26. Isaac

CHAPTER 26

ISAAC

He strides through the high school corridor, his fingers dancing over the phone's screen like a pianist lost in a private concerto of texts. The words from Alex flicker on the display, a digital whisper of intrigue instructing him to meet up by the Equipment Room. A rare smile threatens to break the stern mold of Isaac's face, but he quells it, burying the giddiness beneath layers of stoicism.

He’s not sure if he’s ready. He and Alex have been dancing this dance for the past two years—covert glances when no one is looking, touches thaat seem all too-intimate. There’s this feeling in Isaac’s stomach whenever Alex is near, this feeling of excitement mixed with dread. He knows what’s supposed to happen between two people who like each other. He knows but he never tried and he’s scared that it’s going to be just as bad as what Jacob does to him under the cover of the night.

Still, he responds to the text. His curiosity wins.

The corridor is filled with shouting students and the chaos only intensifies when the football players begin to gain from behind and barrel past him, their post-practice laughter a discordant symphony that grates against Isaac's nerves.

They move with arrogance, shoulders thrown back and chests puffed out, clad jerseys reeking of sweat and bravado. In their wake, they leave a nasty scent of entitlement that permeates the air, thick and suffocating.

They think they are the kings of this school. They think being on the team gives them all the rights in the world to be assholes.

Isaac’s eyes follow them with silent contempt. Why does this school worship these gridiron gladiators while the basketball court literally lies neglected?

Their coach won't even let the two teams breathe the same air. Their practice has completely different schedules. Still, the football team must have their own locker. Assholes refuse to share. Football lords over all, and those who dare dribble instead of tackle are deemed unworthy of sharing sacred ground.

These are the thoughts that swirl through Isaac’s head as his footsteps carry him closer to the promised rendezvous spot. He does his best to ignore the occasional stares of some football players as they pass. A shoulder knocks him. He knows it’s on purpose. He ignores that too. He even ignores the laughter and some crude joke that follows the unsuccessful attempt at ruffling his feathers.

He reaches the corner and that’s where Marcus Russo catches up to him. The star quarterback. The cliche of a high school jock. Marcus struts with the swagger that comes from being worshiped for merely existing. Isaac doesn’t know why, but he has given up trying to understand why the world is the way it is a long time ago.

He avoids direct eye contact when Marcus passes Isaac and glances back at him over his pad-clad shoulder. Marcus hates everyone on the basketball team. Even Alex. And Alex is as sweet as they come.

Isaac believes that’s the end of his brief encounter with the school’s biggest douchebag when Marcus turns away.

And then it comes.

"Faggot," Marcus’s slur cuts through the hallway chatter as he continues to strut like he owns this school. And maybe he lowkey does—his father donates quite a lot.

Isaac’s mind freezes, the word hooking into his flesh, yanking at the stitches that hold together the remnants of his dignity. Several boys titter. Isaac knows better to keep on quietly walking. Instead, he watches Marcus’s back while the insult echoes off the walls.

The shame blossoms, its roots entangled with the secret that festers in the hidden parts of Isaac’s soul. To retaliate is to affirm the loathsome title, to wear it openly rather than beneath the layers where he hides his torment.

If he fights back, he validates their scorn. If he stays silent, he swallows the poison, letting it corrode him from within.

But the thing is Isaac’s already damaged in the worst way possible. What’s a slur from some guy at school?

So Isaac chooses silence while his feet carry him mechanically toward the Equipment Room.

There, he lingers in an alcove and away from the sparse foot traffic, waiting, watching the rest of the football team flow toward the locker room. Seconds tick by. Isaac is nervous. He doesn’t want to be here alone for too long. Someone may get suspicious. The text from Alex arrives a little later, informing Isaac Alex is running late because he’s been trying to talk to one of his teachers about making up some tests for a better grade. And the teacher is being an ass. Isaac understands. He sends a thumbs-up emoji in response.

The football team begins their exodus from the locker room. Divested of their armor-like uniforms, they now seem more humankind, dressed in typical teenage attire rather than embedded war gear. Even so, Isaac can decipher the truth hidden beneath those facades—a mix of arrogance, egotism, and untreated self-absorption.

Isaac pretends to be on his phone while they bundle past him one by one or in pairs.

Somewhere in the vicinity of the locker room, he hears a muffled whimper that cuts through his racing thoughts. As usual, he chooses to ignore it.

"Stop," the voice trembles, feminine and laced with fear. Barely discernible.

Isaac believes he’s just hearing things. He has a big imagination. That’s how he’s been able to survive in that house for so long.

"Stop it!" the voice pleads again, this time very real.

Isaac wonders what it is. He knows the girls’ locker room is just around the corner. Maybe someone got hurt.

Curiosity pricks at his resolve, drawing him closer to the source—a strange call to witness another chapter of the school's hidden narrative. He edges toward the small hallway and listens. The voice comes from the football locker room, not from the one the girls use across the way, Isaac realizes when there’s another muffled cry followed by a thud.

What are you doing, Isaac?

Why do you care what this jerkwad Marcus does off the field?

And Isaac doesn’t want to care but something nags him from the inside.

He reads distress as he steps toward the locker room.

Peeking in, Isaac's eyes adjust to the sight. There she is, a girl from freshman year I see around sometimes. The two nameless dudes on the team pinned her back against the cold tile and are holding her by her shoulders. And Marcus, the fucking ringleader, stands there, plucking at her blouse buttons with his fingers.

"Let me go, or I'll tell the headmaster," the girl hisses out, her voice a mix of defiance and desperation.

Marcus laughs, a nasty sound devoid of humor. "Headmaster plays golf with my dad," he brags. "And I take what I want, sweetheart."

His hand moves down and he bunches up her skirt and shoves those meaty fingers between her legs.

Isaac feels something within himself fracture.

Isaac's heavy footfalls are a declaration of war as he crosses the room, propelled by a fury that burns hotter than the shame smoldering in his belly. The girl's eyes, wide and pleading, lock onto him.

"Let her go," Isaac commands, voice stripped to its rawest timbre.

Marcus turns, his smirk a grotesque mask of arrogance. "What the fuck are you doing here, faggot?"

"Let. Her. Go."

"Bitch wants to play hero," Marcus shouts at his buddies.

They laugh with him.

Isaac’s fingers curl into fists.

"Or maybe you’re jealous she's getting it first?" Marcus says suggestively. "Get in line up, pussy, if you’re here to get a taste of my dick too."

The insult slashes through Isaac like a blade, drawing forth an anger that taints his vision with shades of scarlet. Time slows, each second elongating as if pulled by the gravity of his wrath.

Isaac sheds his backpack, letting it hit the floor with a thud muted by the pounding of blood in his ears. His fist flies through the air, like a missile seeking destruction, and lands with a sickening crunch against Marcus's cheek.

Marcus staggers. His face twists into something ugly. "Motherfucker!" he yells at Isaac.

Then Marcus swings his hand, heavy and uncoordinated, like a bull charging at red. He misses. Isaac is precise. Fists fly, knuckles branding truths into flesh.

Somewhere in the corner of his eye, he can see the girl wrestling herself out of the asshole’s grip and darting out.

Marcus stumbles again and falls to the floor, his bravado crumbling under the onslaught of Isaac’s blows. Isaac seizes the moment, twisting Marcus's wrist in an iron grip, the same hand that had dared to touch the girl. There's a snap, clean and final—a punctuation mark to end the sentence of Marcus's transgression.

With Marcus whimpering on the floor, Isaac leans down, his whisper an ugly hiss. "Touch anyone without their consent again, and I'll break the other one." It's a promise etched in pain, a vow born from the darkness within him.

He retrieves his backpack from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder and rushes out of the locker room. Heads turn, eyes wide, mouths agape, but Isaac moves past them, untouched and untouchable.