Chapter 4

One evening, we were in my room after class. Axel had already changed into his basketball jersey and shorts when he tossed a folded set at me--an extra pair from his bag.

“Go change,” he said, jerking his chin toward the bathroom. “I hope it is not too big for you.”

I didn’t own anything like that. I wasn’t a regular player, and he knew it. But still, I wore them. They were loose on me, a little too big, but they stayed on well enough.

It had been an abrupt invitation. One of his teammates had backed out last minute, told Axel yesterday he couldn’t make it, and I was apparently the backup. Just a body to fill the court. But I was thrilled. At least, he thought of me.

“Are you sure we’re wearing these during the drive there?” I asked, tugging awkwardly at the oversized jersey.

Axel glanced over.

“Yeah. Why not? It’s a 30-minute drive. The courts are not very far”

I didn’t argue, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I looked ridiculous next to him. On him, the jersey fit like it was made for him. On me, it felt like a costume.

So there I was--in his passenger seat as usual. This time, I left my backpack behind, carrying only my wallet, keys, and ID. I slipped them into the glove compartment, just like I’d done a hundred times this month.

“Do you want something on the way?” he asked. “It’ll be pretty late when we get back.”

How thoughtful of him. I nodded with the excitement of a kid heading to Disneyland.

“Alright ... we can have tacos then,” he replied.

A few minutes later, he pulled over to a big parking lot. There was a gas station in one corner, and right next to it was a small taco truck. There was a Mexican behind the counter, working the grill. Apart from a small queue in front of it and a car in the gas station, the whole lot was quiet and seemed deserted.

Axel parked the car a short distance from the food truck, killed the engine, and took the wallet from the central console before handing me a few bills.

“Four for me ... no drinks,” he said.

“What about me?” I asked. It was better to ask him than to assume and get it wrong.

“Get whatever you want,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Hurry up ... we don’t have much time.”

I nodded and bounced.

By the time I got to the truck, there was only one person left in the queue. It did not take long for him to get his tacos, and I gave the taco man my orders. “Six tacos and a Coke”

From where I stood, I could see the back of the sedan. Axel had rolled the windows halfway down. One arm hung out the driver’s side lazily, the wind catching his fingers like he had all the time in the world. His seat was reclined just a bit more than usual, and from the angle of his head, he was probably scrolling his phone.

A few minutes later, tacos were ready. The guy behind the counter put them in a sketchy foam container. The Coke came in a plastic cup with no straw. I juggled everything in my arms on the way back, already regretting not making two trips.

He opened the door for me from the inside, and I got into my seat. I handed the to-go box to him and put my Coke in the cup holder in the central console.

He opened the box, his eyebrows going up. “Didn’t you get them separately?”

“You didn’t ask me to, and I am only having two of them,” I said.

“I thought you had common sense,” he replied.

He made me hold the box. So, I balanced the box on my right hand between us over the central console. He pulled my hand closer to him, signalling me that the box should stay closer to him.

With my other hand, I grabbed a taco and brought it to my mouth. Since tacos weren’t exactly made for eating in a car, it took some careful maneuvering not to spill anything. I managed to finish both without making too much of a mess--just a small drip of sauce on my chin, which I wiped away with a tissue.

No sooner had I grabbed my Coke with my free hand than he asked me to hand him a piece of tissue. So, without putting the Coke down, I awkwardly snagged one with my little finger and tried to bring it to him. But on the way, I accidentally knocked the entire box of tacos onto his lap. Panicking, I instinctively used the tissue in my left hand to wipe at the sauce--only to make things worse as my Coke tipped and spilled all over him, soaking his pants and staining his jersey.

It was a disaster, and every swear word in the book came flying out of Axel’s mouth--idiot, cunt, retard, pussy, faggot--you name it, he said it, each one landing like a slap.

I apologised to him, not wanting to be struck. Even when I used up all the tissues in the car, it was not enough to dry him.

“Fuck,” he said, pushing away my hands that are trying to wipe his jersey clean.

He looked over himself, perhaps assessing the damage. “I can’t go to the match wearing this,” he said before turning towards me in anger.

Then, there came the command. “Strip”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Is he telling me to strip? I must have looked like a deer in the headlights.

“You heard me,” he said, a finger pointing at the back seat. “You are gonna give me your clothes, and you are doing it here”

When I didn’t move, he leaned in with a warning: “Or would you rather have Emma strip in your place?”

I shook my head ‘no’ and meekly climbed into the back of the car. Meanwhile, Axel left the driver seat and opened one of the rear doors.

He stood in front of me, blocking most of the view, but I could still make out the gas station employees in the distance behind him. No one was paying attention to us, of course. They were all busy tending to a growing line of cars at the pumps. “Start taking them off, Sammy,” he ordered.

My hands shook as I pulled up my jersey and took it off. I handed it to him, making him smirk a little. “Go on ... we don’t have all day.”

I was reluctant to take off my shorts. Being pinned and groped against a wall was one thing--but crouching half-naked in the back of his car, stripped to my underwear before my bully, was another entirely.

He gave me that usual look of disapproval, and I immediately clutched the waistband of my shorts, feeling the familiar flush of obedience wash over me. Without another word, I slid them down to my knees in one swift motion, trembling slightly. He learned over, wordless, pulled off my shoes, then finished the job himself--tugging the shorts off completely.

Now, I was down to my underwear--a small, vulnerable blue pair--and completely at his mercy.

I thought that was the end of my humiliation--but I was wrong. He wasn’t finished.

“Go on,” he said, voice low and firm. “Give me your underwear too. You’ve soaked mine.” The words sank in slowly, burning with shame. He wasn’t asking. He never did.

“Please,” I begged, my voice cracking. “Please ... not this one. I’ll be completely naked without it.”

Instinctively, I dropped to my knees, clutching the hem of his jersey like it could anchor me. It was the universal pose of desperation--head bowed, fingers trembling, pleading for the last shred of dignity I had left.