Volume 1, Chapter 6: The Day He Disappeared
The next morning I woke up with Javier’s underwear still in my fist like a trophy. The bed smelled like him; sweat, cologne and the faintest trace of sex and my body, my hole ached in the best way, the way that said it wasn’t just a dream.
I rolled over, grinning into the pillow, already fishing for my phone. He’d probably text me first. Some smooth little line, some joke about last night.
Nothing.
I waited, refreshed my messages, stared at the clock. Ten minutes. Twenty. My thumb hovered before I typed, last night was amazing. I hit send, heart racing like I’d just sprinted.
No reply.
I figured he was probably tied up with practice. He’d mentioned last night that he had an early session that morning, so I tried not to overthink it.
I waited an hour, then two. His icon stayed blank - no typing bubble, no read receipt.
By noon, my optimism had soured into nerves. I finally sent another text: How’d practice go?
Still nothing.
By evening I was pacing my tiny flat, scrolling through our short chat history over and over. His number had been so casual in my phone, like it was no big deal. I tried calling, just once. Straight to voicemail. The sound of his voice on the recorded message made my chest ache, even though it was just a generic, bored tone.
By the second day, the blue bubbles on iMessage turned green. My heart sank. Javier, my idol, the love of my life, the one who’d finally fucked me just two nights ago had blocked me. Out of nowhere..
The realization landed like a punch. I sat on the floor with my head in my hands, phone clutched like it had betrayed me. Not even a goodbye. Just cut off. Deleted.
Like I was disposable, another fan he’d fucked to get off and then tossed aside.
But I couldn’t stop.
I opened Instagram, his page loaded instantly - every post, every story was there, perfect and unattainable. Him smiling with teammates, sweat dripping down his neck after training, a shirtless shot by the pool. He looked untouchable, almost unreal. And yet I could still feel him on me, could still taste his kiss, hear the rasp in his voice when he told me how good I was taking his cock.
I tried to DM him. I wrote, I’m sorry Javier. I miss you.
Hit send and stared at the screen, waiting. Nothing.
I told myself, of course he isn’t going to reply...he has eight million followers.
Why would he ever even see my message?
That’s when it really hit. He’d erased me out of his life like the night meant nothing.
I threw the phone onto the bed, furious, humiliated. And then, slowly, the anger dissolved into something else. Need. The memory of him fucking me deep, the weight of his body pinning me down, the raw filth of his words. My cock stirred before I could stop it.
I grabbed the phone again, scrolled through his photos. Him in training shorts, thighs carved like marble. Him laughing at a team dinner. Him biting his lip mid-game. My dick was hard in seconds, straining against my sweats, shame and lust boiling together.
I spat in my hand and stroked, eyes locked on his feed. My hips jerked helplessly, chasing the ghost of him. I thought about the way he tasted, the way he’d groaned into my ear, the exact moment he’d filled me and I swore I saw stars.
“Javi,” I gasped, jerking harder, biting down on my lip until it hurt.
I grabbed his underwear from my side drawer; unwashed, still carrying the faint scent of him from that night. I pressed it to my nose, desperate to remember the taste of his cock, the heat of his body, the way he smiled when I kissed him. Just the thought of him in my bedroom, naked, was enough to push me over the edge. I came violently, desperate, all over my stomach. I lay there sticky and panting, staring at his smile on the screen. And yet the orgasm did nothing but leave me emptier. Hollow. Because as much as I got off, none of it brought him back.
I grabbed his underwear and pressed it once again to my face like some pathetic shrine. It still smelled faintly of him, that mix of sweat and musk that had made me dizzy when he shoved them in my hand. I clutched them tight, my chest aching.
That night I couldn’t sleep. My brain replayed every second, every look, every sound, trying to find clues. Was I stupid to think it meant anything?
Had I just been a body, a fan lucky enough to be chosen for one night?
By dawn my eyes burned, my phone screen lighting up with nothing but silence.
I typed out one last message in his insta DM’s, even though I knew he would never see it:
‘It was the best night of my life.’
Then I just stared at it, thumb trembling, before locking the screen and setting the phone face down. I felt sick, like I’d handed him everything and been left with nothing.
And still, in the quiet, I couldn’t stop hoping. Pathetic, right? I cried myself to sleep like some depressed idiot crying over a boy. But he wasn’t just any boy. He was Javier. The guy in the posters, the one I’d drawn until my fingers cramped, the man who had kissed my neck and whispered my name like it meant something.
I’d been naïve to believe I could have any kind of real relationship with a man like him. But now he was gone. And even though I lay there crying into my pillow, chest aching, I couldn’t help but feel thankful too. Thankful that, for one impossible night, he’d chosen me. That I’d not only met him, but been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him in ways I’d only ever dreamed of.
A once-in-a-lifetime chance that left me ruined and grateful all at once.
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