Chapter Text
A consistent chatter hovered over the cold silver bleachers, some of it becoming a murmur in your ear from how much you cared to listen… Heads up… You really didn’t. Some rumble erupted underneath your feet and pulled your gaze towards, yet again, another rolling water bottle falling under the seats and down the metal structure. Was your eye twitching? You felt like it was at this point if you had to watch any more of this.
“Did you really not want to come to the game *that* badly?” The girl beside you shot a look with a raised brow, chuckling ridiculously as she watched you groan again… just like the groan from 2 minutes ago. You felt your eyes simply roll, countering her chuckle with some last minute quip you can think of.
“I honestly could care less if they threw another flag on the play.” The words roll off your tongue with a scoff, hunching over to prop your elbows on your knees to watch the lame ass game. The Friday Night Lights were burning your retinas at this point, the bright white feeling almost sterile over the football field. It wasn’t even half time yet, but it somehow felt this whole ordeal was taking years to get over with.
Julia, the same girl and your closest friend since you moved to this small, fucking, town, leaned over to shake your knees. Her grin was cheshire-like, trying to drag your attention back onto the game she dragged you to. She was leaning against your frame at this point. rubbing her cheek against your arm in some odd attempt to brighten the mood. It was kinda working. You just felt another scoff leave your lips at her affection, but she never took it to heart. At least, you hoped so.
“Heeeey, but like, you haven’t been to your first high school football game! So, like, try to enjoy it a little bit. Yeah?” She giggled as Julia continued her skinship towards you. Your shoulder pushes up into a shrug, chuckling at her oddly endearing nature before nudging her away… Personal space and what not…
“Football isn’t my thing, that’s all.” Your answer was simple. It was always too crowded at your old school to watch the games. It seemed like your Dad was the only person interested in the sport. There goes another sigh leaving your mouth. “Plus, I have no clue who any of the players are. Like what’s the point of showing up to a game I have no clue who’s playing.”
The game was whatever. Cheerleaders from the home school were shouting in front of the section of the bleachers, adorned in this odd pattern of green and white outfits and too tight of ponytails matching the ‘fit. You two opted to sit on the outskirts of the bleacher section, giving Julia enough closeness to cheer on her school’s football team, and satisfy your need of being away from a bunch of strangers. Julia’s giggle cut through your observations and long-distance staring, forcing you to shoot her another skeptical, yet joking, look.
“You should really transfer to school here! Like, it would be way easier. We could spend more time together!” She shot a grin at you. It was the kind of look that would inspire Disney Channel to make a series based on her. Yet, it was contagious enough to smile along with her, but you immediately waved it off
“No way. I think I’m challenged enough with my home-schooling program.” The blonde seemed to roll around in her seat and groan more, trying to buddy up with you closer to change your mind. Your head was shaking with a low chuckle witnessing her more questionable, yet playful nature. Looking out to the football field, all the students looked close knit with each other. Julia told you South Park was a small town. Everyone grew up together, so the idea of joining the place so late didn’t really settle in your stomach well.
Screaming from the middle of the field caught the duo’s attention. It was some tubby looking guy arguing on the field with the referee. The rest of the team watched with a deadpanned stare, stopping to walk, while you could only assume the team captain was trying to calm him down. Then both of them were arguing with the referee. This is great. Amazing even!
You could feel your eye twitching again.
Somehow, beautiful Julia simply laughed, watching the altercation on the field play out like it was a regular broadcast of her favorite show. Your head did a double take, hand flying up to point at the odd-ass scene.
“--Or like, doesn’t your school have a weird reputation for something? Like, I’m so sure my cousin told me nothing normal happens here.”
“Oh! Your cousin goes here–?”
Julia’s voice gets drowned out by the chants of her classmates, cheering on what is now a fist-fight on the field between the fatass guy and the other team. All you can hear is “FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT,” but all you can think is “what the absolute fuck.” Julia’s hand taps the bottom of your chin, prompting you to close your mouth. Didn’t think you had that open to begin with… It’s a mix of chants, cheers, flesh hitting helmet or some other exposed skin, and some other shout that catches your attention. Your eyes can’t help but scan the crowd for the source.
On the sideline besides the cheerleaders and the rest of the football team sat a group on a golf cart? It was a small bunch, looking like three people from different grades, standing with those stupid green Gatorade bottles that found themselves at every sports game. The other two were proudly cheering on their chunky linebacker to win the fight, but the last one… He looked pissed as fuck.
Yet something about him just draws your eyes to his figure. Maybe it’s something about the red messy curls on top of his head, or how he’s wearing a dark green varsity jacket that shapes his shoulders so nicely–
“KNOCK IT OFF, FATASS! CARTMAN, YOU’RE GOING TO COST US THE GAME. WHAT THE FUCK!”
Scratch that, it’s definitely his yelling.
For the first time since watching a sports game, your eyes stay steady on his figure. Your head tilts ever so slightly to get a closer look at him. That’s kinda your fault, you wanted to sit at the back section of the bleachers away from all the students. To get a better look at him, you squint your eyes, faintly catching the text on the back of his letterman.
Brovflovski? What language is that?