The Betrayal I Heard in the Stadium Bathroom

I have to write this before insomnia eats me alive. I’ve gone four nights without sleeping. Every time I close my eyes, I go back to that white-tiled corridor, I hear their voices through the door, I feel my hand against the wall because my legs could no longer hold me up.

My name is Mikel, I’m thirty-eight years old, and I was born in Bilbao. My aitite took me to San Mamés when I still didn’t know how to tie my shoelaces, and since that day I’ve never missed an Athletic final. So when they announced a month ago that the Copa final against Barcelona was being played at La Cartuja, I didn’t hesitate for a second. I asked for the day off, got two tickets as a longtime member, and booked the hotel.

The second ticket, of course, was for Leire.

Leire is from Madrid. I met her at an Ifema trade fair four years ago; she was manning a stand for a pharmaceutical company and I was wandering around lost among technical talks. She’s thirty-five, five foot four, with brown hair down to the middle of her back and green eyes I have never seen on another face. She isn’t perfect — she’s a little more full-figured than she’d like — but she walks in a way that makes people turn when she passes. And she smells good. She smells so damn good that for months I thought it couldn’t be real.

Two years ago she left her flat, her job, and her people to come with me to Bilbao. For me, she always said. For me.

***

I called her from the office as soon as the tickets were confirmed.

—Guess where we’re going next Saturday?

—Saturday…? Mikel, don’t tell me you got…

—La Cartuja. You and me. Copa final.

She let out a shriek on the other end of the line. She loved traveling, and Seville was the only major Spanish city neither of us had ever been to. We agreed to leave on Thursday so we’d have a couple of days for sightseeing before the match. That same afternoon, when I got home, I found her waiting for me in the hallway. Without saying a word, she took my hand and dragged me into the bedroom.

She stripped in front of me, slowly, looking at me from the other side of the bed. She pulled her blouse over her head and her tits bounced, still squeezed into the black lace bra. She slid out of her jeans, wiggling her ass very slowly, and was left wearing the matching panties and bra. That always drove me crazy, and she knew it.

—Do you like what you see? —she ran two fingers over the fabric of her panties and traced the slit of her cunt through the lace.

—Too much.

—Poor thing. You’re not going to last at all this time either? —she took those same two fingers to her mouth and sucked them while staring straight at me—. Come on, get it out for me.

I tore off my clothes as best I could and climbed onto the bed. I bit one tit through the bra and squeezed the other in my open hand. She arched her back, breathing hard, and reached for my cock under my briefs. When she pulled it out, I was already hard and leaking. She wrapped her fist around it, stroked me a couple of times with her eyes locked on mine, and smiled.

—Look how hard you are. And I haven’t even touched you.

I shoved her onto the comforter, yanked her panties aside, and drove in with one thrust. And something startled me when I entered her. She felt different, looser, slippery in a strange way, as if she’d been ready for a while, as if something had prepared her before I got there. My glans sank in without meeting the usual resistance, without that tight first friction that normally greeted me. For a second I thought maybe she’d been fingering herself while waiting for me, and that image sent blood surging through me at once. Horniness beat out logic. I grabbed her by the hips and started fucking her with short, clumsy thrusts, faster and faster.

—That’s it, Mikel, that’s it… come on…

I didn’t last long. Like almost always. After ten or twelve thrusts I could already feel the tingling climbing up from my balls, and no matter how much I tried to slow down and breathe, I lost it. I came inside her with embarrassed groans, filling the back of her cunt, and collapsed on top of her panting as if I’d run a kilometer. Once again, she was left hanging. She covered it with a caress through my hair, but I felt it. I felt her thighs press around my hips, searching for one last stroke that never came, felt her breath catch on a question she didn’t ask. I always felt it.

The trip will help fix this too, I thought then. Four days away from everything, no stress, no phones. We’ll come back closer.

Naive fool.

***

We arrived in Seville on Thursday night. The city was already buzzing: red shirts, red-and-white shirts, flags on balconies, people singing in the street at eleven o’clock. We walked to the hotel hand in hand, dodging groups of drunk fans singing against Athletic. I squeezed Leire’s hand hard when we crossed paths with one especially loud one.

—Culés really do like their drink —I said, more to myself than to her.

—Mikel, not all of them are like that. My father supports Barça and he’s the best person in the world.

She was right, and I conceded it to her. Friday was a perfect day. The Cathedral, the Alcázar, tapas in the Santa Cruz district, silly photos on Triana Bridge. At night, in the hotel, I tried again. This time I put in the effort.

I laid her out on the double bed and started lowering her panties with my teeth, the way I’d read you were supposed to do somewhere. I spread her legs and stared for a while at her cunt, the one I knew by heart, with the lips already swollen and shiny. I dove in and ate her out. I ran my whole tongue along her slit, bottom to top, and stopped on her clit, sucking it slowly, tugging at it with my lips. She slid her fingers into my hair and pressed my face against her pussy.

—Yes, baby, there… there…

I slipped two fingers inside her and curled them, searching for that spot that sometimes drove her mad. I moved them inside while I kept my tongue out, circling her clit. She panted, breathing in fits, rocking her hips against my face. But she never quite got there. I could feel it. I could feel that tension hanging halfway, that body of hers getting ready and never quite jumping. I changed the rhythm three times. I licked her nipples. I went back to her cunt. I rubbed her clit with my thumb while I fingered her.

—Fuck me already, Mikel —she begged, finding my mouth—. Put it in me.

I climbed on top of her and slid in slowly. This time I lasted. I went slow, deep, clenching my teeth, counting in my head, thinking about anything except the tight heat of her cunt gripping my cock. I lifted one leg and set it on my shoulder and went in all the way like that, until I hit bone. I had her change positions, put her on her side, put her on all fours and fucked her from behind while squeezing her ass with both hands. The bed creaked, she moaned, I held on. I lasted ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. I felt like a fucking hero.

And even so, she still didn’t come. I came alone, alone again, pressing her hips against my stomach and emptying myself inside her with a groan that sounded more like anger than pleasure. I stayed buried in her for a while, breathing into her neck, waiting for her to ask me to keep going, to ask me for anything. She didn’t. She let herself fall face-down on the bed with my cock slipping out of her, my cum still running between her thighs.

I got up and locked myself in the bathroom. After a while she came in behind me and hugged me from behind while I stared at myself in the mirror like an idiot.

—Baby, it’s just a rough patch. The match has you all worked up inside. Don’t overthink it.

—You know I love you, right?

—Of course I do, you fool. Come on, let’s sleep.

I still don’t know why I told her that night, that very night. As if some part of me already sensed what was coming.

***

Saturday dawned gray. We put on our Athletic shirts, had breakfast at the hotel bar, and went down to the old town area for the atmosphere. After a couple of beers on an overfilled terrace, we found a small, nearly empty bar on a side street. We went in looking for quiet.

We spent a while talking about nonsense, planning the rest of the trip. Then a big group came in, eight or nine people, a mix of supporters, laughing among themselves. Leire nodded toward them with her chin.

—See? That’s how all fanbases should be.

—Leire, it’s a final. Don’t start with that.

—Well it’s a shame, Mikel. Those guys are having a good time and they’re from both teams.

I was about to answer, but I felt like pissing. I didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone in the bar, but she laughed when I suggested she come with me. “What, you want me to come to the bathroom with you? Give me a break.” I crossed the place to the back corridor. The bathroom was occupied. I waited a couple of minutes. Just as I was about to turn back, the door opened and I went in.

When I came out, I looked for Leire and found her chatting with a guy who hadn’t been there five minutes before. Tall, broad, tattoos on his forearms, thirty at most. He wore a Barça shirt. I came up behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist. She gave a little jump.

—Babe, this is Rubén. Rubén, my partner, Mikel.

—Nice to meet you, man —he held out his hand with a smile that was way too relaxed.

I shook it without smiling.

—Ready to cry tonight, Rubén?

—Well, we’ll see. We’re here to have fun, aren’t we? —and as he said it, he put a hand on Leire’s shoulder.

I didn’t like it. Not one bit. I dragged her out of the bar, almost yanking her by the arm.

—What the hell is wrong with you? —she snapped at me on the sidewalk—. Because he supports Barça, you have to drag me out of there like we were about to get robbed?

—He put his hand on your shoulder, Leire.

—On my shoulder, Mikel! Not my ass! What century are you living in?

She was right. I apologized. I bought her a ridiculously expensive ice cream and we walked by the river trying to salvage the day. We managed only halfway. The afternoon passed in short silences and forced jokes, and at seven, while we were waiting for a sandwich in a café before heading up to the stadium, her phone rang.

A message, an unknown number. I caught a sideways glimpse of the screen, but I didn’t get to read the text. She did read it. Then she locked the phone and set it face-down on the table.

—Who was it?

—Nothing, ads. Clothing offers.

Ads on a Saturday at seven in the evening. Sure.

***

The stadium was packed to the rafters. Our seats were on the side, seventh row. We started singing the anthem with our voices already cracking, and eighteen seconds after kickoff, Athletic’s striker blasted in a right-footed strike from the edge of the box. I jumped like a kid, hugged Leire, hugged the man on my left, hugged the whole universe. She was laughing at me. In that moment, I swear I thought the day was fixing itself.

Barça equalized before halftime. Then they called a penalty in our favor and we went into the locker room leading two to one. I was shouting like a man possessed, thinking about the culés who must be suffering in that same stand, and, without being able to stop myself, I also thought of Rubén. I enjoyed imagining him silent, long-faced, in some distant seat.

Leire touched my arm during halftime.

—I’m going to get something to drink, babe. You stay here, there’s going to be a line.

—Okay. Don’t take long.

I stayed. She took longer than expected. When the second half had already started and she still hadn’t come back, I leaned out into the upper-stand corridor looking for her. And I saw her. She was leaning on a railing thirty yards away from me, with two plastic cups of beer in her hands. Talking to Rubén.

I cursed the universe for the coincidence. Out of sixty thousand people, that guy? I told myself it wasn’t that big a deal, that they must have run into each other by chance, that they were barely talking. I went back to my seat.

She came five minutes later. She handed me my beer without looking at me.

Barça equalized in the eighty-seventh minute. Extra time was torture. During the break before the additional thirty minutes, Leire stood up.

—I have to go to the bathroom. You stay here, I’ll be right back.

I didn’t answer. I waited thirty seconds and went after her.

***

The bathroom corridor was empty. Everyone had gone back to their seats so they wouldn’t miss the start of the second period of extra time. I walked slowly, hearing my own sneakers against the painted concrete floor. Before I reached the women’s bathroom door, I heard the laughter.

His voice, low and filthy:

—Jesus, Leire, what tits you’ve got, you slut. Take off the fucking shirt, let me see them.

Her voice, pretending not to want to:

—Yeah? You like them? Why should I take it off? What are you going to do?

—I’m going to eat them whole. And you’re going to suck on what I’ve got here. Touch it. Touch it, pig, look what you do to me.

—Oh, fuck… what a cock you’ve got… let me see it…

I heard the metallic rip of a zipper. I heard a deep groan from him, a hoarse “that’s it, that’s it,” and then the unmistakable sound of a mouth sucking. I pressed myself against the wall. The tile was cold. I heard her swallow, make short gagging sounds, spit, take him back in. I heard her say, “it won’t fit, fuck, it won’t fit,” and him answer, “take it all, slut, all the way down,” and the sound kept going and going, the mouth sloshing against his balls, his breathing getting heavier and heavier.

I listened, unable to move, while he called her a pig and she laughed with her mouth full, while she told him, when he finally pulled out to breathe, that he was twice as big as mine, while he asked her whether her boyfriend did things like that to her and she answered, her voice cracked by something that wasn’t crying:

—No… he comes right away… and he’s… smaller… much smaller than you…

—Yeah? And has this poor cunt been abandoned?

—Totally abandoned… look how wet I am… put it in me already, please…

Those words. Those exact words. That was what broke me. Not the fucking, not the physical betrayal, not the fact that a stranger was railing her against the sink in a stadium bathroom. What broke me was that, all the while, she was telling him what a lousy lover I was. That she was bargaining with my humiliation as part of the game.

I heard the dull thud of a body against the porcelain sink, heard her muffled “ahhh, fuck” when he entered her, heard the rhythm of his hips smashing against her ass, slap, slap, slap, faster, harder, and her begging softly for him not to stop.

I turned around. I went back to my seat. I didn’t watch a single ball of the second period of extra time. The whistle blew. Penalties.

She hadn’t come back.

***

I went down to the bathroom corridor again. I needed to know more. I don’t know why. Maybe I needed to destroy myself completely, to reach the bottom of the pit before I could start climbing out. What I heard when I came back was worse than the first time. They were still inside. They were still fucking. They’d had plenty of time to finish and hadn’t finished. They were dragging it out.

—Put more in me, bastard, fuck me harder —she panted.

—Whose cunt is this, Leire? Say it, slut, say it.

—Yours, fuck, yours… but I have to go back, he’s going to notice…

—Let him notice. Let him smell my cum in your cunt all night. Say it again, whose are you?

—Yours, Rubén, yours, I’m your whore, fuck me, don’t stop…

—Lie down on top of me. Ride me. Ride me like you’ve never ridden him in your life.

I heard her moan while they changed positions. I heard her lower herself onto him, heard her sink all the way down with a long gasp that broke in her chest. I heard her start moving, first slow, then faster and faster, and her ass bouncing against his thighs with an obscene rhythm that passed through the door as if it were open. He told her, “that’s it, slut, that’s it,” told her to pinch her nipples, bite them, tell him in his ear how small her boyfriend had it.

—Tiny… your cock’s tiny, Rubén… it doesn’t fill me like you do…

—Doesn’t fill you? And this, does this fill you?

—Yes, fuck, yes, you’re ripping me apart, oh my God…

—I’m going to fill you up completely, you hear me? You’re going back to your seat with me inside you. You’re going to sit next to your boyfriend with my cum running down your thighs.

—Yes, yes, fill me, Rubén, fill me… come in me, all of it, all of it…

I heard the end. Both of them at once, muffling their groans against some towel, against some sleeve, against whatever was there. I heard him let out a low roar between his teeth and her answer with a sharp whimper, the kind of whimper I hadn’t managed to draw out of her in years. I heard her stay trembling on top of him, heard a broken “Jesus Christ” slip out of her, heard her laugh afterward softly, almost crying with pleasure. Then, whispers. They were talking about seeing each other again. In Madrid, on some trip of hers. They were talking with the coldness of people who had planned it for weeks.

I stepped away from the door just as it opened. I saw Rubén come out adjusting his belt, looking at the floor, smiling only for himself. He didn’t see me. He left. And then she came out, disheveled, mascara smudged at the corner of her left eye, trying to straighten her Athletic shirt. I noticed a shiny drop on the inside of her thigh, sliding slowly down beneath her skirt.

She saw me.

She froze. The blood drained from her face.

—Mikel… what… what are you doing here…

She didn’t need to say anything else. My face said it all. I saw how she understood, in real time, that the next sentence would be the last one she ever said to me.

—I’m… I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I love you. Mikel, I love you, please.

That was when the stadium exploded. A dull roar, distant, beautiful. The last penalty had gone in. Athletic had just won the Copa.

I turned around. I didn’t look back. I walked to the exit without hearing the chants, without feeling the claps on the back from fans I didn’t even know. My team had won a Copa we’d been waiting forty years for.

I had lost the only thing that truly mattered to me.