Running with Lions

by Julian Winters

  The world shouldn’t be like that; people shouldn’t be irrationally unaccepting. But it’s an argument people like Emir have fought through for way longer than Sebastian’s been aware of it. He’s not blind to his own privilege. He’s never faced any prejudice for his skin color, his blondish-brown hair, or his parents’ casual relationship with religion. His sexuality is protected by his teammates and coaches. But Sebastian’s aware that to blindly hate a race, religion, sexuality, gender, or whatever is the purest form of prejudice.

  Sebastian needs a subject change: “Did I ever tell you about how I barely made the team?”

  Emir tilts his head to expose a smile.

  “Oh, yeah, super boring story, but—”

  Emir rests his head on Sebastian’s shoulder as Sebastian recounts his first year as a Lion. Drops of water sit on Emir’s face, like warm, wet stars. His eyes close; his lashes flutter every few words. Sebastian checks occasionally for Emir’s facial reactions, but he’s at peace.

  “I shouldn’t tell you this,” says Emir. They’re face to face now. He whispers, “I came to a few games, to watch you.”

  The water’s still hot, so that could explain Emir’s flushed cheeks, but Sebastian’s betting it’s a different reason.

  “You’re amazing. If I could be half the player you are, then I’d impress Abbu.”

  Sebastian tries to swallow the fact that he’s spent his childhood reading about heroes and here he is, a hero to Emir. His nervous hands rest on Emir’s hips. “You came to my games?”

  Emir nods, sheepishly, but he’s not meeting Sebastian’s stare.

  “Emi—”

  “I never hated you, but seeing you move on—it was hard.”

  Words are knotted in Sebastian’s throat. He’s never going to say the right thing, so he drops a kiss on the tip of Emir’s nose.

  Emir’s eyes go freakishly wide; his eyebrows nearly touch his hairline. “Um, what?”

  “What?”

  “You just,” Emir pauses, choking with laughter. “The nose kiss?”

  “What kiss?”

  Emir’s mouth twists wryly, but he whispers, “Okay, Bastian,” in a tone that says he completely accepts Sebastian’s loser status, his inability to be smooth about anything.

  Sebastian goes for broke, curls a finger under Emir’s chin, and angles his face so he can plant a soft peck on Emir’s mouth. Emir kisses back. They’re learning how to do this without fumbling.

  Emir pulls back. “We can’t stay here forever,” he says.

  “According to whom?”

  More words almost make it out of Emir’s mouth, but Sebastian swoops in for another kiss. The water is turning cold, and Emir might be right.

  After their shower, Sebastian is at his locker, unsuccessfully yanking out the things he wants, while Emir towels off. He’s been distracted by the hawk inked between the wings of Emir’s shoulders. He wants a tattoo. But the little voice in the back of his head screams permanent, and he chickens out. And, he’s seen a YouTube video called “World’s Worst Tattoos,” and that led to a dark YouTube-video-vortex he hasn’t recovered from.

  He finally pulls his team hoodie from his locker. “Here.” Sebastian shoves it at Emir. It’s wrinkled, but clean, unlike some of the other clothes in his locker.

  “For me?”

  Sebastian’s fingers clench in the soft cotton as he shakes his hoodie at Emir. “Just take it, dude,” he says, exasperated. He’s not sure if it’s an aesthetic kink or simply sentimental, but Sebastian wants to see Emir in his hoodie.

  Emir slips on the hoodie. “It’s kind of big.” It’s true. The sleeves are too long; extra material puckers around his midsection. But Emir’s irresistible while biting his lower lip.

  Across the back of the hoodie is HUGHES in blocky gold lettering. Sebastian likes it.

  He gathers their smelly lake clothes and towels into his assigned laundry bag before dumping it in the cart near the entrance. Emir pulls on his sneakers, then fiddles with the hoodie’s sleeves, tugging them over his knuckles. He disrupts his perfectly messy hairstyle with a hand.

  “Ready?” Sebastian asks.

  “I guess.”

  “We can’t stay here forever,” Sebastian tells him.

  Emir rubs at his stubble. He says, “According to whom?” with his tongue caught between his white teeth.

  They’re still damp from the shower. Sebastian wiggles his fingers at his side. He’s having a “should I or shouldn’t I” moment. Their hands brush. He sighs.

  “Just do it,” says Emir. The world outside of the locker rooms is dark, but the sky is gray with moonlight.

  Sebastian holds Emir’s hand.

  19

  Sebastian is trying to process his incredibly bad skill in dissolving the awkwardness between them in a poetic or romantic way, proving he learned nothing from Sam’s insufferable love for The Notebook. Their hands swing between them as if this isn’t weird, as if they weren’t at each other’s throats that first morning in Emir’s cabin. He’s afraid to get too comfortable.

  “You’re quiet,” says Emir.

  Crickets chirp their nightly hymns. An owl hoots at the stars. Sebastian is leading them through the dark toward Emir’s cabin. He wants to say something impressive.

  Emir whispers, “Shit,” and, well, that’s definitely not a good start, but—

  Sebastian squints at a flashlight flickering up ahead. Someone fumbles through the trees and bushes, moving in their direction. He can make out just enough of the man’s shape; it’s Coach Rivera.

  Sebastian’s heart is trying to make out with his trachea. He forgets Emir’s holding his hand until Emir’s fingers squeeze uncomfortably around his own. Emir’s having a quiet panic attack, but Sebastian can handle this. It’s like being on the pitch, anticipating the other player’s next move.

  “We’re gonna die.”

  “Emir,” Sebastian says.

  But Emir’s already mumbling, “We’re gonna get kicked out of camp, off the team, I can’t bloody believe it.”

  The light is getting closer.

  Sebastian whispers, “Look, go behind those trees. You’re skinny enough; he won’t see you.”

  “Hey, I’m not—”

  “Dude.” Sebastian is already turning Emir with one hand and has his other on the small of Emir’s back, pushing. “Now is not the time to argue.” Rivera’s rooting through bushes. He hasn’t pinpointed them yet, but Sebastian doesn’t like to gamble. “Go,” he says with a hiss.

  Emir trips over a few rocks on his way to the trees.

  Sebastian should be worried about Emir’s safety, but he’s on the verge of his own mini-avalanche of anxiety. So, he squares his shoulders, shields his eyes against the shine of Rivera’s flashlight, and accepts that he’s gone from “responsible one” to complete delinquent.

  “Hughes?” Rivera pauses mid-step, then shouts, “Hughes!” while stumbling up to him.

  Sebastian gives a carefree wave; his other hand is trembling. He smiles his best I’m innocent smile for Rivera. “What’s up, Coach?” he says around the lump in his throat. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

  Rivera’s thick eyebrows descend. “It’s past curfew, Hughes.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “What’re you doing out this way?” Rivera sniffs, as if he’s going to catch alcohol on Sebastian’s breath or, worse, a hint of weed. Sebastian isn’t offended; he’s flattered that Rivera categorizes him as that guy. He sticks his chin out proudly when Rivera takes a step back.

  “It’s late, Hughes.”

  Sebastian nods.

  “Why are you, out of all the chicos, out past curfew?” When Rivera’s tired or exasperated, his words drift between English and Spanish.

  Sebastian rubs at his abdomen. “Had a big dinner tonight, so I needed a run to burn off t
he calories.” He’s amazed at how well he’s done keeping his voice casual, especially since his stomach’s doing back handsprings.

  “Sí,” says Rivera, nodding, “Entiendo.”

  Sebastian slouches, relief giving him a reason to smile genuinely. That is, of course, until Rivera drops a heavy hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

  “It’s tough, mijo, being as good as you are,” he says, gruff and serious, but also kind. “I hate to be the bad guy, but we depend on you. Your teammates, the coaches, all of us. You’re our rock.”

  Sebastian knows. “Yeah.” He scuffs one of his Converse on a nearby pebble. A running list of people who depend on Sebastian Hughes exists somewhere. It’s made up of Willie, Mason, his sister Carly, Emir, and his teammates.

  At least Rivera doesn’t sugarcoat it, unlike everyone else. But no pressure, right?

  “Hey,” Rivera says, still squeezing Sebastian’s shoulder, “Have you seen Shah anywhere? We’re doing bed checks, making sure you guys aren’t getting out of hand.”

  Sebastian fidgets.

  Rivera is shorter than Sebastian but still manages to look down at him. “Give it up, Hughes,” he says. “A couple of sophomores were puking in the bushes an hour ago.”

  Shit. Sebastian doesn’t want details on who got caught. He’s overwhelmed with guilt. He should have stuck around, made sure all the guys went straight to their cabins after the bonfire.

  Instead, he was skinny-dipping, making out, and being reckless.

  Rivera waits.

  “Maybe he’s out on a walk?” Rocking on his heels, Sebastian rubs the side of his neck. “He’s the homesick type. I’ve heard this is his first time away from home. That’s always weird for people.”

  Rivera seems far from convinced. Sebastian doesn’t blame him.

  “We grew up together,” Sebastian explains. “He freaks out in new places. Getting him to chill out during sleepovers was always hell.”

  “Is he going to be any good for our team?”

  Sebastian hates the high-pitched glee in his voice when he says, “He’s going to be great, if we can get his attitude in check.”

  Rivera’s laugh is rumbly, like a bear’s. He says, “I trust your judgment, Hughes. You’ll help us make him into something, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” Rivera says. He aims his flashlight at Sebastian’s face so the harsh white blinds him. “Now get to your cabin, and I won’t report to Patrick about you breaking curfew.”

  When Rivera threatens to replace him with Jack if he’s caught again, Sebastian nods. Like hell! Jack couldn’t replace me. He doesn’t say it; the ice he’s treading is already thin.

  “Okay,” he says. His heart finally returns to its former position when Rivera walks away.

  “Is the coast clear?”

  Sebastian peeks around before nodding.

  “Were you scared?” asks Emir, picking leaves and twigs from his clothes as he walks up.

  “Of being caught?”

  “No, of the dark, you chicken shit.”

  Sebastian chuckles. This whole night has been way too weird for his poor teenage heart. First Mason, then Emir, now Coach Rivera. If anything else happens, they’re going to have to airlift him to Bloomington Medical Hospital.

  “Whatever,” he says, automatically taking Emir’s hand in his own.

  “I heard you, Bastian,” Emir says. His voice is a nice interruption to their silence on their walk to Emir’s cabin. “You told Rivera I was homesick. And that you used to look after me.”

  Sebastian hums. He doesn’t regret it, but he says, “Did it make you mad?” because he’s not about to be a dick about it.

  “Yes,” Emir says. Then he shakes his head. “It didn’t. It’s just…”

  Waiting, Sebastian steps over a chunky brown rock. But Emir doesn’t finish. He squeezes Sebastian’s hand, like Morse code. If Emir doesn’t say anything, Sebastian’s cool with that. Obviously, they each have their own issues with the whole “right words to say” thing.

  There’s a very awkward moment at Emir’s door. Should he hug Emir and leave? Should there be a goodnight kiss? Sebastian has mostly applied these rules and protocol to girls he’s dated. He and Emir aren’t dating, haven’t done the whole “date” thing, but one thing is certain: letting Emir’s hand go isn’t high on his priority list.

  Sebastian does let go, however, because of clammy palms and the lack of circulation in his fingers. Now his hand is cold. And he hasn’t made a move to do anything.

  Emir pecks a dry kiss on his cheek. Well, that was pretty simple.

  “Thanks,” Emir says, his hip angled against the door.

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know.” Emir looks at his feet. “But thanks.”

  Sebastian’s chest is rapidly filling with warmth. He hastily says, “Goodnight,” and turns away before he makes a complete ass of himself. Then he stumbles on a small rock. The temptation to peek over his shoulder, just in case Emir is watching him, is diluted by his surprisingly strong will—or his utter mortification.

  Once he gets to his cabin, Sebastian’s smiling so dorkily, he’s considering facial reconstruction.

  Willie is laid out like a lazy starfish, head tipped back, openmouthed and snoring with dried drool on his chin. Sebastian kicks off his shoes just as Willie mumbles, “You’ll always be my favorite, Bastian.”

  That reminder from the bonfire reemerges—he was such a tool about Willie’s crush.

  Willie turns away, hugging his pillow. How did I ignore him? Willie, the selfless, nonjudgmental idiot, didn’t give Sebastian crap about Emir. Willie kept his secret. He never pointed out Sebastian’s mistakes. And he did all of that while crushing on Sebastian from afar.

  Willie is perfect. Perfect for Hunter, not Sebastian, but that’s great, too.

  Sebastian whispers, “You’ll always be my favorite, too,” and something in his chest relaxes when Willie replies, “Mace says we can’t pick favorites.”

  “That’s ’cause Mason is nobody’s favorite.”

  “True that.”

  Willie’s voice is dreamy instead of croaky, as if he is sleep-talking. It’s a good talk either way. Sebastian strips off his shirt, but leaves his shorts on. He climbs into bed.

  It takes him a while to fall asleep, and that’s the one thing about tonight that is routine.

  20

  The next afternoon isn’t one of Sebastian’s better moments. It’s not bad, but it’s not on his top ten either.

  Training camp has its benefits. Extra practices produce wickedly defined calves. The sun leaves his skin more deeply tanned: not quite sun-kissed gold, but acceptable. He doesn’t have awkward shoulders anymore, either. There are honest, real moments when it seems as if he’s becoming someone.

  But right now, Sebastian isn’t in love with his reflection. His cheeks are still full and round like a toddler’s. In the sun’s halo, the smudges under his eyes give him the look of a zombie. His jaw isn’t square or round, just odd. Oh, and his nose is awkwardly-shaped.

  “You’re good enough for them.”

  It’s his mantra, along with “You’re good enough for the team, for your peers, for him” and “Those days are gone.” It’s okay to give yourself a pep talk, for the sake of self-esteem. Also, it alleviates just enough pressure in his chest so that Sebastian can breathe.

  Until, of course, his eyes spot how soft the skin around his belly is. His shaky hands grab at it. Christ. The familiar sting at the corner of his eyes only exacerbates his hyperventilating. A balloon is expanding in his chest.

  Every word in his head is “Bastian the Trashcan” in those haunting bullies’ voices. Why?

  “What are you doing?”

  Sebastian freezes, mid-breath, with his hands on his belly. He thought he’d locked the door. Emir is s
taring at Sebastian—no, staring at Sebastian’s hands on his bare belly.

  Sebastian says, “Nothing,” in a tight voice. He has no idea how long Emir has been standing there: what he’s seen, what he’s heard. Sebastian’s defenses are up; his body is half-tilted away from Emir’s view. “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing,” Emir repeats. He steps inside, shutting the door.

  Sweat builds across Sebastian’s brow. He’s scared. Sebastian is a million things, but scared is the only label he can find.

  “What’s wrong?” Emir steps closer, and Sebastian wants to retreat. But Emir’s dilated, concerned eyes force Sebastian to suck in a shaky breath and stay put.

  “Don’t worry about it, okay?” Sebastian twists a hand in his hair. “I shouldn’t have skipped our morning run to let you, um—”

  “You mean when I—”

  “Yes,” Sebastian cuts in, flinching. His eyes are watery, and he doesn’t get how Emir is so confident. He’s not cocky, but he acts as though he doesn’t give a shit. And Sebastian is just—he lacks that.

  What really sucks is, now he’s ruining what happened between them this morning. The sky was still bright pink when he crawled through the window and let Emir drag him to bed for morning kisses. Sebastian’s fumbling hands highlighted his lack of sexual experience with boys, but Emir didn’t seem to mind. And now he’s wrecking it all.

  “I’m fine.”

  Emir presses against Sebastian’s back and circles him with his arms. His unblinking eyes stare at Sebastian’s in the mirror. “Bastian.”

  “Let’s just drop—”

  “Sebastian William Hughes,” says Emir in a voice eerily like Lily’s.

  Sebastian winces. He lets Emir move Sebastian’s cold, shaky hands away and replace them with his own. Emir’s hands are warm and affectionate, smoothing Sebastian’s unnerved center.

  Sebastian chokes, “I’m not—”

  Struggling with this doesn’t make it out of his mouth. He doesn’t let people see him like this. “I’m okay.”