From The Other Side

2. slip-n'-slide

"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—"