boys don't cry. [h.s]

one

January.

"Late again," Harry chided. Isabel scowled, swiping her card through the machine to indicate she'd started her shift. 

He was lounging across the sofa, already in his red polo shirt and phone in hand as always, smiling up at her with wide, mischievous eyes. Isabel glared at him and marched over to her locker, already irritated. 

"I'm not even late," she retorted, pointing proudly to the wall clock to show him that she had in fact arrived with about thirty seconds to spare before her shift started.

"Not my fault you're always so fucking early."  Harry grinned widely, watching as she paused in the act of putting her bag and coat away to lean against the metal door of the locker and shut her eyes, hit with a sudden, threatening tidal wave of nausea. 

"That's a first. You really should swap this shift you know," he continued, and when Isabel opened her eyes she saw he was smirking but looking down at his phone, already losing interest. 

She gritted her teeth. "I can't swap this shift, this is one of the few days I don't have a lecture," she snapped at him, and her tone only widened his smirk. 

"Just saying," he replied brightly, not bothering to look up at her.

She slammed her locker shut, wincing at the sound, and stormed off to the employee bathroom to put on her polo shirt.  For Isabel, Wednesday mornings were absolutely the worst days to work, least of all because Digital, the club favoured by her circle of friends, held a student night on Tuesday evenings which meant she was, without fail, horribly hungover.

Tuesday also happened to be her busiest day at uni, which meant she always had a mountain of work to do seeing as she'd gone out the night before. But mostly, nobody in their right mind went bowling on a Wednesday morning, which meant that she was left alone with Harry Styles in the shoe booth for six hours. 

Isabel's dislike for him wasn't rampant enough that it often crossed her mind once she left work – she didn't care that much – but it wasn't her fault that he made it his mission to exasperate her, and the worst part was that he always succeeded. Always. 

She'd met too many guys like him – most of her boyfriend's mates were the same – that arrogant, self-assured smirk plastered to his face, that underlying air of smugness that meant he blatantly thought he could get any girl he laid eyes on.

He teased Isabel constantly, always grinning as if he knew something she didn't, and it wasn't even as though his teasing was in an effort to flirt with her, or form some sort of friendship; most of the time he did it out of boredom, looking down at his phone or with one headphone in.

And if being an arrogant prick wasn't enough, Harry was also a kiss-ass prick, the boss' absolute favourite employee, always arriving five minutes early, working harder than everyone else put together, and exuding enthusiasm that should have been criminal for someone working in a bowling alley.  

When Isabel emerged from the bathroom, she decided Harry must have headed to the shoe booth already as the only people left in the room were Chris, the lanky redheaded boy who was responsible for patrolling the alleys, and a small mousy girl who worked in another part of the complex, probably in the burger joint judging by the look of absolute despair etched on her face.   Isabel went back over to her locker to get out her book and headphones, and promptly tripped over someone's bag, flailing with a yelp and nearly falling headfirst into the bin.  

"Bloody fucking shit," she panted, stumbling to her feet with burning cheeks, sneaking an embarrassed glance over at Chris only to catch him coughing into his hand in poorly disguised laughter.