1. game on

O N E

game on

Monday, February 15th

Clang.

Isaiah Carr flung his bat to the ground and darted off from home base to first, cleats dragging through the sand and stabbing into second base. A gruff voice shouted "safe!" and Isaiah pulled himself to his feet, dusting the burnt orange dirt off his previously-white pants.

His heart was pounding against his ribcage; the thump thump thump of his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. Hands on his knees he shuffled between second and third, eyes on multiple things at once. The second baseman's presence behind him, the pitcher's stance, the batter's swing. Number twelve's bat cracked against the fastball, the sound echoing through the air, scattered cheers following it. Isaiah took off to third, and with time left, finished to home, garnering a familiar whistle from his father in the stands. He smiled as he jogged into the dugout.

"Nice hustle," Coach Linn grunted, slapping him on the back. Isaiah winced but nodded in appreciation, sliding onto the bench next to Marcus Greene.

Marcus nudged him once he settled down. "With that speed, you should've picked track."

Isaiah snorted. "Yeah, no," he grumbled. "Tried that in junior high. It was hell."

Besides, baseball was Isaiah's pride and joy. He refused to give his attention to any other sport. He knew he was good at it—he was fast, precise, and had a killer arm. His coaches praised him constantly with pats on the back and variations of good job, Carr. He knew scouts were watching him, so he couldn't let his focus stray.

Marcus slugged him in the shoulder and stood up upon hearing his jersey number. He swiped his bat from where it was leaning against the wall, pointed his finger to his friend as he walked backwards, and said, "If we win, you have to go out with us tonight."

Isaiah shrugged, and Marcus scoffed before jogging out to the field. Isaiah wasn't very interested in the baseball team's outings. It was always some place like Wing Stop or Little Ceasars. Greasy foods weren't on his to-eat list. Not that he actually had one.

It wasn't just the food that bothered him. Everyone was loud. His team was filled with rowdy teenage boys that talked over teachers and made disrespectful remarks toward (mostly) women. Their comments always made his skin crawl, which was why he only stuck to three of the players: Marcus Greene, Ashton Ball, and Steve Kim.

Marcus was Isaiah's best friend. They'd been glued by the hip since their diaper days. Always together when their moms wanted to hang out when they had free time. They'd joined the same Little League team and had been part of the same group all the way until they'd become joined the select teams. Then they were separated, having to play against each other, but it never caused them to stray too far apart. They were—as an elderly white lady would say—two peas in a pod.

Ashton Ball was, to put it simply, a stoner without the weed. His floppy brown hair was always a mess, and he dressed in flannels, oversized hoodies, and t-shirts. He had the whole blazed and dazed look going on all the time. They'd met in junior high on the track team, where they'd bonded over—not because of their mutual liking of running, but their hatred. Meets were agonizing, and so were practices.

Steve Kim had always been an acquaintance of Isaiah's since middle school. They talked when they had no one else to talk to, chose each other as partners because they didn't know anyone else. It wasn't until they'd both made the sophomore team during freshman year that they'd grown closer. Steve approached him first, complimented him on his skill, and they'd went from there. He was a blunt, yet reserved person. If he wasn't playing baseball, he had his nose buried in a book. Preferably something romance-related since he was a not-so-secret softie.

Once the game had ended, their team having won 15-7, the four gravitated toward each other outside the dugout. Ashton threw up a lazy peace sign in greeting, something that started out ironic, but had become a habit. Steve flipped him off in response.

Ashton frowned. "Steve-o, you wound me."

"Good."

Ashton gaped and exchanged a look with Marcus and Isaiah. He jerked his thumb at Steve and said, "Get a load of this guy. How rude."

Steve glanced up from his phone and looked between the three of them. Marcus and Isaiah kept their faces neutral to avoid conflict. Ashton kept his what-the-fuck expression, which earned him a baseball to the thigh. "Fuck!" he yelped, then slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Ball!" shouted Coach, looking peeved. "Language. I'm going easy on you this time. One more slip and I'm making you clean up the field and dugout."

Ashton nodded quickly. Once Coach had turned away, he launched his cleated foot to Steve's calf, causing the boy to stumble and slip across the gravel. He just barely managed to keep himself upright. He turned and glared at Ashton behind his sports glasses. "One day," he said, "I'll kick your ass."

"Do it, no balls," Ashton retorted with a smug grin. Steve made a fake, threatening leap at him, causing Ashton to slide behind Marcus's broad shoulders, cowering. "Oh shit."

Marcus grinned. "Pussy."

"Actually," Ashton drawled, holding up one finger to emphasize his point. "Vaginas are really strong. So by calling me a pussy, you're complimenting me."

Marcus cocked a brow. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Vaginas do," Ashton said solemnly, then paused in realization. "Wait —"

The three burst into howling laughter, Marcus's chuckle the loudest. Steve was simply shaking his head, probably wondering why he associated himself with such loud and embarrassing people. He pinched the bridge of his nose and walked ahead of them, making the trio sober up and run after him to avoid being left behind.

In the locker rooms, Ashton pulled his shirt over his head with a moan of relief. "It's so humid," he complained. "It's February. What the fuck, Texas?"

Isaiah reached for his bag and rummaged through it, frowning when he couldn't find what he was looking for. "Did one of you take my water bottle?" he asked, lifting his gaze to his three friends. "I was gonna give it to you, Ash."

Steve shrugged. "Maybe you left it."

"Fuck," Isaiah whispered, shoulders slumping. "I don't want to run back out there. My legs feel like jello right now."

Marcus slapped him on his bare back, causing a hiss of pain to leave Isaiah's lips. "Just go," Marcus said. "I'll take a long time so they don't close up."

Isaiah smiled in relief. "Thanks."

He slipped past the throng of baseball players, nose scrunching up at the smell of sweat and must. He pinched his nose until he'd left the room, forcing his legs to at least speed-walk back to the dugout. The air made his skin sticky, which was one of the most uncomfortable feelings Isaiah had ever felt.

He stepped into the stuffy area and checked under abandoned bags and jackets, finally finding his water bottle behind a tattered glove. Isaiah was about to leave when he saw a lone figure out on the field, one leg stiff while the other kicked at the dirt covering the pitching mound.

His shoulder-length blond hair was covered with a red cap, arms poised in front of him like he was getting ready to pitch. From where he stood, Isaiah could make out the arched nose and square jaw. The splotchy redness in the guy's cheeks, his broad shoulders, and the prosthetic leg that peeked out from underneath the cuff of his jeans. It made sense when the boy pretended to throw, but his leg barely moved. Probably due to fear of messing it up somehow. Despite that, his form was good. Better than good. Actually, it was one that showed he'd played before.

The stranger looked at peace on the field, leaving Isaiah to feel guilty when he had to shout, "You can't be out there." The blond startled, hands dropping from their position. He glanced at Isaiah, full lips downturning.

"My bad," he called back. His voice was scratchy and rough—what you sounded like when you woke up first thing in the morning.

Isaiah smiled, taking a step out of the dugout and onto the field. The boy was beginning to walk over, a subtle limp in his step. One you wouldn't have noticed unless you really looked. Up close Isaiah noticed how his eyes were the color of seafoam.

He forced out a polite smile, brushing past Isaiah and into the dugout. He snatched up an olive jacket and a backpack, shrugging it over one shoulder. "I'll get going," he stated, voice a low rumble.

"You have a nice form," Isaiah commented, making the stranger halt. "You play? Or used to?"

The blond frowned. "No." And then he was leaving, turning a cold shoulder to Isaiah's attempt at conversation. Isaiah blinked in surprise, opened his mouth to say something to the retreating figure, but decided to stay silent instead. He didn't seem like the conversational type.

Back in the locker room, Marcus was the last one left. Upon spotting Isaiah, he made a hand gesture toward Steve's locker. "He had to take Ashton home," he explained. "His mom forgot. Again. And you know how strict Steve's parents are."

"So no going out?"

Marcus narrowed his eyes. "No. You got lucky this time, Speed Racer." Isaiah scowled in distaste at the nickname. It started freshman year when the baseball coach had commented on how fast he was, and then everyone had discovered his last name, thus creating the abomination of the name Speed Racer. He hated it, but everyone else just adored it. Assholes.

"Fuck off," Isaiah grumbled. He quickly changed and got his things together before following Marcus outside. "See you at practice on Wednesday, right? It's gonna rain tomorrow."

"Yeah," Marcus replied. Once in front of Isaiah's car, they did the oddly complicated bro handshake, then parted ways. Despite there being no practice on Tuesday, Isaiah knew he'd find himself at the cages, swinging at ball after ball.

His drive home was quiet, the radio on low volume. It started to sprinkle after a few minutes, low rumbles of thunder vibrating through the air in warning of the shower that was to come. Isaiah thankfully got home before it started to pour.

As soon as he'd opened the front door to the house, he was hit with many different things: his siblings arguing, his mom yelling at them, and the sweet smell of pasta coming from the kitchen. It was obvious which one he gravitated toward.

"Isaiah, I swear to God, if you touch my garlic bread, I'm gonna snap you in half," his sister, Jordan, threatened. When Isaiah threw his hands up in surrender, she threw him one last glare before shouting at the youngest of the three, Dylan.

"Chill out!" Dylan cried, giving Isaiah a look filled with desperation. "It's just hair product! I only used it one time, for fu—frick's sake."

Mom looked ready to slap them silly. Maybe even dropkick them into the next millenium. "Both of you, shut the hell up," she ordered, standing inbetween them. "Sit down, and eat your damn food."

Isaiah made himself a bowl and sat down, raising his eyebrows in amusement. "Where's Dad?"

"He came home from your game but was called in to work," she told him. "I heard you did well."

"I hope so."

She smiled warmly, waiting for his siblings to sit down as well before speaking again. She asked about their days, made sure the sauce was okay and the bread was cooked. His mother was a worrier.

Isaiah zoned out after a while, ate two bowls, and then excused himself to his room. He wanted to sleep, but instead he pulled out his homework that was due the next day. If he waited until the last minute, it would cause his anxiety to skyrocket. He needed good grades.

The only thing that ever lessened his stress was running or playing baseball, but he couldn't do either of those. His mom refused to let any of them go out at night. She had valid reasons, so he listened to them. He'd never been much of a troublemaker anyway. His siblings were the opposite.

When he finally finished, it was eleven at night. He had to get up at four. Fuck. He didn't fall asleep until twelve.

Isaiah couldn't wait to feel like dog shit.