2. slip-n'-slide

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slip-n'-slide

Wednesday, February 17th

Wednesday afternoon, the air was muggy and the ground was soft from the previous night's rain. While rolling the tarp off the field, Isaiah slipped a few times and Marcus teased him each time he made a fool of himself.

Sometime after everyone started to get bored, Ashton whipped off his shirt and used the tarp as a slip-n'-slide. He went coasting across it like a deranged penguin, whooping and hollering as he flew by. Coach wasn't around, which gave room to several others doing the same.

Marcus's hands landed on Isaiah's shoulders and shook them roughly. "Whip it off, Speed Racer. Go zoom."

Isaiah rolled his eyes, shrugging his shoulders to try and shake off his grip. "I'm good, thanks."

"Come on," Marcus pushed. "Have fun for once."

Isaiah didn't respond and instinctively looked toward the bleachers, eyes searching for his Coach. He didn't find him, but he did spot the boy from last time. Had he always been there? He was hunched over, elbow resting against a folder that was placed on his lap. His good leg tapped rhythmically against the metal underneath him. He looked bored, but he kept watching the team act like idiots.

"Question," Isaiah blurted out. Marcus dropped his hands and Isaiah nodded toward the stands. "Who is that guy?"

Marcus glanced in the direction of the blond guy and shrugged. "I think he's named after a month or something. He's been coming to the practices and games almost every single day since he transferred to our school. Coach loves that kid for some reason."

Isaiah nodded slowly, eyes lingering. He kept pushing his hair back, but there was no use. The wavy curls would just fall back against his forehead. He eventually pulled it back into a half-assed ponytail. Isaiah wondered what it was like to have long hair, because it looked like a nuisance.

"Isaiah," Marcus groaned. He gently shoved at his back, causing Isaiah to stumble and slip across the tarp. He yelped in surprise and ended up on his ass, a stinging sensation traveling up his backside. He winced and didn't even bother trying to get back up.

Isaiah turned to glare at his friend, who was struggling not to laugh. He flipped him off with a pained grimace, placing his hands behind him to brace himself. "Marcus, you're a sick son of a bitch. I slipped and slid, you happy?"

"So happy," Marcus wheezed, hunched over with his hands on his knees. Isaiah scoffed and carefully stood up again, walking slowly and carefully away toward the dugout. He tentatively sat down on the bench, a muffled curse leaving him at the feeling. He hadn't been hurt that bad, had he?

He sat there for a little bit, watching everyone else get chewed out by Coach. His face was red and veiny with anger, and he was pointing dramatically, probably cursing like a madman. Isaiah was sure that, even from where he sat, he could see spit flying from his mouth. Gross.

Once the tarp was taken off the field, Isaiah stood up again. The movement stung, but he forced himself back out to the field. He slid next to Marcus just as the Coach advised them on what to do next, which was running.

Fuck. That's gonna be painful.

Everyone immediately darted off, and Isaiah forced himself to do the same. With every pump of his legs, an aching feeling pulsed through him. He was wincing with every step, and Steve took notice once he lapped him.

"You good?" he asked, slowing to a jog. "You're usually in front of all of us."

Isaiah sent him a tight-lipped smile. "I'm fine."

Steve narrowed his eyes before landing a harsh slap to his ass, causing a groan of pain to leave him. He halted his movements and stood still before hearing Steve muttering under his breath. Something along the lines of "stupid stubborn athletes" mixed in with a few obscenities.

"I'm telling Coach," Steve declared and started to walk away, and Isaiah cursed, shooting his hand out to grab the boy's arm. He tugged him to a stop and gave him a pleading look.

"Steve, please," Isaiah begged. "He's going to make me sit out for practice and some games. I don't want that."

Steve pulled his arm out of Isaiah's grasp and sighed, crossing his arms against his chest. "You gotta make sure it's nothing serious."

"It's not," Isaiah defended. "I fell on my ass. No big deal."

Steve nodded slowly in understanding, and just as Isaiah began to relax, the other boy called out, "Coach! Isaiah busted his ass!"

Isaiah gaped, slugging his friend in the shoulder. Then he shoved him and Steve simply grinned, ruffling Isaiah's curly hair as if he was a small child. It seemed everyone was betraying him lately. Fucking traitors.

"Steve-o, watch your mouth," Coach scolded, but he wasn't as stick-up-my-ass as usual. "Isaiah, what happened? You're usually the fastest out there." He was walking over, face seemingly always red, and eyebrows set in an angry stance.

Isaiah rubbed at his jaw, scuffing his cleats against the dirt. "Marcus shoved me as a joke but I slipped—" It sounded so weird. "—and I hurt my tailbone."

Coach sighed, but he looked like he was struggling to hold back a laugh. He cleared his throat and gestured toward the bleachers. "Go sit," he ordered. Isaiah was about to protest until Coach continued. "I'm serious. Rest for a bit until you're feeling better. I mean it, you stubborn boy."

Isaiah groaned dramatically and left the field with Steve in tow. Once they were in the dugout, Steve threw him his puffy jacket. "Bleachers are uncomfortable," he advised. "Sit on that. Wash it though. I don't want to wear it knowing your bruised ass was on it."

He rolled his eyes. "I hate you."

Steve smacked his back. "Love you too. Now go."

Isaiah huffed. "Yes, Mom." He snatched the jacket and stomped his way up the bleachers to the very top, bundling up the jacket and sitting on it. He glared out at the field, just barely missing the head of blond curls sitting in the corner.

"Oh," Isaiah mumbled. "Uh, want me to move?"

The boy looked up from his phone and raised an eyebrow, giving Isaiah a once-over. He shrugged. "Don't care."

"Right, okay."

It was silent for a long time, and maybe it was only tense and awkward on Isaiah's end. He just made it worse by trying to talk to him. "Sorry for bothering you the other day—"

"Please don't talk to me."

"No, yeah, for sure. My bad."

Isaiah wanted to slap himself, but doing that in front of the guy would probably make him appear weirder than he already did. He hugged himself and leaned back against the fencing, watching his teammates begin to throw back and forth. His fingers flexed; he wanted to be out there so badly.

"Why aren't you out there?"

What the fuck. You can talk to me, but I can't talk to you? Isaiah thought bitterly. But he still answered. "Want the honest, embarrassing truth?" Not like I could humiliate myself more in front of this guy.

"Yeah, I guess. It's kinda what I asked for."

Oh my God, Isaiah thought in anguish. Why can't I say anything right? Isaiah could tell this guy was some cool, badass dude. He had a prosthetic, for fuck's sake. That was beyond cool to him. Not that it was cool to not have a leg—it just looked that way. Some of the most badass characters in movies and books had something like that going on.

"Uh, the tarp is slippery, and I slipped when my friend pushed me," Isaiah explained, not wanting to look in the stranger's direction. He was probably rolling his eyes like fucking bowling balls. "I kinda, uh, busted my ass."

Blondie snorted. "Good job."

"Thanks? I guess."

Isaiah worried at his bottom lip and, for once, just wanted to leave. His face was burning with humiliation. Blondie probably thought he was some kind of creep. Or an unintelligent jock. Fuck.

"Hey, you know, I'm not— " Isaiah tried, but was interrupted by a gentle voice calling out Blondie's actual name.

"August!"

I think he's named after a month or something. Marcus's voice echoed through Isaiah's head from a few days back. His lips formed an 'o' in realization. The name was really soft, completely unlike the guy.

August stood, he was shorter than he seemed he would be, and limped down the metal stairs. Isaiah blurted out an awkward goodbye, but August didn't even spare him a glance. The girl at the bottom smiled at Isaiah and then hooked her arm through August's, leading him out to the parking lot.

Isaiah, once again, wanted to slap himself.

___

Ever since that embarrassing day, Isaiah seemed to see August everywhere, with the same girl almost always by his side. Friend? Girlfriend? Sister? He had no idea, but she was really pretty and incredibly sweet. Shy, too. She always caught Isaiah staring and sent him a polite smile each time, but never tried to talk to him. She turned red whenever someone tried to speak with her.

Isaiah saw them at grocery stores and at gas stations. School (obviously). August was at every practice, every game, and every scrimmage. The pair were at diners or on the sidewalk when Isaiah was driving home. He wondered if they'd always been there, but he'd just never noticed before. All he knew was that he saw them now. All the damn time.

One of the only times Isaiah saw August alone except for at baseball events, was when he was braced against the wall after the fifth period bell rang. Isaiah was late, and so was he. August slowly slid down the wall and onto the tiled floor, hand gently rubbing at his good leg that didn't seem so good anymore.

He looked like he was in pain, or maybe simply discomfort. He stretched his leg out and tilted his head back against the lockers, a quiet sound echoing throughout the empty hallway. Isaiah wanted to help, but instead he slipped down another hall and went to get a tardy pass, entering his class late with guilt pushing down at his shoulders.

Halfway through the class Isaiah shot his hand up, asking if he could go to the bathroom. Mrs. Ambrose looked frustrated but let him go, and Isaiah went to where he'd seen August before. He wasn't there anymore, and even though Isaiah knew he'd most likely gotten help, he couldn't rid the guilt eating away at him. He could've helped sooner, but he was too embarrassed about being rejected or brushed off. Maybe August had too much pride, or he didn't like Isaiah so much that he refused help.

Isaiah ended up in the bathroom anyway, shoving his hands under the sink and letting cold water pierce his skin. He leaned against the counter and stared off into space, only snapping out of it when he heard a soft sniffle coming from the stalls.

He blinked and shut the faucet off, the faint sniffle louder now that there was no other sound. Isaiah shuffled to the stall and rapped his knuckles against it gently. "Are you okay?" he mumbled.

"Fuck off," said a raspy, fairly familiar voice. August?

Isaiah cleared his throat. He was very tempted to fuck off, but he made himself stay. "Do you need anything?"

The boy on the other side of the stall paused. Then, in a quiet voice said, "Paper towels. There's no more toilet paper."

Isaiah bit back an amused smile and nodded, then realized he couldn't see him. "Yeah, one second," he replied. He grabbed a toilet paper roll from another stall and hung it over the top of the stall. A hand reached up and took it, muttering a small thanks.

"No problem. Need anything else?"

"Yeah. Now could you fuck off?"

Isaiah's face burned. Leaving the bathroom, he rushed down the hall and back into class. He had a strong feeling it was August in there, and now he knew he hadn't been helped, and had instead limped his way to the bathroom to cry.

Isaiah had never felt so terrible before.


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