My head throbs with each bump in the road, a metronome keeping time with my racing heart. Funny how you never appreciate normal life until you're zip-tied in the back of a truck headed God-knows-where.
It's been over a day of driving, I think. Hard to tell when consciousness comes and goes like bad WiFi. Last thing I clearly remember was walking to the convenience store for some energy drinks and chips, peak nutrition for an evening of gaming. Then headlights, a screech of tires, and pain exploding through my body.
Should've been hospital time, right? Nope. Instead, I woke up face-down on wet asphalt, some parking lot I didn't recognize. The weird part? No blood, no broken bones, just phantom pain like my body remembered being hit but couldn't find the evidence.
"That one looks good enough, boss," someone said in a Spanish accent, looming over me. Before I could process those words a bag went over my head, something shoved in my mouth, and plastic zip-ties bit into my wrists.
Next thing I know, I'm cargo. Human cargo. The truck floor vibrates beneath me, and occasionally I feel movement nearby, other bodies. Other people like me? No one talks. Maybe they can't. Maybe they're too scared.
My gaming marathons never prepared me for this level of discomfort. My shoulders ache from being wrenched behind me, and my mouth is desert dry around the gag. Mom always said my lazy lifestyle would catch up with me, but I'm pretty sure she meant heart disease at forty, not whatever this nightmare is.
The truck jerks to a sudden stop, throwing me against someone else's body. For a second I just lie there, trying not to hyperventilate. Engines die. Doors slam. Heavy footsteps crunch on what sounds like gravel.
The back of the truck opens with a metallic groan, and cold air rushes in. I can't see anything through my hood, but I can hear everything, rough voices barking orders, muffled whimpers, the shuffle of bodies being dragged out.
"Move it, merchandise," a woman growls, her voice hard as concrete.
Someone grabs my ankles and pulls. I slide across the floor like a sack of potatoes, my hip catching painfully on what feels like the edge of the truck before I'm hauled over a shoulder. Whoever's carrying me smells like cigarettes.
"This one's light," my carrier grunts, adjusting me like I'm nothing more than an awkward package.
I try to say something, anything, but the gag turns my protests into pathetic mumbles. The person carrying me walks a few steps, then stops abruptly.
"Jefa! JEFA!" The Spanish accent is thick with panic. "This one's a man!"
The hood is yanked off my head, and I blink against harsh floodlights. A tall woman with blonde hair leans in, examining my face with cold efficiency. She pulls the gag from my mouth.
"What the hell?" she mutters, then turns to yell at someone I can't see. "Maritza! You said the college campus grab was all females!"
"I think there's been some kind of mistake," I croak, my voice raspy from disuse.
The blonde woman narrows her eyes, then grabs my face between her thumb and forefinger, squeezing my cheeks until my lips pucker like a fish. She turns my head side to side like she's inspecting a questionable piece of fruit at the grocery store.
"What are these ones for?" she asks, glancing around at her crew without releasing my face.
One of her underlings, a stocky woman with a clipboard, flips through some pages. "This group is for fútbol, Jefa."
The blonde woman's eyebrows shoot up. "Do we have any other men in fútbol?"
"No," Clipboard Woman replies. "The last two were bought last month by the one of the locals."
"Football?" I repeat, my mind racing. "Like, tackle football?" For a second, the absurdity of worrying about sports when I've clearly been kidnapped hits me, but panic has a way of making you fixate on the strangest details.
I look around at the floodlit gravel yard, at the other hooded figures being led away, at the women with guns casually slung over their shoulders. "What the fuck is going on?" My voice cracks embarrassingly on the last word.
The blonde woman's hand shoots out again, this time tapping my cheek in what I guess she thinks is a reassuring manner. Her nails are painted blood red and sharp enough to qualify as weapons.
"Your job is to play fútbol now, chico," she says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Soccer, you Americans call it. Might want to work on your cardio."
Before I can process this bizarre statement, I'm hauled to my feet by two women who grip my arms tight enough to leave bruises. They march me toward a massive warehouse building, its corrugated metal walls looming against the night sky.
"But I suck at soccer!" I protest, stumbling forward. "I can't even run a mile without…"
"Shut up," one of my escorts grunts, giving my arm a painful twist. "Boss says you play, you play."
"Hey," my other escort whispers as we approach the warehouse door, "think we got time to play with him a little before he gets up to speed? He's kind of cute for a scrawny thing."
The second woman snorts. "Are you stupid? Better not. Selena might want first dibs. She's always got a soft spot for ones like this."
My stomach drops through the floor. Play with me? First dibs? What the actual hell?
"Listen," I say, my voice coming out as a pathetic squeak, "there's been a huge misunderstanding. I have a term paper due this week for my community college class. It's on, uh, the economic impact of the Industrial Revolution. My professor's really strict about deadlines."
Both women burst out laughing like I've just delivered the punchline to the world's funniest joke.
"Term paper!" the first one wheezes, actually wiping a tear from her eye. "That's adorable. You hear that, Lucia? He's worried about homework!"
"Maybe Selena will let you use the computer," Lucia says, still chuckling as she shoves me through a side door of the warehouse. "After you earn your keep."
*****
Dignity's just a concept until you've had to let strangers help you use the toilet with your hands zip-tied together. That's when you realize exactly how much of it you had before.
Now I'm sitting in what looks like a corporate office, complete with tasteful art and a mahogany desk that probably costs more than my entire community college tuition. The only things ruining the professional vibe are the armed women flanking me and the plastic restraints cutting into my wrists.
The door opens, and in walks a woman who immediately commands the room. She's older, maybe mid-fifties, with silver-streaked black hair pulled into a perfect bun. Reading glasses hang from a chain around her neck, bouncing slightly against her modest but obviously expensive blouse as she crosses to the desk.
She sits down with deliberate grace, studying me with the kind of calculating stare usually reserved for tax auditors or particularly judgmental cats. Her eyes flick to my handlers, then back to me.
"I am Selena Cruz," she says, extending her hand across the desk. Her voice is soft but carries an authority that makes my spine straighten automatically.
I awkwardly raise my bound hands, attempting to shake hers. The zip ties make it look like I'm offering a prayer rather than a handshake.
"Look, I think I wasn't supposed to be kidnapped…" I begin desperately.
"Please," she interrupts, holding up one manicured finger. "Let's not use such unpleasant terminology, mi hijo. You were... acquired."
"Acquired?" I repeat, my voice cracking. "Like I'm a used Toyota?"
She smiles thinly. "More like a specialty item that arrived unexpectedly. Tell me, Matthew Warren, do you know what makes you valuable?"
My stomach drops. She knows my full name. "How did you…"
"Your student ID was in your wallet," she says dismissively. "Now, answer my question."
My mind races through possibilities. Is it my race? My age? Suddenly a desperate idea hits me.
"Is it because I'm white?" I blurt out. "You think you can ransom me off to some rich parents or something?"
Then panic seizes me as I realize I've potentially given her an idea she didn't have before. I quickly backpedal.
"I don't even have parents," I add frantically. "They died when I was a kid."
Selena just stares at me, her expression unchanged, almost pitying. She removes her glasses, letting them dangle from their chain.
"No, mi hijo," she says softly. "You're special because people love to watch men."
I blink at her. "I don't follow."
"Eye candy," she says simply, as if explaining something to a child.
I shake my head, trying to process what she's saying. None of this makes any sense.
"What the hell even is this place?" I demand.
She sighs, swiveling in her chair to gesture toward the large window behind her desk. I hadn't even noticed it before, but as I lean forward in my seat, I can see down into what looks like an enormous warehouse floor. The space is divided into neat rectangles, each one marked with field lines and goals. Women are playing soccer on every single one.
"This is a farm, of sorts," Selena explains, her tone businesslike.
"What?"
"This is one of many facilities we have to keep sports betting going twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."
I stare at her, then back at the window. "Huh? Like... soccer slaves?"
"Fútbol," she corrects me with a slight edge to her voice.
"Come on, that's so dumb," I say, the absurdity of the situation momentarily overriding my fear. "There's professional soccer leagues all over the world. Why kidnap people?"
"It's not the only sport we do," she says, turning back to face me. "We have quite a diverse portfolio."
The reality of my situation crashes down on me. I pull against my restraints, suddenly furious.
"You did not fucking kidnap me to make me a soccer slave!"
One of the guards behind me places a firm hand on my shoulder, pushing me back into my seat. Selena doesn't even flinch at my outburst.
"Your language is unnecessary," she says calmly. "And yes, that is exactly what happened, though I prefer the term 'contracted athlete.'"
"I'm terrible at soccer!" I protest. "I got a D in gym class! I can barely run at all!"
Selena's lips curl into a smile that makes my skin crawl.
"Oh, that's perfect, querido. The worse your conditioning, the more you'll sweat." She leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The viewers love watching men struggle. Especially pretty ones like you."
My mouth goes dry. "That's sick."
"It's business," she corrects me with a shrug. "Besides, if you find yourself unsuited for fútbol, we have many other... positions available. Perhaps you'd prefer entertaining our clients at one of our brothels? Men with your features are quite popular."
"What?" The word escapes me in a horrified gasp as I realize what she's suggesting. "A brothel? You can't be serious!"
Selena glances at her watch and sighs, as if my existential crisis is making her late for a lunch reservation.
"Enough of this," she says, rising from her chair with fluid grace. "I have other acquisitions to process. Take this one to Processing B. Let's see if he can be salvaged for the sports division."
The women flanking me grab my arms before I can react, hauling me up from the chair. My legs suddenly feel like overcooked noodles.
"Wait!" I shout, digging my heels into the carpet. "You can't do this! People will look for me!"
One guard snorts. "Like who? Your professors at community college?"
They drag me toward the door, my feet scrambling uselessly against the floor. Panic surges through me, making my heart hammer against my ribs like it's trying to escape without me.
"I'll be terrible at this!" I plead, my voice cracking embarrassingly. "I'll lose you money! I'll…"
"Save your breath, chico," the guard on my left says, not unkindly. "You'll need it for training."
The hallway outside Selena's office is brightly lit and could belong in any corporate building in America. As they march me past windowed conference rooms, I catch glimpses of women in business attire reviewing documents, typing on laptops, and sipping coffee. It's so mundanely normal it makes this whole situation even more surreal.
"Is this some kind of joke?" I ask desperately. "Like one of those extreme prank shows?"
The guard on my right laughs. "If only. Then your life would be much easier."