Not-So-Dry January

The air in Sydney was thick, filled with smog and an orange-tinted haze from the brutal bushfires. Isaac had just been surfing at Malabar that same morning, and even there the sky was ominous. Everything was hot. He got in the car to head to the club, his Volkswagen was stuffy, leather steering wheel scorching to touch. His SQD Athletica tank top was sticking to his skin the entire drive. He was frequently looking down to make sure there were no sweat patches visible. He was just that type of guy. He had a reputation amongst all the other boys to uphold - that of the perfect, flawless, sculpted blonde God.

Muscles always tightly defined, constantly thinking about his skinfolds during his break, even while scoffing bread and pasta in Europe for his post-season trip. Bright blonde hair always perfectly-shaped. Straight teeth always glistening white and speck-less. Clothes always ironed and clean-smelling. Scent always crisp and fragrant (it's David Beckham, if you must know.)

So no, he could not be the guy who walked into the club with sweat patches under his arms, beneath his pecs, across his stomach ridges... just nowhere. That wasn't Isaac. His team-mates would roast him, and he'd never live it down.

But on this particular day, it was so damn hot, that the sweat patches were inevitable. And he knew he would not be alone. There were other boys at the club that would also be showing real signs of struggle in the scorching heat. Hell, Ryan Clarke and Will Hayward seemed to wear their sweat patches like a badge of honour.

But. Not. Isaac.

He was anxious, quickly getting his duffle bag out of the car, hoisting it over his shoulder, and walking across the carpark to the main entrance of the SCG, head down, trying to remain inconspicuous, or better still, anonymous.

But that is hard to do when you have a full head of bright blonde hair, practically shining like a beacon in the hot summer sun.

"Oi, Heens," he heard come from behind him. He froze in fear, but kept his head down, refusing to turn around and acknowledge the obvious greeting that had come his way. God, he was being so stupid. It took him a few seconds to work through the paralysis and figure out that it was none other than Buddy Franklin, quite possibly the worst team-mate who could possibly catch Isaac looking like such a mess.

Buddy was undoubtedly the head honcho of the squad. When Buddy said 'jump', half a dozen other boys would say 'how high.' When Buddy told a joke that wasn't even that funny, the boys in his immediate vicinity would practically burst a kidney trying to produce their best attempt at genuine laughter. And when Buddy decided to roast someone, that someone would become the object of the entire squad's roasting for as long as Buddy considered it interesting.

So no, it was not ideal that Isaac had been caught in such an uncharacteristically-dishevelled state by Buddy of all people.

"Hey mate," Isaac finally mumbled out, tossing his head back to look Buddy directly in the eyes, hoping he wouldn't sense his anxiety.

Buddy finally caught up, standing beside Isaac and getting a glimpse of the blonde lad. "Shit, bit burnt there?" He said with a cheeky grin, nudging Isaac in the arm playfully.

"NO," Isaac blurted out more aggressively than he planned, initially unaware of what Buddy was talking about before clueing on that he was referring to his flushed face. Buddy was instantly taken aback, though he just assumed Isaac was in a bad mood. Problems with his missus, most likely. But Buddy won't lie, it pissed him off that his younger team-mate was taking hit shitty out on him.

Then Buddy got a proper look at Isaac - the blonde hair pressed against his damp forehead, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead, the slight sweat moustache that was forming above his upper lip, the definite sweat patches evident through his tank top. "Oh shit, since when did you struggle in the heat?" Buddy asked genuinely, and Isaac was really too embarrassed to appreciate Buddy's sincerity in this moment, especially considering it was not to last long. "What happened to 'Isaac, Son of God'?" Buddy cackled to himself, and Isaac only plunged deeper into humiliation as he remembered the inside joke he and Buddy had, when he wore a bed sheet from a massage table at the club as a toga and pretended to be Thor, flexing his muscles and loving the attention he was getting from Buddy. He loved getting the validation from his mates. A lot of people mistook it as vanity, but really it was just vital self-esteem-boosting that he needed to get through each day.