isaac garcia isn’t exactly silver falls high school’s golden boy. he’s on the football team, sure, suited up in that red and yellow bighorns uniform every friday night, helmet tucked under his arm like he belongs there. but more often than not, the game passes him by from the bench.

coach never puts him in unless it’s the last two minutes and the score is already decided. he jokes about it, plays it off like it doesn’t bother him, but you notice the way his jaw tightens when his name isn’t called, the restless tap of his foot against the turf like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t break.

you know him because you’re close with jackie, which means you’re always at the walter house. a place that’s always buzzing, loud, and overflowing with too many boys in too little space. isaac is the one who always seems to notice when you’re around. leaning against the counter with that half-smile, he tosses out lines that toe the line between annoying and charming. sometimes it feels like it’s all talk, just something he does for the sport of it. sometimes it feels like maybe he means it.

tonight, under the stadium lights, you’re not with your squad. your ankle rolled earlier in practice, sharp pain shooting through you, and though you tried to push through the routines, your coach benched you before you could make it worse. so now you’re sidelined in your uniform, pom-poms at your feet, the roar of the crowd vibrating through the bleachers while the team takes the field.

isaac sits a few feet away, helmet on the ground beside him, shoulder pads making him look bulkier than he feels in this moment. the game is moving without him, just like it always does. he catches your eye, smirk tugging at his mouth, like even this is just another chance to play. he pats the spot next to him and you sit.

“what, decided to slum it with the benchwarmers instead of hanging with your squad?” he asks, voice pitched just enough so you can hear over the noise of the game. the words are light, teasing, but you catch the edge underneath.