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She stopped to stand in front of him, her eyes falling to peer into his helmet, at the black foam padding lining the inside. She lowered herself to crouch in front of him and placed her hands on his wrists. She looked up, into his face. “Brad, are you okay?”
His eyes lifted to hers, and Isobel felt a surge of terror. Dilated pupils, wide and black, eclipsed almost entirely the bright blue of his irises, so they appeared as no more than thin halos, slim rings of color around two holes of unreflective blackness.
“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, and shook away from her as he stood. Knocked off balance, Isobel stumbled to her feet. He spun from her, moving for the door.
“Brad, wait!”
“Tell them to leave me alone!” he shouted, and ran up the stairs.
Shocked, Isobel watched him retreat through the archway. She ran to catch up, climbing the three steps, only to find her path blocked. Mark. He glared at her, helmet in hand, his face stern and set, a smear of black paint streaked beneath each eye.
Isobel bounced on her toes and strained to see over the padded shelf of his shoulder. She saw Brad nearing the field, watched him brace one hand to his forehead. The air around him seemed to shift and shimmer. Isobel blinked to clear her vision, but that only served to sharpen the dark, snakelike tendrils of oily smoke that now emerged from nothing. Like clouds of violet ink in water, dark figures took form, pouring into shape through the air around him. All at once, several sets of black boots strode forth. Four white-faced figures fell into stride behind him, two on either side, their sharp red smiles gleaming.
“Omigod, Brad!”
Isobel burst forward, but Mark barred her with a thick arm. She struggled against him. He held her, gathering her momentum, then using it to sling her back. Isobel half tripped, half staggered down the stairs again, catching herself against one wall.
“I don’t know what you did,” he said, “but just stay away from him.”
Isobel stared at him in stunned silence, long enough to watch him turn his back. She waited only one moment more, then rushed forward, up the stairs and out, determined to bolt past him. He must have heard the beat of her sneakers, though, or maybe he’d expected her to try something, because he swung around. Dropping his helmet, he caught her, flinging her back with the full force of both arms. Isobel hurtled backward, her arms freewheeling. She hit the concrete, landing on her rear with a decided thud. Grit bit into the palms of her hands.
She cringed and drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth as the burn set in on her skinned palms. Mark glowered down at her, his expression void of either regret or concern. He bent to retrieve his helmet and then, for the third time, he started for the field.
“Mark, wait!” she called, trying to keep the hurt from seeping into her voice. Even if they weren’t friends now, they had been once—at least to some degree.
Isobel struggled to her feet. She caught up to him, hovering a safe distance behind until they were in view of the stands, knowing her chances of getting slugged would be less within the direct sight of parents and coaches. “Listen to me. You don’t understand!”
Her eyes darted between his back and the players collecting on the field. The announcer’s voice echoed over the sound system, reviewing the score. She saw Brad make his way with the other players toward center field. Securing his helmet in place, he clutched it to his head, gripping either side as though he hoped to block out the world. He didn’t look back, and Isobel realized that he could not see the dark forms that trailed him.
“Mark,” she said, catching hold of his arm.
“Get off me!” he shouted, jerking away.
“You have to tell Coach Logan to pull Brad!” she insisted. She caught hold of him again. “You have to!”
“I said, don’t touch me!” he growled.
“Denson!”
They both looked up. Coach Logan marched toward them, a cold wind whipping his fine white hair, reddening the hard set of his already chapped face. “What’s this?” he demanded, gesturing at Isobel as though she were a pet Mark had allowed to follow him.
“Brad told her to leave him alone, but she keeps bugging him anyway,” he said.
“Where’s your coach? Why are you harassing my players?” Coach Logan growled, the hot-iron color in his face getting deeper by the second. “Aren’t you supposed to be over there somewhere?” he asked, gesturing toward where the squad stood regrouping on the sidelines.
Fine, Isobel thought. She’d bypass Mark altogether—go straight to the source.
“You have to pull Brad out of the game!” The words rushed out of her all at once, tumbling one over the other. “Something’s not right. You have to pull him,” she repeated, pointing toward the field.
Now his face turned purple. His jowls started to quiver, and just when Isobel began to wonder whether he might be having a heart attack, he screamed at her, his voice rough and raw from the back of his throat, like a saw blade through steel. “Do I tell you how to cheer!?”
Isobel had to hunker into herself to avoid the flying spit.
“Denson!” he shouted before spinning away to thunder back toward the sidelines, his entire form vibrating with rage. Without another glance, Mark followed, securing his own helmet.
Isobel watched their retreating backs. Helpless, she looked searchingly to the field, another cold wind causing her to shiver.
“Well,” a quiet voice said. It had come from behind her, soft yet scratchy, with that strange static essence. “That went well.”
