The Pain Exchange

“OW! Mother fucker.”

My stomach tugged on the ligaments surrounding it as Rahil fell onto his back. He continued to groan as he rocked side to side, cradling his ankle. The player that tackled him apologized and offered his hand, but Rahil had his eyes shut too tight to notice.

“Get the man some ice,” Coach told Sawyer. I wished he had asked me instead so I wouldn’t have to look at Rahil, who was shrivelling up into a quivering ball of anguish. My foot throbbed as Coach ordered me to help Rahil off the field, but it wasn’t like I could say no. Captains take care of their team.

“Is it bad?” I asked Rahil as I hoisted him onto his feet. He shook his head, but continued to limp. Rahil hissed every time his toes brushed the grass. My blood cells grew thorns as they squeezed my ankle bone, and I once again wished I wasn’t me; what kind of body deliberately mimicked the pain occurring around it?

Rahil sat down on the graffiti-covered bench and put his leg up to elevate it. Minutes later, Sawyer returned with a bag of ice, and Rahil sucked in the April air through his teeth as he placed it on his injury. The sound was sizzling enough to make my entire leg light up in flames.

“You good, dude?” Sawyer asked me.

I blinked for the first time in minutes. Not even my friends knew about this weird hyperempathetic shit I’d been dealing with; why would I bother explaining it to Sawyer, of all people?

“Flynn,” Coach beckoned. I appeared at his side before his infamous impatience could take effect. “Teach Sawyer the plays for the next game. Stay after practice if you have to. He’s gotta know ‘em.”

“Why?”

He pointed at Rahil, who was trying to secure the ice to his ankle with a pinny. Coach jabbed his thumb in Sawyer’s direction, then placed a whistle between his teeth to tweet at the two freshmen throwing their helmets at each other. 

The ends of my lips twitched as I walked over to my scrawny teammate. How were we supposed to win our next game if Sawyer played? Rahil was our best running back, but Sawyer… Sawyer had been on the sidelines all season. 

“Hey,” I said. “Looks like you’re finally getting off the bench.”

Sawyer nodded, having overheard my talk with Coach.

“How much do you know? You’ve been watching what Rahil does, right?”

“I’ve got the basics.”

I walked him through the plays anyway. He knew more than I gave him credit for, but that didn’t matter when his five-foot-two body lacked even an ounce of aggression. I could tell by the way he stood with his heels together like a ballerina that he’d be destroyed out on the field. 

“Duuuuuuude, you’re so fucking lucky,” Lenny said as soon as practice was over. “You got to skip conditioning.”

“Hey, what can I say? The Coachster loves me.”

I kept up the gross smirk as Troy, Hunter, and Medhansh walked over. I gave out a couple of pound hugs, watching their grins widen as we clasped hands. 

“Don’t wait up,” I told the group. “Sawyer here needs all the help he can get.”

The boys glanced at Sawyer, and snickered like we were still in Scouts. Hunter gave me a sloppy salute, then followed the other three to class. 

“Am I really that bad?” Sawyer asked.

My gaze once again drifted to his ballerina stance. I could have told him he’d look better in a tutu than a jersey, but I wasn’t going to waste that comment if the boys weren’t around.

“You’ve been tackled before, yeah?” I asked. 

“Loads. We were just practicing them.”

“I know, but can you handle a tackle?”

“What do you mean?”

I tossed him a football. “Start running. I’ll give you a few seconds, then I’ll come from behind.”

Sawyer bolted across the field like a tiny rabbit. I followed his sprint with longer strides, reached out to grab his shoulders, and pulled him to the ground. He hit the grass without a whimper.

“Huh, guess you can’t,” I said.

He flipped over and stared up at me, eyelids half closed, as if he wasn’t surprised. 

“Sorry. It’s not like I can help being trans.”

“It’s not that you’re trans, dude. You’re just… I don’t know. Small.”

“Yeah. Because I’m trans.”

I knitted my fingers together to crack my knuckles. I hated when he complained about that, because how was I supposed to react? I had no problem with transgender people, but he brought it up all the time.

“Let’s try it again,” I said. “Go.”

I brought him down a second time. His hand flew to his ribs as he pushed himself off the ball, but he didn’t grimace. 

“Try taking me down,” I said. “Maybe you’ll learn how to shrug someone off if you see how I do it.”

His first attempt felt like a toddler’s hug. Disappointment lingered in my brain like gum under the bleachers, but I wondered if it was just mirroring the expression on Sawyer’s face. Regardless, I wanted to coach my own team one day, and if I could teach Sawyer to tackle, I could teach anybody.

“Try again,” I said. “But place your hands a little lower.”

We ran through the motions again and again. After the seventh time, I told him to go for my legs, but he shook his head and put his hands on his knees. His breathing went jagged, and his curly dark hair flopped with his chin as it drooped. The heaviness seemed to travel down the rest of his body as he slowly sank onto the grass and started taking off his football equipment.

“Come on,” I said. “You’re getting better; I promise.”

“So? It’ll never be good enough.”

I slid onto the ground beside him with a loud groan. Everything was always so negative with this guy. 

I stared up at the blinding sun, then turned my head to the grass beside me. The pylons from the footwork drills were still set up, and the mesh ball bag was left by the bench for me to put away. I could see Emerall High in the distance, with its red brick exterior covered in colourful chalk. The art kids spent their breaks drawing rainbow butterflies and “love is beautiful” in bubble letters, but their murals never lasted long. Nobody knew who was washing them off, but the artists always put them back up the next day.

I rolled over to my stomach. “Can I ask you something?”

“I guess.”

“Why’d you choose football? Wouldn’t something like soccer be easier?”

He flashed a cartoonish grin. “I have my reasons.”

“Bruh. I’m serious. Did your dad do it or something?”

“No.”

“Then why? You don’t even like it.”

He sighed and picked at the front of his jersey. His face twisted into some sort of embarrassment. I tried to make sense of it, but I’d never been good at that. I could barely read Shakespeare; how was I supposed to read a person?

“I tried out for every other team,” he said, pulling his helmet onto his lap. “But they wouldn’t even give me a chance.”

I thought back to tryouts in September. Because of all the protective padding, nobody recognized Sawyer until Coach went around collecting names. There weren’t many promising candidates this year, so Sawyer’s speed helped him squeak by.

“Ah, jeez, Sawyer, that’s… I don’t know what to say, man. That really sucks.”

I wished Sawyer’s and my thoughts could be as synchronized as the chirping crickets. I couldn’t help but feel bad about his situation, but what was I supposed to do about it?  

“Okay, come on,” I said with a huff, jumping to my feet. “We’ve got a game to train for.”

Sawyer nodded and put his helmet back on. He got in position, and at my call, he charged at me, going for my shins. Before I could grab him, he hooked his hand under my knees and my body twisted—I landed on my hands with my stomach on the floor. Sawyer fell on his side just past me.

“HA! Yes!” I leapt up and pumped my fist to the sky. “We got it!”

I stood up and offered my hand to Sawyer, who was still curled up like an injured animal. As he retreated to a sitting position, he put a hand to his ribs. 

“You good?” I asked. 

He nodded, then winced for the first time all morning. A dull, aching sensation appeared in my torso.

“What happened?” I tried again.

He shook his head.

“Even when you get it right you still get hurt? Fuck, Sawyer.”

He turned away to lift his shirt and check on his ribs, but I still saw the purple from where I was standing. I felt my intestines squirming like worms as I pictured that same bruise on my own skin.

“Did that happen last practice?” I asked. 

“Kind of.” His tone was sour. 

“Did you get socked or something?” I hoped the answer was no, but it wouldn’t surprise me if someone was picking on him.

“No, it’s… it’s from the binder.”

I scratched the back of my head. “Someone hit you with a binder?” What a weird way to bully someone.

“Huh? No, a chest binder. I kept it on too long.”

I stared at him. “What’s a chest binder?”

“You don’t—it’s the thing. That I wear to… you know.” He gestured to his chest.

To what? Protect his ribcage? Brace his back? 

Sawyer noticed my confusion, sighed, then pulled the collar of his jersey away from his neck to reveal a wide strap below. Sort of like the sports bra my ex used to wear.

“What does it do?” I asked.

“It flattens. Like a compression vest.”

“Ah. What do you need it for?”

“What do you mean what—how else do you think my chest gets this flat?”

“Do you not… did you not have the surgery?”

“Are you kidding? The waitlist is like three years long.”

“Oh. I had no idea.”

Sawyer shrugged. He gave his bruise a squeeze, then dropped his arms. “I’m ready. Let’s try this again.”

I couldn’t move. I wanted to continue training—he needed to be in good shape for our upcoming game—but now Sawyer’s pain had spread throughout my entire upper body. The bruise was mildly concerning, but his binder thing was freaking me out. How could a piece of clothing injure you? And why was he using it willingly?

“Maybe we should get you some ice,” I said.

“Nah, it should heal on its own. Always does.”

“Always?”

I took a deep breath and reached for my water bottle. My stomach wriggled and my heart squeezed its arms around itself. Sawyer readjusted his helmet and stood there expectantly, but I couldn’t look at him. I turned away to sip my drink, wanting to rip this horrible hyperempathy out of me. 

“Come on,” I said after a shaky swallow. “I’m getting you that ice.”

…

I waited in the empty change room while Sawyer headed for the nurse’s office alone. I counted my breaths and shifted my weight from heel to toe as if I could rock my brain back into alignment.

He’s fine. You’re fine. It’s not as bad as it looks, I tried to convince myself. It’s not that bad. Stop it. Stop freaking out. You don’t feel it. It doesn’t hurt. Stop it.

I paced across the fading tile and slowly drifted into the bathroom. The sink was a long, rusted silver basin across from the urinals. The drain on the floor made gurgling noises and reeked of mildew, but I didn’t mind the familiar smell; this place, as gross as it was, would always feel like home.

I opened the door of the singular toilet stall to see the names etched into the cracking paint. I ran my thumb over my handwriting, hoping the nostalgia would distract me. There were hundreds of athletes’ names on here, but mine was one of the few with a Sharpie crown drawn above it—the mark of a captain. This somehow meant more to me than the wall of graduates that I would one day be on. 

Being a captain meant I was important. Irreplaceable. When the other kids in school talked about the football team in the halls, I would swell with pride because I knew my face was the first they pictured.

Yet, sometimes, the pride made my feet feel icky in my shoes, as if I shouldn’t be walking in them. Like I was an imposter—I was supposed to be tough. Men were supposed to be tough. Men weren’t supposed to be sensitive. Men weren’t supposed to cry, but I often locked myself in this very stall between classes to let the tears fall. Sometimes the fact that I couldn’t handle the pain hurt more than the pain itself, because I knew men weren’t meant to be built like me. 

There was a spot on the door where the paint had been scraped off. I was there when my teammates scratched out this particular name. This is our wall, we agreed, and I lent someone my house key to do the damage. 

“That you, Flynn?”

Hunter walked past the bathroom to swipe his forgotten water bottle from the bench between the lockers. I let the stall door swing closed and shot myself up to full height.

“What’s up dude?” Hunter asked. “You skipping?”

“Ha, when am I not?” 

“Ayyyyy, I feel that. I’m meeting Troy behind the school for a vape—wanna join?”

“And get popcorn lung? Nah, I’m good.”

“Pssh, that’s just a myth! Don’t be a pussy.”

He swatted my shoulder with the back of his hand. It didn’t hurt, but the implication that I was scared definitely did.

“I can’t, man,” I said. “I’m still training Sawyer. Just waiting for him to get out of the nurse’s office.”

Hunter rolled his eyes. “Dude is a lost cause.”

“Beats sitting through biology.”

“True, true. Have fun with that. See you later, bro.”

I exhaled into a slump as soon as Hunter was out of earshot. I didn’t have long to compose myself before Sawyer cautiously stepped into the change room with a little baggie of ice pressed to his ribs.

I could picture myself in Sawyer’s place. I tried not to, but the image flooded me like Gatorade after a game. I imagined Sawyer’s binder encasing my torso, squeezing me tighter and tighter until my organs twisted up in knots. My heart became a cyclone as it tried to make sense of the cage, and I could feel the blood oozing out of me as my throbbing veins burst from under the constriction.

“Whoa, what happened?” Sawyer asked, his voice barely louder than my breathing.

“Take it off,” I said.

“What?”

“That thing you’re wearing—take it off.”

I wasn’t looking at him, but I heard his feet shuffle backwards. 

“What’s your problem, dude?” he asked.

I couldn’t tell him the truth. My scream got caught in my lungs like an air bubble, but I couldn’t let it pop. Sawyer knowing the truth about me was the only thing worse about this pain. I’m not supposed to be this sensitive. I’m not supposed to feel things like this.

“Can you use something else?” I said through my teeth. “Like a sports bra, maybe?”

“I’d rather not,” he said. Now both our faces were red.

I hated him more with every second. “Okay, fine. But you can’t wear that binder thing.”

“I can’t not wear it! This is all I’ve got. I could try tape, but I don’t—”

“Tape?”

“Yeah, like kinesiology tape.”

KT tape. I dug through my locker, where I knew I had some stashed in case of injuries. The shit was like twelve dollars a pack, but if it took away this agony, it’d be worth it. 

“Will this work?” I asked as I handed him a roll.

“Maybe.” He unravelled one of the pre-cut strips. “I don’t know how to use it, though.”

I pulled out my phone. “Hang on. There’s bound to be some kind of tutorial.”

“No, don’t—”

The image results featured more than just trans guys. There were some dudes with gyno, and some girls in strapless dresses. As I scrolled down, I realized that this is what Sawyer looked like underneath all the sweaters he cycled through. The different people in the pictures had different sizes, and I briefly wondered about Sawyer, but then I felt bad and tried to get that out of my head. Huh, maybe that’s why Sawyer freaked out about the sports bra comment… It was a reminder of what he had on him.

“So, I think you go like this,” I took a strip of tape and held it up to my pec. “And then you pull it back like this—”

“Got it; thanks. I’ll try it when I get home.”

“What? Why not now?”

“Because…” He picked at his nails as his cheeks turned two shades pinker. “Well, it’s not like I can just go into a stall. I need a mirror.”

I gestured to the one in front of us.

“You’re standing right there, Flynn.”

“I can move.”

“What if someone walks in?”

“I’ll lock the doors.”

He was making this so much harder than it needed to be. By the time I returned to the main area of the change room, Sawyer had his back pressed against the lockers. He was gripping the roll of tape tightly, holding his stomach like he was about to puke.

“You good?” I asked. Now I felt like puking. “Is it not the right kind, or—”

“Why are you helping me?”

The question was bitter, like he was accusing me of something. I scratched at my wrist as I tried to come up with an answer that didn’t sound so odd.

“I know you don’t like me,” Sawyer said. “So why are you helping me?”

“I like you!”

“Ha, yeah. Okay.”

That struck a nerve in my brain. Did that mean he noticed the way we kept our distance, like he didn’t belong on the team? It wasn’t because he was trans, of course; he was just a lot smaller than the rest of us, and being born a girl meant he was fragile, right? He wasn’t one of us. We couldn’t be rough with him. He was a good athlete, just not a good male athlete. 

Maybe it was because he was trans. 

“I can feel it,” I said. “That thing you’re doing to your chest? I can feel it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, I just—I can feel other people’s pain. When Rahil hurt his ankle, or when I saw your bruises… even your binder. It hurts.”

His eyes widened as he stared at me.

“I’m not crazy,” I said, even though I had often questioned that fact. “It’s a real thing.”

“I believe you.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re talking about hyperempathy, right? Like in Parable of the Sower?”

I didn’t get the reference, but I nodded anyway. 

“That really sucks,” he said. “I’m sorry you’re dealing with that.”

“I’m sorry you’re trans.”

He laughed.

“No, I meant—heh. It’s fine that you’re trans. I’m just sorry it’s so hard.”

“Hyperempathy sounds hard. Especially when you’re a football player. Shit, do you feel it when you tackle people?”

The question turned into a conversation that worked like a game of catch. No, tackling people didn’t hurt unless I injured them. Sawyer wasn’t supposed to exercise in a binder but was afraid of what the team would think of him without it on. I discovered hyperempathy on Reddit. Sawyer named himself after a Mark Twain character. I wasn’t going to let my condition stop me from becoming a coach one day. Joining the football team was a way for Sawyer to prove himself.

“Does it still hurt?” Sawyer asked after a while. He pointed to my chest.

He shouldn’t have mentioned it. Talking to him was enough of a distraction to make me forget that his current ease was just a façade. He had one knee up against the lockers he was leaning on, and it was only then that I realized why he refused to stand up straight; he was hiding something, just like I was. 

“It’s starting up again,” I said. I shrugged, wishing I could mask discomfort as well as Sawyer could.

“What does it feel like?” he asked. 

“Pain,” I said. I wondered if taking off my shirt would free my lungs, but decided against it. Instead, I tried to turn my mind off.

“No, I mean… you’ve never worn a binder before. You’re just guessing what it feels like.” 

I didn’t want to tell him, but the words sloshed in my stomach, desperate to escape. I told him it was overwhelming and unignorable, like I was trapped inside of myself. That it was suffocating and scary and I needed it all to stop but it got worse the more I tried to fight it off.

Did I just tell him I was scared?

I covered my mouth with my fist as if I could catch the words midair. I’d said a lot of vulnerable things today, but I hadn’t told him I was scared. Scared of my condition. Scared of my brain. Scared of…

He was going to tell everyone. He was going to make my life a living hell like my old friends from middle school when they found out about this curse—

Sawyer started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I asked. I waited for the teasing to start, but his smile was the opposite of malicious.

“That’s how I feel every day,” he said.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why we’re having this conversation in the first place.”

“No, not like that.” His fingers traced the wrinkles of his sleeve. “It’s not the binder that makes me feel that way. Like, sure, it hurts, but the suffocation’s coming from my body. I’m trapped inside it, and I can’t breathe. But when I wear the binder, it becomes the cage instead of my body, and while I’m busy hating it, I don’t hate myself as much. I’m just sort of used to the pain at this point.”

As nice as it sounded to grow used to pain, I felt bad for him. I couldn’t imagine being so upset with my body that I would choose to hurt it. 

Sawyer toyed with the roll of tape I gave him, then tore off a strip. He rubbed his thumb across the edge, with an almost hopeful look in his eyes. I turned around to give him some privacy.

I heard a mound of fabric hit the floor, followed by a crinkling noise as Sawyer peeled the first piece of tape off its backing paper. It was weird knowing that less than a year ago, Sawyer would have to do this in the ladies’ change room. I often forgot about his other persona—the popular nerdy girl in ripped jeans—and how we would place bets on who could make her smile first. He came out last spring with a poem; he cried on stage during the spring talent show, trembling in fear as he recited it. My friends laughed. I couldn’t remember if I joined them.

The crinkling stopped. I swiveled back around to see Sawyer standing in front of the mirror. He fought a smile as he brushed his thumb down the middle of his bare chest where the ends of the black tape didn’t touch. 

“How does it feel?” I asked. It better not fucking hurt or I’m going to have a stroke.

“Good,” he said, his voice swelling with an expression I hadn’t seen on him before. “Do I look okay?”

His hands fell against his hips, revealing the bruises along the bottom of his narrow ribcage. Unlike the other boys on the team, I’d never seen Sawyer without a shirt on, not even on the hot days, so I didn’t know about the mole on his stomach or the faded stick-and-poke star on his sternum. I barely recognized the Sawyer beside me now. 

“You look really happy,” I said, though the words felt strange. Breathing was no longer difficult for me, and for once, I actually didn’t mind being around this depressed little fucker.

“We should go clean up the pylons,” he said. “They’re still on the field.”

I nodded. “I’ll meet you out there. Give me a sec.”

He put his jersey back on and headed outside while I dug my house key out of my locker. I ran to the bathroom and carefully started to etch Sawyer’s name into the stall door, just above where it was scribbled out before.

I jogged back onto the grass to join Sawyer. He seemed reluctant to smile, like he was scared to do it wrong, but I knew he was happy; all the energy his bad mood had stolen from me was returning. As we carried the equipment back to the storage unit, I gave my teammate’s shoulder a nudge. If Sawyer could be bound to something he didn’t choose and still be a man, then so could I.