The Ball That Got Away

The sun dipped behind the trees, leaving the field in a dim, dusty glow. Liam knelt, pretending to fix his laces, focusing on the dirt, on the frayed edges of his cleats—on anything but the six seniors circling around him. Their laughter, usually careless and sharp, now vibrated too close to his skin, hollow and expectant.

He felt their presence pressing in like a cage he couldn't push open. Hands reached for him in ways that felt immediately wrong. One senior leaned in, brushing his shoulder—the contact cold, not accidental, more like a deliberate claim. A shadow pressed against the hollow of his neck, soft and claiming, like a trace of breath he had not invited. Then, a hard, foreign rod shoved and chafed against his lower spine, a rigid and yet to be known presence violating the space his own skin should have been a shield. His small hands tightened, the grass fibers cutting into his palms, as rough fingers seized his wrists, dragging his hands to explore forbidden flesh, hot and hostile beneath the cloth. Fear coiled in his stomach, a burning rock heavier than any pre-game jitters he'd ever known.

A sound ripped out from his throat, a low, broken gasp, the noise of a trapped being giving up the fight; it was not pleasure, but the agony of his submission, loud enough to be twisted into a horrible, forced release. Other hands, quick and rough, mapped and violated the hidden landscape of his young body. Every exit was blocked, every breath felt measured and allowed. He tried to shift, to pull away, but the circle crushed him, the empty field now feeling like a collapsing closet. Their eyes glinted with envy and malice, daring him to make a sound or a move. One senior leaned closer, his breath hot, the threat a sharp, silent command: “Keep your mouth shut.” Their words hissed, sharp and poisonous, not just silencing him, but locking his voice deep inside, making sure he couldn't even whisper for aid. 

This wasn't just petty persecution, he realized in a flash of cold clarity; this was them forging the trophy of his talent into the cold iron of his own cage.

By the time he scrambled toward the edge of the grass, dusk had deepened into shadow, leaving the field cloaked in darkness. He didn’t look back.

Liam was ten when Coach Vega first noticed him. He wasn’t tall or loud—just quick. His feet were lighter than the others’, his kicks cleaner. “That one,” the coach had said, pointing with his whistle. “He’s got something.”

Liam carried that ‘something’ like a badge. He ran faster, played harder, smiled wider. For the first time, he felt the warmth of belonging.

The teasing began lightly—an extra shove, a ball kicked too hard. “You’re good, rookie. Maybe too good.”

Liam laughed because that’s what you do when you’re new. But the laughter soured. His notebooks vanished. His shoes were stuffed with mud. Coach Vega only said, “Shake it off, kid. That’s part of growing up.”

So he learned to hide bruises under long sleeves and swallow words that tasted like dirt. The physical violation wasn't a single incident, but a slow, calculated ritual of ownership. He even tried playing worse, but whenever the ball rolled his way, his body remembered the rhythm, the brief happiness of being called by name. For a few seconds, he’d forget—until every dusk like that one, when the field became a scar he carried in every step.

That night, Liam washed his jersey alone. A river waited behind his eyes. The basin water turned brown, sticky with remnants of the field and everything he hadn’t said. He rinsed and rinsed, then folded the jersey neatly and buried it beneath his schoolbooks—hiding a moment that had no name.

When Coach Vega called the next morning, his mother said Liam was unwell. “He’ll be back,” the coach replied. “The team needs him.”

But he never went back.

The whistle still floated across the afternoons, thin and distant. Sometimes, from behind the curtains, Liam watched the others train. The ball rolled on without him, tracing paths his feet once owned. He told himself he didn’t miss the game—only the part of himself that still believed the world was fair if you played by its rules.

Years later, he passed the same field walking home from school. The nets were frayed; the grass grew wild. A group of boys played barefoot, shouting names that carried no cruelty.

One boy kicked too hard. The ball sailed toward Liam, bounced once, and stopped at his feet.

He picked it up. The leather was cracked, the white lines faded. It felt lighter than he remembered. He dusted it off and looked at the boys—they waited, grinning, one hand raised.

Liam stood there a while. The field shimmered under the late-afternoon light. Then he gave the ball a final kick. It caught the sun midair before dropping back into their game. Cheers erupted, their laughter carried by the wind.

He turned away, something heavy pressing in his chest. He knew this was the last kick he would ever take—a final, necessary surrender, performed not by choice, but by the demand of his broken self.

By the time he looked back, the boys were already playing, and the sound of the whistle was too far to follow.