Page 27 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
Fuck.
This.
I struggle harder, headbutting her and digging my heels into the floor. I connect with something important, because while my head hurts from the collision, it’s got nothing on the way Kate yelps. She clutches at her nose with one hand, the other still death-gripping my arm.
Andi groans. It takes both of them to shove me into the stall.
While I fear they’re going to dunk my head in the toilet—they might not be above drowning—instead, they turn me around to face them. The backs of my knees bump the toilet.
“Hold her,” Andi orders.
Kate grabs my hair with her free hand, tugging hard. My head automatically goes back, trying to lessen the burning in my scalp, until I’m staring at the ceiling. My eyes water. I blink, but the pain doesn’t ease.
My stomach aches, and I fight the tape around my wrists without success. The edges dig into my skin, and my fingers tingle.
Andi moves fast. She undoes the button of my jeans and pulls them all the way to my fucking ankles. My phone falls out of my pocket, and she kicks it away. It slides and scrapes across the tile, out of reach.
“Thank fuck you’re wearing underwear, slut.”
They shove me down, and the tape materializes back in Andi’s manicured hand. I stare at her long, purple nails as she pulls a little free and slaps it on my thigh. She takes her time winding it around my legs, pressing them together.
When she goes for my ankles, I kick at her. I catch her in the side, knocking her on her ass. She comes back just as fast, slapping me across the face. She hands the tape to Kate and grabs my chin.
“This is nothing,” she whispers in my ear.
They continue to secure my legs… and tape them to the toilet. My thighs are taped to the bowl, the tape securing my wrists attached to the hardware at the back. I can’t go forward, there’s nowhere to go backward.
When they’re done, my gray shirt is barely visible beneath the layers of silver tape. My bare legs already smart from the pull and adhesive.
My cheek burns. But it’s nothing compared to the helplessness that rushes through me when they both step back and I can’t fucking move. I squeeze my legs together more; the only saving grace is that my red underwear covers enough for me to not feel completely naked.
A flash goes off in my face, and I jerk back as much as I can. Stars pop in front of my eyes. I blink rapidly to clear it, only slowly registering that this isn’t humiliating enough—they’ve gone and taken a picture, too.
“This will make a great photo on your social media, Sydney,” Kate sneers. “Enjoy your night.”
They leave.
They leave me there.
And here I thought this shit only happened to high school nerds from the eighties.
nine
sydney
I’m not found until well after the game ends… by a janitor who shrieks her head off. She swears in Spanish and practically sprints out of the bathroom before I can get her to undo the tape.
This. Sucks.
She returns with another woman ten minutes later. The second is in a security uniform, and they both stare at me for a long moment.
“I need to make a call. Take the tape off of her mouth,” the security guard tells the janitor in a low voice. “Carefully.”
No one came in during the game, which I can’t decide is a good or bad thing. Like, on one hand… I kept expecting someone to walk in, get a good fright, and then help me out. But the worst-case scenario would’ve been between the second and third period, when the restrooms are at their busiest. In that case, I think some FSU girls would probably take some enjoyment out of it.
At that point, it would become one of those things where bystanders don’t fucking do anything because no one else is.
She slowly peels off the strip covering my mouth.