It takes some effort, but Sebastian manages not to frown. Willie’s mind-reading talent has probably already figured him out. He asks, “When?”
“Mom’s gonna try to schedule the operation before school starts.”
Sebastian is ripe with sweat, but he doesn’t care; he drops an arm around Willie’s shoulders. “We’ll figure it out.”
“You’ll bring my homework while I recover?”
“Yep. As long as you don’t ask me to help you with Shakespeare.”
“Because you suck at Shakespeare.”
“We both suck at Shakespeare, Willster.”
Willie’s smile tucks into his eyes, creasing the corners. “True story.”
Sebastian rests his chin on the top of Willie’s hair so Willie is half folded in a brotherly embrace. Leave it to Willie to take Sebastian’s mind off a shitty day.
* * *
“Mason Riley, front and center!”
Grey stands at the center of the pitch. She’s wearing a poorly-fitting team uniform, soft curls in a messy ponytail, cleats, and a warrior’s face. It’s very badass.
Most of the team’s spread out on the bleachers, still licking their wounds from practice. They lift their heads as soon as she barks. Gio whispers, “¡Qué mierda!” and Rivera points a warning finger at him with slit eyes.
Grey doesn’t budge. Her hands are on her hips, and a soccer ball is cradled in the crook of her arm.
“She looks scary.” Willie’s in awe.
“She is scary,” Sebastian whispers.
Mason’s sitting cross-legged on the grass with his back to Sebastian, but he’s bug-eyed, slack-jawed, and pale. At least, that’s how Sebastian imagines him.
Grey’s eyes shrink until Sebastian can’t find the green in them.
“Sweet baby Jesus, Mother Mary, and all the freakin’ saints,” says Mason. He chucks his water bottle and scrambles to his feet. His head snaps in Zach’s direction when he and a few others hum “Build Me Up, Buttercup,” and they quickly go quiet. If his iron-stiff shoulders tell anything, Sebastian would conclude that Mason’s pissed, and a little afraid too.
“What’s she gonna do?”
“I don’t know,” Sebastian says to Willie. “But I’m gonna like it.”
“What the hell…” Mason stops short of Grey. “…are you doing?”
Grey’s lips twitch. She’s not fazed by Mason’s hissing or flailing arms. She has reached hardcore, superhero levels of greatness.
“Grace—”
“I’m done with your bullshit, Riley.”
“Uh, language.” Kyle chortles from three levels below Sebastian, who flings his empty water bottle at the back of Kyle’s head. He’s pleased when Willie chuckles.
“Okay, okay.” Mason raises his hands, palms facing out as if he’s surrendering. “Point taken. You’re a big girl, and I’m—”
“Going to have a scrimmage game with me, right here and now. One-on-one.” Grey spins the soccer on one finger. “First goal wins, and winner calls their prize.”
Mason tosses his arms up like a Muppet and shouts incredulously, “You’re so weird!”
“If I win, we go on a date.”
A couple of catcalls and some wolfish yells of “You go girl” break out from the players. Willie cheers, spirit fingers and all. Yep, this is going to be awesome and bad.
“Have you lost your mind? Your father is—” Mason waves a hand behind him. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, Coach Patrick is on the bottom bleacher.
Grey clears her throat. “Coach—my dad has been nothing but supportive of me since I was a kid.” Her voice start to rise. “He’s always made sure I had what I needed, and he tells me all the time to go after what I want, no matter the cost.”
Coach squares his shoulders.
“Guess what I want?”
Mason mumbles, “A lobotomy.”
His bitchiness slides right off her back. She’s evolved into Grey two-point-oh. Sebastian tries not to groan at his own geekiness.
“A date, Riley.”
“Oh, wow, isn’t that romantic,” Mason sneers. He snatches the ball from her. His head tips closer. “But when you lose, you back off. For good. No more heart-eyes, flirting, being all weird. I get the same treatment as the other guys, got it?”
Grey flinches. Then she tightens her mouth, nods, and backs away. She’s actually going for it.
“Fifty bucks says he makes her cry.” Jack chuckles.
Gio rolls his eyes. “Twenty says Coach murders him and dumps the body in the lake.”
Mason and Grey stomp away from each other. Coach O’Brien charges onto the field, blowing his whistle. He lays down the rules. “Keep it clean,” he says, glaring at Mason. Grey’s mouth is drawn in a thin line; her eyes are still narrowed at Mason.
Sebastian bets she’ll kick Mason in the junk. He might laugh at that. In fact, he’s leaning in favor of it.
O’Brien clears out of the way. Mason moves like he’s playing a practice squad. He’s lazy. He tries to fake her out by going left, then right. “Come get it, Patrick.”
Grey bites her lip, watching him.
“Silly girl,” teases Mason. “This is the big leagues.”
Grey growls, then goes after him.
Mason has sick tricks and amazing footwork. He’s top in the conference for a reason. But Grey counters everything. She’s on him like a cougar chasing its prey. The team oohs when Mason can’t get around her, and Mason says, “You’re not that great.”
Grey slides a foot between them, tripping him up. It’s legal, so O’Brien doesn’t call her on it. But Mason’s unprepared.
“No shit,” says Smith, whistling.
Before Mason can react, Grey hooks a foot on the ball and sprints in the opposite direction.
Zach cups his hands around his mouth. “Down goes Riley!”
Sebastian bites his knuckles. Okay, he’s a dick for silently rooting for Grey and not for his best friend, but Sebastian’s a sucker for the underdog. Grey’s making him a believer.
“You little brat!” Mason yells, trailing behind Grey, but it’s too late. He’s beat, and Grey is going, going, gone.
The guys are half-stunned as Grey celebrates. They give her a standing ovation. Leave it to Grey to unify this team again.
Sebastian says, “Grey Patrick is a legend.” Today’s a day for the record books. He mentally dubs it The Day Mason Riley Had His Ass Handed to Him by Grey Patrick. It’s long, but catchy.
By the time Mason catches her, he’s wheezing. He collapses in the grass, sprawled like a paralyzed starfish. His hair is sweat-flat across his brow; his cheeks are flushed. The clouds circle over Mason, mocking him.
“So that’s what defeat looks like.” Cracking up, Willie elbows Sebastian’s ribs.
Grey saunters up, hands on her hips, towering over Mason. “I’ve watched you play for years, Riley.” Curls slip from her ponytail, framing her cheeks. “I know you better than you know yourself as a player.”
Mason scuffs the grass with his shoe.
“You’re weak on your left side and way too confident.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re amazing, just not perfect.”
On the bleacher below Sebastian, Rollins and Mikey sit a little taller. Not many people have successfully put Mason Riley in his place. By the start of the season, Sebastian bets the freshmen will be wearing T-shirts with Grey’s face on them.
Mason’s slight head-turn reveals a mouth twitching into a smile. He twists, getting his elbows under him for leverage. “So, what time do you want me to pick you up?”
“Never.” Grey ignores his melodramatic collapse on the green. “For years, I’ve let you be a jerkface because I’m younger. And because I’ve got a crush on you.” Her voice hardens. “It sucks to be me someti
mes, so I don’t need you to rub my face in it.”
Mason’s sputtering.
Grey lifts her foot and presses it lightly against Mason’s chest. “I don’t want a date, Mason. I just want you to know that I accept that I’m young and I’m a weird girl.” Then, she hovers closer. “Also, you just got owned because I’m young and a weird girl.”
Mason thumps his head against the grass. “Wait, what?”
Grey’s already stepping over him. She scoops up the ball and turns it between her hands. A true badass. After all, Grey just flushed Mason’s reputation down the toilet. Her eyes meet Sebastian’s, and she mouths “Grey freaking Patrick.”
Sebastian’s lips split into a smile.
“That’s it boys, hit the showers! Dinner’s in a few.” Coach’s voice is stern. Grey sidles up to him. Coach hooks a big arm around her small shoulders. He whispers to her, and Grey shakes with laughter as they leave the pitch. The team follows.
“Epic,” Willie says, standing carefully.
“A classic!” Hunter swoops in out of nowhere to help Willie.
Sebastian starts down the bleachers. His feet slow when his eyes find Emir, waiting: tightly-wound frame, shoulders hunched, hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts. The pinch of his mouth pulls his cheeks inward. His chin is lowered defiantly, but their eyes still meet.
“What’s wrong?”
“Don’t do that again,” Emir says, voice scratchy, angry. “I don’t need anyone saving me.”
“I didn’t—”
Emir cuts Sebastian off. “I’ve dealt with this for years, okay? Who cares if people don’t like me or want to be around me?”
Sebastian’s not expecting this. He still doesn’t know what to expect with him. Will it be a scowling Emir or maybe a laughs-at-all-of-Sebastian’s-stupid-jokes Emir?
“I’m not here to make friends,” Emir says gruffly; the edges of his mouth are tight. Obviously, Sebastian’s done nothing but piss Emir off since day one. “I’m here for my dad, that’s it. If you’re guilty over what happened a long time ago, don’t drag me into it. We stopped being friends, and I survived.”
Trying to lower his anger to a simmer, Sebastian flexes his fingers.
“Don’t be a hero.”
And that’s what makes his blood boil. This isn’t all his fault. Doesn’t Emir get that? It’s Sebastian’s job to play peacemaker. He’s been doing this since way before Emir decided to try out. It hasn’t changed. Sebastian hasn’t changed.
“Fine.” An ache throbs from Sebastian’s temples to his eye sockets. “Do whatever, mate, ’cause I just—I don’t know what the hell I was doing. It’s not like I’m your—” Sebastian can’t man up enough to say the word he’s supposed to.
Emir lifts his chin. “Yeah, you’re not.”
Clouds swarm overhead, hiding some of the sunlight. This is the part where Sebastian’s supposed to tell Emir he expects them to still be friends when camp’s over and school starts. That he hopes they’ll be a lot more, too. That this isn’t a summer fling, a casual hookup, and that he’s tired of Emir being blasé, so unreadable that Sebastian’s confused and desperate. But he’s so exhausted, he can’t figure out where to start.
Emir’s hand sweeps over his face into his hair. When it drops away, his face is blank. He walks away without a word.
25
The days are still humid and warm, but the sky turns plush pink, then deep blue-gray sooner. Sunsets bring a comfortable chill, a sure sign of an early autumn. Camp’s over but for the bonfire tonight. Sebastian’s managed to survive the past few days solely on routine, something he’s good at. Tomorrow afternoon, they’ll pile in Mason’s car to go back to Bloomington.
Then it’s school and a lengthy countdown to graduation.
Sebastian’s been avoiding anxiety-driven thoughts about life after high school. He takes in the low sun, orange like the top of a Dum-Dum lollipop, and appreciates the steady warmth.
Classic Oakville. Next summer, who knows where he’ll be, how nice the weather will be, if he’ll ever feel like this again.
Sebastian wants to get wasted, not on cheap beer, but on the buzz of summer. Maybe he can get so blitzed he won’t have to wake up tomorrow hungover by reality.
The pitch is green and prickly under Sebastian’s hands. “What a world,” he says softly. Earthy scents and dank heat fill his nose. Damp with sweat, his shirt sticks to his chest. He’s bumming away the hours until dinner.
Practice today was long and grueling, but it didn’t suck. The team was in sync. Sebastian thanks Grey for that.
He pulls his knees close to his chest. Absently, his fingers run a short length across the inside of his forearm. He’ll have a nasty bruise tomorrow after blocking an attack from Robbie, but, whatever. It was worth it. In fact, the whole day was sweet.
“I thought you played with balls in your spare time? You suck!”
Willie says, breathlessly, “Whatever, Riley. I get no complaints about the way I handle balls, thank you.”
Mason and Willie are having their annual keepie-uppies challenge. The contest is an excuse for Mason to show off and for Willie to prove himself. He’s been saving whatever strength he has left in his knee for this day. Sebastian always wipes the green with both of them, but today he doesn’t have it in him. Instead, he observes fondly.
He would’ve never made it on the team without them. He wouldn’t have made it through high school without them. Maybe if he and Emir had stayed friends…
Sebastian groans. He’s gone three days—three whole days—avoiding Emir. It’s easiest during meals, since Emir never sat with them anyway, but the solo morning jogs, evenings spent in his own bed, and especially practices are all tedious and draining.
What troubles Sebastian is, he thinks he should apologize. Will it matter? Were things going to continue once the season was over and Emir wasn’t out to impress his dad? Sebastian doesn’t know.
And here he is again, unsure of what happens to his life after soccer. Sebastian just needs someone to give him an answer.
A clipboard thwacks on the grass next to Sebastian, followed by a groaning, disgruntled Coach Patrick. “Too old for this,” says Coach, hairy legs stretched out in front of him, brim of his snapback pulled low to shade the sun.
Sebastian lifts an inquisitive eyebrow.
“I can’t figure out why you always do this.” Coach leans back on his hands. “What seventeen-year-old has so many moments of self-reflection?”
Coach reminds Sebastian of a TV dad, all deep speeches, then a bear hug. He goes from vicious wolverine on the pitch to Mr. Rogers without blinking an eye.
“Uh, I—”
Coach holds up a finger. “It’s not bad, Sebastian, except it only happens after a bad practice or a tough game.” Coach’s smile deepens his crow’s feet. “Remember when we played that amazing school from Chicago?”
Sebastian will never forget.
After the disastrous loss the Lions suffered, Sebastian spent an hour coughing up his guts in the stalls. Then he staked out a spot in the stadium’s empty bleachers and sat for hours with his headphones, sulking. He didn’t say a word for twenty-four hours.
“You’re good at beating yourself up, kid.” Coach drops a meaty arm around Sebastian’s shoulders. “But enough is enough.”
Sebastian nods, blowing out a breath to get the hair off his forehead.
“The other coaches and I have been talking.” Coach pauses, staring at Mason. Sebastian’s stomach clenches. Coach shakes his head, and says, “You’ve grown, kid. There’s a bullseye on you across the conference; everyone’s talking about the goalie from BHS.”
Sebastian’s throat is dry. He gets out, “Wow!” but it’s hoarse.
“You’re better than Riley,” Coach says without levity. “We weren’t expecting that after freshman year.”
S
ebastian says, “I’m not,” by instinct, but Coach tsks at him, so he shuts his mouth.
“It was a unanimous vote. You’re captain.”
It doesn’t sink in immediately. Captain. Then, the goosebumps break out like a bad rash. Numbness and relief hit Sebastian at once. He scratches his temple, trying to piece together a “thank you,” but Coach beats him to it.
“They follow you,” he says, nodding toward Mason and Willie. “You’re the only leader they want.”
Carl definitely wouldn’t agree.
Coach considers him. “College scouts want you, Bastian. Treat this season right, and you can have a scholarship wherever you want.”
Sebastian breaks eye contact to gaze at the sinking sun. The sky is edging toward pink. His fingers curl around prickly grass. The waning warmth cools against his neck.
Bloomington High’s soccer team has a new captain. Captain Hughes.
A whooshing breath finally escapes him. “Thanks, Coach.”
Coach grunts; his arm goes lax on Sebastian’s shoulders. He’s rough around the edges, intimidating, but Coach considers every one of the players his son, including pranksters like Mason. Sebastian is proud to be part of that.
Coach changes the subject. “So.” Sebastian’s neck hairs stand up at Coach’s insightful look. “Shah, huh? Never suspected him as your type.”
This moment would be much funnier if Sebastian wasn’t positive he’s a second away from a heart attack. He’s damned, flinching at his pathetic “me neither” laugh and Coach’s speculative, but amused, glare. He doesn’t know what’s worse, being caught by his mom making out with a girl or Coach’s awareness about his pining for the guy who hates his guts. Both?
And pining? Jesus, Sebastian hates how his brain works.
“He’s my,” Sebastian chokes, tries again. “He’s my friend.” And he’s my type, too. Maybe it wasn’t apparent when he first realized he was into guys, but those childhood memories make Sebastian think something was there, lying dormant.
Running with Lions Page 21
