Sidelines

Part title

"Hi, baby, everything alright?" Comes her greeting. It makes Harry's shoulders relax, just hearing her voice.

"Hey mom, just wanted to talk to you." Harry replies, not wanting to bring his mom into his drama. That's all it takes for her, launching into an in-depth recap of her week and asking Harry about his and that's all he needs, really. They talk for well over an hour, Anne telling Harry all about the boy Gemma has been seeing and Robin's new promotion at work. By the end of it Harry feels a million times better, and he's the one stalling for conversation, but apparently her and Robin are having a date night and she's got to go.

"I love you baby, if you need anything you know you can just call." Anne says warmly.

"Yeah, I know. Hey, you think you could make it to the championship? If we get there?" He asks as an afterthought.

"Of course darling, we wouldn't miss it." Anne promises. Harry grins, warm at the thought of his family coming to see him play. They have before, of course, but it's far and few in between what with practically the entire country separating them.

"Bye mom, love you. I'll talk to you soon." Harry mutters into the phone, sitting up from his spot on the bed.

He shuffles around for his charger once they've hung up, taking a swig from the half-empty water bottle on his nightstand. He sighs to himself and plugs his phone in before stripping off his clothes and laying down in bed. Sometimes he hates himself for choosing a school so far from home, and maybe that makes him a bit of a baby, but even a twenty year-old can miss his mom sometimes, he thinks. He sets his alarm for 4:30 in the bloody morning and dreads the next morning already, groaning to himself as he pulls the covers up to his neck and tries to fall asleep.

-

Practice is fucking hell. Harry runs for almost two hours before he has to stumble off to the locker room and chuck up his meager breakfast, resting his head against the cool bathroom wall and reminding himself that he did this to himself. He knows Louis is still out on the bleachers, pretty winded but over all not about to pass out which Harry thinks is unfair. Eventually he slinks back out, not before rinsing his mouth thoroughly and pissing while he can. Louis is in the process of running up the bleachers while taking large gulps from his third water bottle, his tank top drenched in sweat and his shorts hanging low on his hips.

"Have a good cry in the toilet?" He calls as Harry starts up again, but it's not really mean or bitter, and Harry's able to grimace and ignore it. He gets back to running, going slower this time because Cowell wouldn't be back to check on them for another hour. It's just them and the empty arena, heavy breaths echoing off the walls with no other bodies to absorb them.

Harry had plunged in his phone when they started but it had died much quicker than he would have liked, leaving both boy's with nothing but their own thoughts as they ran. He makes it up and down the whole row six more times before collapsing on the bottom step and trying not to retch again. He hasn't ran this much since his fucking freshman year conditioning, back when he actually kept a steady workout routine and didn't drink nearly as much. He didn't understand how Louis was still going at it, how he hadn't stopped yet even though it's been hours.

He shakes his hair out and takes a long drink of water from his jug, muscles aching as he drags himself back up. Harry wants so bad to make a snarky comment, but refrains himself because he likes living in the Sigma Pi house.

He checks the clock on the far wall. Only half hour until coach comes back, and hopefully his punishment is fulfilled. He ties his hair back into a loose bun to get it out of his face, taking a deep breath before starting up again. The only thing driving him at this point is the fact that if he's not working hard, he'll be working longer. He's at the point of almost collapsing when Cowell comes through the locker room doors, barking at them to come down to them to get their asses down to the court.