Never Leave Again

don't, daniel

trigger warning: sexual assault

The treatment table is cold and I stick to the plasticky leather as I sprawl out, my hamstring presented to Daniel with no shame left to have. "It fucking kills," I say honestly, knowing he is never going to instruct anyone. He has been told by Jorge to treat me and keep me quiet. He informed me of that during one of our conversations.

"I vote you fake another injury and take a break from playing. You were there for forty-five and you are going to scream when I touch you." His cold hands begin to work into my flesh, and I have to bite down on my tongue to prove him wrong. "You see, you're young and you're able to bounce back now, but it's not going to be this easy in a few years. You'll end up cutting your career short by ignoring niggles until they become fatal."

I laugh. "You are so dramatic."

He reminds me a lot of my friends from Córdoba. I never used to get on with the girls in my year group. They grew tired of hearing my excuses as to why I couldn't join them to go shopping or to roam the streets of the city until the sun rose. Those who I was close to were the ones with whom I played football. The boys whose jerseys I'd wear when I couldn't afford the kit but would get subbed on anyway, and the boys who treated me like a little sister.

Daniel, I think, treats me a bit like a little sister. He cares for me.

His hands knead into my thigh with a tender determination to ease my pain, and I find him gazing at me while I recount some silly story from the night I won the Champions League. It's just us.

My breath hitches as he finds a particularly tight spot. "Keep going," he encourages, though the room seems to darken slightly. I think nothing of it, and I'm probably too tired to care.

Until his hands start to move higher.

Until one cups my cheek.

Until he presses his lips against mine.

I jerk backwards.

"Daniel," I begin to apologise, although I'm not sure why. Eyes wide and unblinking, I take in the sinister expression he has sprouted. The forcefulness in his brown eyes. The slight smirk as we both realise I cannot move away from him, not with him holding me down.

"Just take it," he says calmly, pressing my shoulders down. "Relax, Tali. It'll feel good."

He kisses me again, this time rougher and with an insatiable hunger that makes my stomach lurch. I writhe underneath him as his tongue parts my lips, and I squeeze my eyes shut to imagine myself out of the hell I am in. I beg, silently, for someone to come in. Help me.

And the door opens. Maybe there is a God.

He is pulled off me. I pant on the table, refusing to open my eyes though the crushing weight of his body is no longer suffocating me. My tears hit the plasticky leather and I want to die.

There is a lot of shuffling, and I think he punches something. I hear him shout, growling at my saviour, and there is a loud knock against the wall. The door slams. He must have left.

Then, someone speaks.

"Are you okay?" A hand, tentative at first, reaches out to wipe one of the tears rolling down my cheekbones. Another hand slides under the back of my head, cradling my skull as if it holds the power to erase the last five seconds.

"Don't touch me," is all I say.

The hands leave. My head thuds back down and I let out a groaning sob, mouth wide open and tainted by the taste of a man who I once trusted.