My lungs feel like they're on fire as I drag myself toward the bedroom area, sweat dripping down my face in drops that sting my eyes. Two weeks of this hell and my body still hasn't adjusted to playing soccer twelve hours a day. Whoever said "practice makes perfect" clearly never had a gun to their head while trying to master ball control.
The sleeping quarters are exactly what you'd expect from a human trafficking operation masquerading as a sports facility, rows of metal-framed cots lined up against lockers that smell like decades of other people's sweat. Home sweet home.
I collapse onto my designated cot, not even bothering to change out of my damp uniform. The room buzzes with chatter, mostly in Spanish and various Asian languages I can't identify. The player demographics skew heavily toward Asian women and Latinas, with just a handful of white and Black women scattered throughout.
They've brought in a couple other men since I arrived, but they play for different teams. I catch glimpses of them sometimes during shift changes, all of us sharing the same hollow-eyed look of guys who never thought "kidnapped to play soccer" would be on their life bingo card.
My daily schedule is a masterpiece of cruelty, wake up at 8 AM, play from 9 AM to 1 PM, collapse during our two-hour break, then back to the field from 4 PM to 8 PM. Another precious hour of rest before the night shift from 9 PM to 1 AM. Technically, we're "free" after that, but all I ever do is pass out from exhaustion.
"You still breathing over there, college boy?" Mei asks, tossing a water bottle that lands on my stomach with a painful thud. She's been here six months and treats this place like it's some kind of weird summer camp rather than forced labor.
"Barely," I mumble, unscrewing the cap with trembling fingers. "How are you not dying right now?"
She shrugs, stretching her hamstrings with practiced ease. "Used to be worse. I was in a factory before this. At least here we get exercise."
That's the most frustrating part, most of the women seem to actually like this gig. They talk about it like it's some amazing career opportunity compared to whatever nightmare they escaped from before. Meanwhile, my biggest hardship pre-kidnapping was when the campus cafeteria stopped serving tater tots on Tuesdays. Which honestly till this point might still be my personal 9/11.
"You'll get used to it," Mei says, misinterpreting my silence for acceptance rather than the simmering rage it actually is.
I take a long swig from the water bottle and stare at the ceiling. The more I think about it, the less sense any of this makes. I've had two weeks of exhaustion and bruises to really consider my situation, and I've come to a conclusion that sounds insane even in my head. I'm not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
When that car hit me, I died. Somehow, I ended up in some parallel universe where everything's flipped on its head. The biggest clue? The crazy gender ratio. In this world, women outnumber men three-to-one. Which would sound like every teenage boy's fantasy if it wasn't for the whole "captive soccer player" situation.
At first, I thought I was imagining things, but the evidence is everywhere. The way the guards talk about men like we're rare collectibles. The weird comments from the medical staff during our check-ups. The fact that every position of power I've seen is filled by a woman. Finally I just asked Mei point blank and she acted like I was an idiot.
You'd think being in a world with three women to every man would at least come with some perks, but nope. There's a strict "no fraternization" rule that the guards enforce with their rifles. Apparently, the women aren't allowed to touch the merchandise. So not only am I trapped in some hellish soccer prison, I can't even lose my virginity here. Just my luck to end up in the one parallel universe where being a rare commodity doesn't even get you laid.
From what I've overheard, men in this world are actually protected. When one goes missing, authorities actually give a damn and start searching. Which explains why Selena and her crew keep us so isolated, me being an American is also apparently a huge deal. I'm like a unicorn with cleats.
Speaking of cleats, I roll over and look at mine with despair. They're worn at the edges from all my failed attempts at not sucking at soccer. Despite two weeks of non-stop playing, I'm still terrible.
Last week, Selena pulled me aside after watching a particularly pathetic performance where I tripped over my own feet and scored on our own goal. Her voice was soft but her eyes were cold as she explained that my entertainment value was wearing thin and I was making the games go longer than scheduled.
"If you don't improve soon, querido," she'd said, adjusting those reading glasses that hang around her neck, "we'll sell you to the Russian."
I just nodded when she told me about the Russian, not even bothering to ask what that ominous threat meant. Some things you're better off not knowing, and whoever "the Russian" is definitely falls into that category.
Last night, though, curiosity got the better of me and I asked Lucia, one of the less hostile guards, why they don't just sell me as a sex worker instead of making me fail at soccer. She actually laughed.
"You're cute, college boy, but you're not sex-worker hot," she told me with a smirk. "Different market, different standards."
I'm still not sure how to feel about that assessment. On one hand, thank god I'm not attractive enough to be forced into prostitution. On the other hand... ouch? It's a weird thing to feel insulted about, especially in my situation.
I'm still contemplating this bizarre ego bruise when the door to our sleeping quarters bangs open. Gabriela, one of the guards who always keeps her finger uncomfortably close to her trigger, scans the room until her eyes land on me.
"You," she barks, pointing her gun in my general direction. "Selena wants to speak with you. Now."
My stomach drops somewhere around my ankles. Last time Selena wanted to "speak" with me, she threatened to sell me to some mysterious Russian. What fresh hell awaits me this time?
"Alright," I say with a nod, trying to sound casual while my heart does the samba against my ribcage.
I follow Gabriela through the labyrinthine hallways of the facility, my legs still aching from today's matches. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everyone in that sickly pallor that makes us all look like extras from a zombie movie.
When we get to Selena's office, I'm surprised to see I'm not the only guy being paraded around today. Three other men are already standing there, two Asian guys and one Hispanic dude who looks about as thrilled to be here as I am. They're all dressed in the same standard-issue athletic wear, though they look considerably less sweaty than me. My heart rate kicks up another notch. Group meetings can't be good.
"Ah, Matthew," Selena says, looking up from her desk with that practiced smile that never reaches her eyes. "Excellent timing. Certain arrangements have been made, and our guest arrived earlier than expected."
Guest? That doesn't sound ominous at all.
"Stand up straight, meat," Gabriela snaps from behind me, jabbing me in the back with her gun.
I immediately straighten my posture, trying to look less like a half-dead soccer zombie and more like whatever the hell they want me to look like. The other guys are doing the same, all of us avoiding eye contact with each other like we're afraid camaraderie might be contagious.
The door opens, and I swear the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. A woman walks in, with the kind of presence that makes everyone else fade into the background. She's tall with waist-length black hair that looks like liquid silk, and sharp gray eyes that scan the room with clinical precision.
This woman looks like she stepped out of a high-end fashion magazine. She's wearing a simple black pantsuit, and her porcelain skin makes her look almost otherworldly under the fluorescent lights.
She's smoking a cigarette, the thin trail of smoke curling up around her face like it's afraid to stray too far. And she's gorgeous. Like, intimidatingly gorgeous. The kind of beautiful that makes you feel like you should apologize just for looking at her.
"Selena," she says, her Russian accent giving the name an exotic edge, "I told you I only want to check out the white one." Her eyes flick toward me for a split second, and I feel my entire body go rigid.
The other guys visibly relax, their shoulders dropping in obvious relief. Whatever this woman has planned for me, they're clearly glad it's not happening to them.
Selena gestures toward the other guys. "Irina, darling, I know you go through them so quickly. I thought perhaps you'd want a backup this time. Save yourself another trip."
Irina takes a long drag of her cigarette, exhaling a perfect ring of smoke before laughing, a sound like expensive crystal being tapped with a silver spoon. "No, no. I'm a one at a time kind of woman. It's more... intimate that way."
The way she says "intimate" makes my skin crawl, like someone's dragging ice cubes down my spine.
Selena nods, then flicks her fingers at Gabriela. "Take the others away. Leave just Matthew."
My heart plummets as the other guys are escorted out, each one shooting me a look that's equal parts relief and pity. The door closes behind them with a soft click that somehow sounds like a coffin lid shutting.
Now it's just me, standing in my sweat-soaked uniform, facing these two women who are discussing me like I'm a used car they're haggling over.
Irina circles me slowly, those gray eyes taking in every detail. "He's younger than the last one," she remarks, as if I can't hear her.
"Nineteen," Selena confirms. "College student. American."
"Hmm." Irina stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell her cigarette. She reaches out and grasps my chin between her thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up to meet her gaze.
Her grip is firm but not painful, like she's inspecting a prize racehorse. I can feel my pulse hammering in my throat as she studies my face with those arctic eyes.
"May I see his hardware?" Irina asks suddenly, releasing my chin and turning to Selena.
My brain short-circuits at the question. Hardware?
"Sure," Selena replies with a casual wave of her hand. "You'd be the first one. I haven't had time to break him in yet."
My mouth goes dry.
Irina's fingers reach for the hem of my sweat-soaked jersey, and I instinctively step back, bumping into the edge of Selena's desk.
"What are you doing?" I stammer.
Irina laughs, that crystal-tinkling sound again. "Relax, little American. I just want to see what I'm potentially buying."
"I'm not for sale," I say, aiming for defiant but landing somewhere between terrified and pubescent.
Selena's hand moves so fast I barely register the movement before I'm staring down the barrel of a sleek silver pistol that seems to materialize from beneath her desk.
"Matthew," she says with a sigh, like I'm a child who's spilled juice on her carpet, "you are most definitely for sale. The only question is whether you'll be sold with all your original parts intact."
My throat constricts as I stare at the gun. The barrel looks impossibly large from this angle, a dark void ready to swallow my future.
"I understand," I manage to choke out, my body going completely still.
Irina clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "Selena, must you be so crude? You'll damage the merchandise with these scare tactics."
"He needs to understand his position," Selena replies, but she lowers the gun, sliding it smoothly back into what must be a holster under her desk. "These American boys always think they're the hero of their own action movie."
Irina's fingers return to the hem of my shirt, and this time I don't move an inch as she lifts it up to expose my stomach and chest. The cool air of the office hits my sweat-damp skin, raising goosebumps.
"Hmm," she murmurs, running a single finger down my sternum. "He's softer than I expected."
"Two weeks of training hasn't done much for his physique," Selena admits. "But he has potential. Good bone structure."
I stand there, frozen like a mannequin as Irina walks around me again, lifting the back of my shirt to complete her inspection. The humiliation burns hotter than any workout I've endured here.
Irina drops my shirt and steps back, taking another drag from her cigarette. Without warning, she moves directly in front of me and reaches for the waistband of my pants. My brain freezes completely as she tugs them down along with my underwear in one swift motion, all while casually taking another hit from her cigarette.
I stand there, exposed and mortified, as her gaze drops to my most private area. The room suddenly feels both too hot and too cold at once. I can't breathe.
"Can you make it hard?" she asks matter-of-factly, like she's asking if I can pass the salt at dinner.
"Huh?" My voice comes out as a strangled whisper. Panic floods through me, my heart hammering so hard I'm surprised it doesn't burst from my chest.
She reaches out with her free hand and touches me. I jerk at the contact, but don't dare move away with Selena watching, that gun still fresh in my mind.
The most insane part? Despite my terror, despite the humiliation burning through me, my body responds to her touch. Maybe it's the adrenaline, maybe it's because she's unnervingly beautiful in that deadly-predator way, or maybe it's just because I'm a nineteen-year-old virgin who's never been touched there by anyone but myself. Whatever the reason, I feel myself hardening under her fingers, and my cheeks burn with shame.
She studies me critically for what feels like an eternity but is probably only seconds. "It's good enough," she finally declares with a slight nod toward Selena.
Carefully, almost gently, she pulls my pants back up, adjusting them with the same clinical detachment she's shown throughout this whole degrading inspection.
"One hundred thousand," she announces, stepping back and taking another drag from her cigarette.
Selena's expression shifts to one of exaggerated offense. "He's an American," she says, as if that explains everything. "Three hundred thousand minimum. No haggling."
My head spins. They're literally putting a price tag on me, and in dollars no less. I'm worth somewhere between a luxury car and a small house. The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh, but the sound gets stuck in my throat.
"I watched him play," Irina says coolly. "He's quite bad. He might not even last a month with me."
I don't know what "not lasting" means in this context, but the implication sends fresh waves of panic through my system. What exactly does she do with the men she buys? Whatever it is, it doesn't sound like a long-term career opportunity.
"Two hundred thousand," Irina counters, flicking ash from her cigarette with an elegant motion. Her gray eyes never leave my face, studying me like I'm some kind of exotic pet she's considering adding to her collection.
Selena rolls her eyes, clearly annoyed at the lowball offer. She leans forward, manicured fingernails tapping against her desk.
"Two hundred and fifty thousand or fuck off," she says bluntly. "I'm not running a discount warehouse here."
There's a tense moment of silence where I'm just standing there, pants thankfully back in place but dignity long gone.
Irina's lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach those steel-gray eyes. "Deal," she says simply, extending her hand across the desk.
My stomach drops as they shake hands, sealing my fate. Just like that, I've been sold for a quarter million dollars to a Russian woman who apparently goes through men so quickly she needs regular replacements.