Words Over the Turf

The campus simmered with low-key tension as Sports Day loomed on the horizon, still a week off, practice sessions ramping up across the fields. The football turf buzzed with routine drills—whistles shrieking, cleats pounding, the air thick with sweat and clipped shouts. Bryce stood near the sidelines, green eyes narrowed, shoulder pads glinting under the late afternoon sun. His team was running plays, a standard practice, no rival squads today—just their own guys, prepping for the big event. He barked orders, voice rough and steady, green eyes tracking the ball as it snapped.

Elliot hadn't meant to stop. He'd cut across the field from the library, sketchpad tucked under his arm, head down, ocean-blue eyes tracing the grass to dodge the noise. The clamor grated—too loud, too close—but a bench near the sidelines caught him, and he sank onto it, telling himself he'd leave soon. He didn't care about football, didn't want to watch, but Bryce was out there, and some dumb, quiet part of him couldn't walk away.

Bryce jogged to the water table, grabbing a bottle, green eyes restless as he scanned the field. Ryan jogged up beside him, wiping sweat from his brow, grinning wide. "You're killing it, Callahan," he said, voice loud over the drills. "Ready to smash Westfield next week?"

Bryce snorted, squirting water into his mouth, green eyes glinting. "Yeah," he said, voice gruff, rough with edge. "I won't let a fag like Carter win. No way that creep's taking it." The words spilled out, sharp and casual, venom lacing the slur like it was nothing—just heat, just trash talk.

Elliot froze, ocean-blue eyes widening, the sketchpad slipping in his grip. The phrase hit like a blade—"I won't let a fag win"—cutting through the field's hum, clear and cruel from the water table just yards away. He hates it, he thought, breath hitching, panic clawing up his throat. He hates me. The fear crashed in, heavy and cold, and then it came—a flash, sharp and jagged: headlights slicing through rain, his mother's scream swallowed by a crunch, the world flipping black. Then a shift—wood splintering, a fist slamming down, his own small voice choking, "Stop," lost under a roar. His chest seized, the memory blurring—pain, red and raw, a shadow looming over him—and he gasped, hands trembling, denting the bench's edge as he shoved it back down.

Bryce didn't see him, didn't know he'd heard—green eyes still on Ryan, who laughed, clapping his shoulder. "Yeah, screw that guy," Ryan said, oblivious, jogging back to the line. Bryce smirked, tossing the bottle aside, and rejoined the drill, slamming into a play like nothing had happened. The field roared on, teammates shouting, but Elliot couldn't move, couldn't breathe right. Fag, he thought, the word looping, Bryce's disgust dripping from it. He'd hate me. He'd hurt me. The fear was old, carved into him, a terror from nights he couldn't face—nights of rain and fists and silence.

He stood, shaky, sketchpad clutched tight, and stumbled away, legs wobbling under him. The field blurred—shouts fading, grass smearing—and he found a corner near the bleachers, sinking against the metal, head down. His ocean-blue eyes shimmered, wet and wide, staring at the ground. Distance, he thought, mantra frail now, splintering under the weight. He can't know. He'd hate me. The ache was small, pitiful, a boy too scared to lift his head, too broken to run far—curled tight, trembling, a shadow of something lost.

Bryce kept moving, green eyes fierce, shoving into drills like he could outrun something—Jace's smirk in his mind, Elliot's "Don't," the sulky ache he'd nursed all week. He didn't see Elliot, didn't catch the flinch, the way those ocean-blue eyes had cracked. Carter's a fag, he thought, slamming a blocking pad too hard, anger spilling out. It was just talk, just heat, but it felt good to say it, to push something away.

Practice stretched on, the sun dipping low, shadows creeping across the turf. Elliot stayed curled against the bleachers, breath shallow, the words still burning. I won't let a fag win, he thought, and the flash flickered again—rain on glass, a fist crashing down, his own voice lost in the dark. He pressed his palms to his eyes, willing it away, but it stuck, pathetic and heavy, a boy too small to fight back. He'd hate me, he thought, chest aching, and the distance he'd built felt like sinking now, cold and bottomless.

Bryce peeled off his helmet as practice wound down, green eyes restless, scanning the sidelines without knowing why. He spotted Ryan jogging over, grin wide, clapping his shoulder. "You're a beast, man," Ryan said, laughing. "Carter's toast next week."

"Yeah," Bryce grunted, voice rough, wiping sweat from his brow. "He's not winning shit." But his eyes drifted, catching a glimpse—Elliot, alone by the bleachers, head down, shoulders hunched like he was caving in. Something twisted in Bryce's chest, sharp and uninvited, that sad look from the quad echoing back. What's wrong with him? he thought, green eyes lingering, but the anger flared—He doesn't want me close—and he turned away, stomping toward the locker room.

Elliot didn't move, didn't see Bryce look, ocean-blue eyes fixed on the ground, the sketchpad unopened in his lap. The slur echoed, Bryce's voice behind it, and the fear swallowed him—small, pitiful, a boy who'd lost too much to risk more. He can't know, he thought, trembling, and the cracks widened, silent and deep, as the field emptied around him.