clean, but the faint, humid scent of soap and skin washed over him. “A cleaner’s got to have the right tools. Use your shirt.”
Ben looked at her, then at Patricia, who nodded with encouragement. Mechanically, he pulled the hem of his own t-shirt out and, under Avery’s directing gaze, wiped it over the bottom of her foot. He then brought the damp, soiled cloth back and began rubbing it over the cleat’s tread, his saliva and the faint moisture from her foot making a primitive, filthy paste.
It became a rhythm. A cleat would drop into his lap. He would lick, scrape, gag. They’d comment.
“He’s got a technique going!”
“Think he’s savoring it?”
“That’s the one I stepped in goose shit with last week. Hope he’s got his tetanus shot.”
Patricia watched, arms crossed, a satisfied curator. She occasionally corrected his form. “You missed a spot. Left side.” When he finished the last of Martinez’s pair, his mouth felt coated, his throat raw.
“Good job,” Patricia said, as if he’d just aced a midterm. She then stood, placing one foot on the bench beside him. Her own cleat was spotless—she took care of her gear. But her bare sole was not. It was slick with fresh sweat from the walk, the pores faintly visible. “Final inspection. Gotta make sure your work is up to standard.”
She pressed her foot, slowly, against his mouth. The skin was warm, slightly textured, salty. He could taste the ghost of her deodorant and the pure, familiar tang of her exertion. He didn’t pull away. He just sat there, letting her grind her foot against his lips, his nostrils flaring with the intimate, oppressive smell.
“See?” she said to the room, her eyes locked on his glassy, defeated ones. “Total transformation. He’s learning his purpose.”
She finally removed her foot, leaving a glistening smear across his face. She grabbed her bag.
“Clean up this mess,” she said, nodding to the discarded, now-smeared cleats and the dirty shirt in his hand. “We’ve got a study group. And Ben?”
He looked up, empty.
“The laundry room, the cleats… it’s all just skill-building. The real test is always coming. You know that, right?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. The team filtered out, their laughter fading down the hall. Ben sat alone in the quiet locker room, the taste of dirt and Patricia filling his world, the echo of her last promise a cold stone in his gut. The door swung shut, leaving him with the silent, judging lockers and the certainty that this was not, and might never be, over.