Industry (Part 1) - Completed

There wasn’t any English homework due this week, so Isabella and PJ worked silently on different assignments. Or at least, Isabella worked. PJ tried.

No matter how hard he focused, his mind kept circling back to Saturday’s soccer match. His father and brother would be there. He hadn’t played in front of them in years. The thought sent a spike of nervous energy through him. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled sharply, then shook his arms out as if he could physically dislodge the anxiety.

Isabella glanced up from her spot on the floor, watching as he rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder. She didn’t say anything at first, just observed, like she was deciding whether it was worth asking. Then, finally:

"Are you alright?"

PJ froze mid-stretch. "Yeah, yeah," he said quickly, dropping his arms. "Just having a hard time concentrating. You know?"

She nodded and turned back to her work.

PJ tried to do the same. But the numbers on his math worksheet blurred together. His knee bounced under the desk, his fingers drummed against the surface. After only a few more minutes, he gave up entirely. With a frustrated sigh, he slid off his chair, pulled an old soccer ball from underneath his bed, and started practicing his footwork.

Isabella looked up again, but just rolled her eyes and returned to her assignments. She must have been close to done because, before long, she packed everything into her bag and leaned back against the wall, watching as PJ dribbled and shot, occasionally bouncing the semi-flat ball off the wall.

"You’re really good," she said, so quietly it almost didn’t sound like a compliment.

PJ scoffed bitterly. "Thanks."

Her brows pulled together. "I wasn’t joking."

PJ stopped the ball under his foot and took a deep breath. "Sorry," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I’m just a little stressed about my game this Saturday."

"Why?"

He hesitated. He hadn’t actually said it out loud yet. "My dad and brother are coming," he admitted. "Payton—my brother—he’s… really good. Like, ‘captain of his D1 college team’ good. My dad thinks I’m going to get a scholarship, just like he did."

There was a pause. Then Isabella asked, simply, "But you’re not?"

PJ let out a dry laugh. "My cardio sucks and I don’t work on it. I party on weekends instead of practicing. And I tell myself that’s why I won’t get recruited, but really, I think it’s just an excuse. I’m scared that even if I had tried, I still wouldn’t have been as good as Payton." He exhaled sharply. "I’m not even starting on Saturday."

Isabella tilted her head. "You say that like your family doesn’t know."

"They don’t," PJ admitted, looking down at his shoes, absentmindedly rolling the ball between them. "None of them have seen me play since junior high."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Yikes." She whispered the word like she didn’t mean to say it out loud. "That’s rough. How do you think they’ll react?"

PJ turned to her—and then, suddenly, shame slammed into him.

She was watching him with genuine concern, her expression open, waiting. And all at once, he realized: she was the one who should be asked how she was doing. If she had eaten. If she was okay. And now here she was, listening to him talk about his stupid soccer game, his rich-kid, self-inflicted problems, as if they actually mattered.

He swore under his breath. "I’m sorry," he muttered. "Dinner’s probably almost ready. Just… forget about me and my problems."

Isabella didn’t say anything. But when PJ stood, she grabbed her bag and followed him up the stairs without a word.