The scent of damp leather, stale sweat, and freshly cut grass was a cloying, inescapable mix within the dark confines of the cleat. Jon, now a blue soccer sock, was a stretched and compressed canvas for his brother’s foot. The initial rush of panic had subsided, replaced by a strange, hyper-awareness of his new, restrictive reality. Every movement Mikey made was a violent, jarring sensation for Jon.
The world was a muffled roar outside the shoe. Jon could distinguish the sharp whistle of the coach, the rhythmic slap of boots on the turf, and the distant thump of the ball, which, terrifyingly, sometimes struck the outside of his prison.
The practice quickly escalated from jogging to drills. Jon felt the sudden, explosive force of Mikey's sprints—an intense, momentary compression against the insole before the foot was ripped up and forward. During pivoting drills, the twist of Mikey’s ankle subjected Jon's woven body to grinding, shearing friction against the rough interior of the shoe.
“I’m part of the action,” Jon thought, a bizarre mixture of excitement and utter misery bubbling up. He was right at the heart of the sport, yet completely powerless.
Then came the shooting practice. Mikey lined up for a shot. Jon felt the leg tense up, every muscle knotting into a single, powerful spring.
Smash.
Mikey’s foot slammed into the ball. The immediate impact was a brutal, shuddering blow that resonated through Jon’s entire form. The top part of the sock, covering Mikey’s ankle and calf, felt the strain of the powerful kick. For a split second, Jon felt like he had been momentarily flattened and then rapidly returned to shape, echoing the deformation of the ball itself.
“Ugh,” Jon mentally groaned, the salty, sweaty taste in his former-mouth growing more pervasive. It wasn't pain exactly, but an overwhelming force he couldn't resist.
Between drills, the coach had them standing, listening to instructions. This offered a small respite. Jon could feel the heat radiating from Mikey’s skin, rapidly turning the inside of the sock slightly moist.
Mikey's teammate, Liam, a tall, loud boy, walked past.
"Hey, Mikey, where'd you find the new socks? They look fresh," Liam said.
"They're not new," Mikey replied, stretching his legs. "Just... my usual pair. I found my other one."
Jon felt a strange pang of unease. Mikey hadn't lied outright, but he hadn't exactly told the truth either. Was he already keeping the magical object a secret, or was it just easier to call Jon "my usual pair"? Jon, confined and unable to speak, could only speculate.
As the training wore on, the sock became saturated. The original softness of the fabric was replaced by a clinging dampness, heavy with perspiration. The sole of Mikey’s foot, which Jon’s bottom section was currently conforming to, grew slick and hot. The smell was now overwhelming—a potent stench of old rubber, leather, and concentrated foot sweat. Jon was suffocating in his new reality.
He tried to distract himself by focusing on the sensations. The rhythmic pounding during the last running circuit, the slight give of the grass underneath the cleat, the brief coolness when Mikey stepped into a shallow puddle. But every sensation was a reminder of his utter helplessness. He was a utility, a blue fabric wrapper for his brother's athletic necessity.
Finally, the whistle blew. The coach called an end to the session.
"Alright, good work, lads! See you all Saturday!"
The noise of the locker room returned, louder and closer this time. Jon felt the relief in Mikey’s posture as they walked back.
Mikey found a bench, and Jon felt the relief as the cleat's laces were undone. There was a moment of less pressure, a rush of slightly cooler, yet still foul, air. Then, the heavy shoe was pulled off.
The darkness vanished.
The air hitting Jon’s now-sweaty surface was immediately cooler. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the sight of the brightly lit locker room floor and the surrounding clutter of athletic gear. He saw the other sock—his twin—lying beside him, equally damp and crumpled.
Then, Mikey’s hand grabbed him again, this time by the leg, and pulled. Jon was slid off Mikey's foot with a wet, squelching sound. The sight was surreal: the object that was him was being peeled off the appendage it had just contained. Jon saw the impression of Mikey's foot on his own internal surface—a momentary shape of his brother’s arch and heel visible in the damp fabric before it smoothed out.
Mikey tossed Jon and his twin into a plastic bag, separating them from the rest of the dirty gear.
"Don't want these stinking up my shirt," Jon heard Mikey mutter.
The bag was tied and dropped back into the backpack, which was promptly zipped up. The dark returned, accompanied by the distinct, pungent smell of the wet socks, now trapped together.
Jon’s first transformation was over. He was still a sock, but no longer in use. He was just... waiting. He knew he wasn't going to be kept this way for a week, but the thought of returning to his human form felt miles away, and the thought of the next use was already creeping in.
He heard the sound of Mikey putting on his street shoes, picking up the bag, and walking out of the locker room. The journey home had begun.
