“Piss off,” Emir snarls. His shoulders are wire-tight; his nostrils flare.
Michaelson and Shaggy slant forward, but Cole spreads his arms, keeping them back. He chuckles. “Oh, you’ve got a mouth on you.” His head cocks. “Bet you put it to good use, right?”
“What a lovely accent,” teases Michaelson.
Cole licks his teeth. “Yeah, he does. London boy?” He’s in front of Emir now. “Do you like playing with a team full of fairies?”
The skin around Emir’s eyes tightens. He lets out a long breath, but he doesn’t back down.
Sebastian’s heart is rabbiting. He could take Cole. Maybe the other two, also. They’re all talk, a St. Catherine’s trademark. He just needs to get close enough to—
Another door bangs open, from Bloomington’s locker room, and out marches Zach. He stops, sizing up the situation. Then, he grins wolfishly. “Well, St. Catherine’s School for the Poor and Shameless,” he says, and, in two strides, he’s between Cole and Emir. After a beat, Cole steps back.
Sebastian’s still wound up, ready to swing.
“Is this a pregame pep talk?” Zach asks. He slants his eyes at Cole. “You need some advice from our new star sweeper on how to tighten up your shitty defense?”
Cole scowls. “You’re going down, Keating.”
“Hmm, those fighting words or are you flirting?”
Cole’s hands ball into fists. Michaelson and Shaggy snarl behind him. Zach rocks on his heels while Cole turns red, huffing.
“For a school full of preppy assholes, you’re sure concerned with my team’s sex lives.” Zach’s posturing is at an all-time high. “Want in on the action?”
“You pack of faggots better—”
That’s it. It’s all Zach needs before he’s in Cole’s face, chest to chest, noses nearly touching. He growls, “Say it a little louder, dickhead.” His grin is leaning toward psychotic. “That’s right, some of my bros are gay or bi, and they can kick your ass blindfolded.”
Cole flinches while Michaelson and Shaggy blanch and lean away.
Zach says, “Next time you want to talk shit to my brothers, do it with confidence.” He points behind himself. “Shah and Hunter? They’re family, and I’ll whale on any of you prep pussies that messes with ’em, okay?”
Cole’s mouth is thin, trembling. He slowly steps backward. He signals to Michaelson and Shaggy with a jerk of his head; their grumbles are tinny in the corridor as they stomp off.
Zach turns around, eyes lit up. He’s still feasting on their cowardice. He is so menacing. “Douchebags.” He points his chin at Hunter and Emir. “Hey, next time you guys head out, let me know.”
“I could’ve handled them,” protests Emir.
Zach cuffs the back of Emir’s neck with a big hand and pulls him forward. “I know, Shah.” His grin twitches. “But I’ve been dying to deck one of those shitheads since I was a frosh. They called me a bastard because my mom left my dad. It got in my head, so I owe them.”
Sebastian’s mouth is dry. Zach just full-on opened up to someone other than Sebastian, to Emir, of all people. Zach never talks about his mom.
“Thanks, Keating.”
“Anytime, Shah.”
Zach drags Emir into a headlock. Emir playfully fights back, though Zach’s size overpowers him. Hunter joins them, jumping on Zach’s back. They all stumble into the locker room with a thud.
Sebastian sags against the wall. The concrete is cold against his ass. He pulls his knees to his chest. “Dude,” he says, quietly, “is this my life?”
No one answers, of course.
Sebastian’s heart finally slows to a lethargic thud, and he laughs. It’s one of those movie-villain-cackles, reverberating off the walls. Grey peeks her head out, but he doesn’t care. He’s just witnessed a freaking miracle.
“Okay,” says Grey, slowly. “Game time in twenty.”
Sebastian whacks his head on the wall to make sure it’s not a dream. Then he nods at her. He hums “Eye of the Tiger,” because Rocky movies really are magical.
The Lions are about to kick the Spartans’ asses.
The locker room is frantic. Guys are hopped up on adrenaline, roughhousing, shoving each other, snapping towels. A few players are being taped up to protect soreness or mild injuries. Gio and Jack are engaged in a furious game of bloody knuckles. Rollins is pale, huddled in a corner, saying Hail Marys.
Warm-up gear is shed; uniforms are pulled on. It’s noisy and smelly and just the kind of atmosphere Sebastian craves before a game. He still might vomit, but in a good way, like he would stepping off the world’s fastest rollercoaster.
“Delson! Get out of that mirror and suit up,” Willie shouts, moving swifter than any boy on crutches should.
Kyle flips him off and returns to his reflection, fixing his hair. “Coach Willie’s more of a hard-ass than Rivera.”
“And don’t you forget it,” Willie says over his shoulder.
Mason is hunched over, forearms on his thighs, head bobbing, with the chord of his Beatz wound around a finger. He’s got a bench to himself. No one bothers him thirty minutes before a game. He doesn’t meet eyes with anyone; he’s slipped into a zone.
Sebastian gets it. Everything about today is exciting. It’s terrifying and so big that they all need a way to escape for just a few minutes. That’s the thing about life: The biggest, most thrilling moments can make you wish they wouldn’t happen at all.
Coach barrels in, with Grey following, then Rivera and O’Brien. He says, voice booming, “Okay, gather ‘round, Lions,” before he slips into his usual pregame speech. It’s profanity-filled and meaningful.
Sebastian rests against his locker.
Freshman eyes are saucer-wide. Guys elbow to get closer. Coach doesn’t talk for the hell of it. If he isn’t going to inspire you, he’s silent. He’s not going to quote dead legends. He spouts rap lyrics, spinning them to fit his brand of motivation. Sebastian’s never heard LL Cool J used so poetically.
Coach pins Sebastian with his eyes. “Now, let’s hear from Captain Hughes.”
Sebastian doesn’t shrink, though his heart has claimed residence in his throat. He’s not expecting the applause or the back-claps as he nudges his way to the front. They amp up his nerves. He smiles shakily for Willie, then avoids eye contact with Carl as he passes. Carl’s still shit on the bottoms of his shoes.
When Sebastian climbs up on a bench, towering over his peers, things shift. It hits him like electric shock. Last Saturday, he ate cold pizza for breakfast, binged an entire season of American Horror Story from the couch, had waffles for dinner, and it was just another day. Today, he’s playing one of his biggest games, witnessed his friends come together, and is staring the boy he loves right in the eyes.
And that’s the thing, life is sometimes just another day, and sometimes it’s moment after moment after moment that only paralyzes you if you let it.
Sebastian’s not letting it.
Mason says, grinning, “C’mon Hughes, inspire us.”
Sebastian rubs the back of his neck. “I suck at speeches.” He pauses; a teacher once told him that pointing out your weaknesses leaves you vulnerable to your audience. “We all know what this season is about, right?”
“Winning the championship!”
“Well, yes, that.” Sebastian winks at Gio. “Also, it’s about proving ourselves, proving life isn’t only about what you accomplish.” His eyes find Zach, then Willie. “It’s about proving to yourself you can make the best of what you’ve been given.”
Zach tips his chin up.
“We’re not those guys from camp anymore. That’s our past. Last season is our past too. It doesn’t define who we are right now.” Goosebumps break out on his arms; his eyes well up. This isn’t just for Zach; it’s for Sebastian too. He’s not his past, his youth. He’s not Bastian the Tr
ashcan anymore. That’s a lesson he’s learned from counseling and talks with his family. “We decide our futures. No one can stop us, especially not some pathetic Spartans.
“We don’t need to beat any team, ’cause we beat ourselves. ’Cause we’re better than all of them.” His hands are shaky. He clears his throat. The lump of anxiety melts, and he says, “Now who are we?”
“Lions!”
Willie is the loudest. He hobbles forward and leans into Grey.
“And what are we gonna do?”
“Kill the Spartans!”
Coach clears his throat gruffly and drags a finger across it.
Sebastian holds in a chuckle. “Okay, maybe not kill, but you will protect your brother. If someone hurts your family, take them down—” Again, Coach clears his throat, and Sebastian says, with a wry smile, “—legally, please.”
A cacophony of laughter breaks out. The roughhousing resumes, and Sebastian hops to the ground. Willie ruffles his hair, and Mason’s at his side. He’s breathing too fast, but the rush is awesome. He peeks over his shoulder.
In the corner, Emir’s watching blankly. Then he nods. Sebastian bites his tongue before he says something outrageous.
The stadium is roaring when the team runs onto the pitch. In the bleachers, a giant sea of black and gold is only blemished by the occasional blots of St. Catherine’s crimson and yellow team colors. Sebastian’s goosebumps return. The fans get louder with every step.
His parents and Carly are in their usual seats just behind the home bench. Lily is whooping with black paint smudged across her nose. Sebastian flushes, then waves. He expects that from her. What he’s not ready for are, two rows behind his clan, Raj Shah and Emir’s entire family. Emir’s sisters are holding up a massive white sheet with “WE LOVE YOU BHAI!!!” painted on it in black and gold.
Emir’s cheeks are burning, and he covers his eyes with a hand. When the hand drops, Sebastian mouths “Bhai” and Emir’s lips form Brother.
Raj’s face looks proud, ecstatic. Emir hasn’t played a single second yet, and already Raj is over the moon.
The stakes have reached a new height.
29
Sebastian loves Greek mythology, all the stories about heroes and legends, monsters and tragedy, romance and death. He wrote an epic paper about Jason and the Argonauts. It’s the only reason he passed Mr. Gentry’s lit class sophomore year. He knows this game is a clash between Titans and Olympic gods from the first coin toss.
Three minutes into the first period, a Spartan takes Kyle out with a brutal, illegal tackle. Kyle is carried off, and the other guy, Jeffries, takes a red card and gets a high-five from Cole on his way to the bench. The Spartans aren’t going down without taking half the Lions with them.
Cain, a frosh, comes in for Kyle, but Sebastian’s hopes slip. Kyle was one of their best offensive threats.
The game continues with a little less enthusiasm. Then Carl takes out two Spartans with a shove when the refs are following Mason around the pitch. He shoots Sebastian a wry grin. “Oops, I didn’t see them.”
Sebastian bites his lip to maintain a straight face. He still hardcore hates Carl’s guts, but St. Catherine’s coach losing his shit on the sidelines is pretty damn funny.
It’s a scoreless game halfway into the first period. Sebastian’s giddy over blocking five of St. Catherine’s attempts. Mason may not have nailed a shot yet, but their offense is running great passes. It’s all good.
Sebastian doesn’t let a single free kick get past him. Between these stripes and posts is his house. Dawson and all his flunkies aren’t faster than his hands.
Willie is animated on the sidelines. Smacking his hands on a clipboard, he barks, “Run a forty-two.” When Cain trips over his own feet, Willie swears at the clouds. Hunter’s hands smooth Willie’s shoulder from behind. He leans back, and Sebastian almost chastises them for PDA in the middle of a very important game.
The whistle blows, and Sebastian drops into his zone. Ten seconds in, Dawson’s bulleting toward him. Sebastian hunches into position. But a black-and-gold blur steals the ball. Emir passes it up to Gio with a “Go, Gio, go” before Sebastian’s caught his breath.
It’s the tenth time Emir’s done that. Yes, Sebastian’s keeping count.
O’Brien shouts, “Nice play, Shah!” and Emir barely reacts. He maintains the same face: furrowed brow, thinned lips, steely eyes. But Sebastian has this synergy with Emir, something that began somewhere in the middle of Camp Haven’s pitch under a stormy-gray sky. It’s only the start of the season. Sebastian can’t imagine how good they’ll be together in a month.
Over his shoulder, sweaty hair pushed back, Emir shouts, “Am I still a rookie?”
Sebastian smiles with his eyes.
By the time the ref blows the whistle for halftime, Sebastian doesn’t remember the last five minutes. He’s developed an obsession with the gold SHAH on the back of Emir’s jersey.
“They’re afraid of us.” Coach Patrick paces the locker room. The team is gathered around him, mopping up sweat, chugging from paper cups spilling Gatorade. “Last year, we were down two goals in the first half.” His eyes center on Sebastian. “Now they can’t get around our defense.”
“And they won’t,” says Zach, softly patting Emir’s cheek.
“Yeah,” agrees Coach. “So, now—”
“They’re weak on the left side.”
Coach mutters, “Yes, I’m aware, Grace.” She grouses back. Coach points at Mason. “That’s the plan, Riley. Concentrate on getting the ball toward the left. Rivera says their goalie is tracking you, so we might use Robbie as a decoy.”
Mason scrunches his face, indignant. Then, with as much modesty as he can muster, he mumbles, “Yeah, sure. Go Lions.” He gives Robbie a thumbs-up.
Robbie’s white as a sheet when Sebastian palms his back. He says, encouragingly, “Come on, rookie,” and leads the charge back through the tunnel.
The second half brings a new buzz to the stadium. The crowd’s loud enough to drown out any calls on the field. Sebastian’s hunched over, scouting. He has his eye on one thing. The Spartans have also changed their lineup. Michaelson and Cole have switched, putting a giant obstacle right in Mason’s path.
Shit.
The whistle blows, and Sebastian makes a last-second decision. He shouts, “Em! Emi!”
Emir’s head snaps around, and Sebastian cringes at his scowl. Maybe calling him Emi wasn’t his brightest moment, but whatever. If they’re going to win, he needs Emir on his side.
“If they get through, get the ball to Smith.”
Emir’s eyebrows slide inward. It’s possible he’ll ignore Sebastian’s advice. But then Emir nods eagerly. And, no, Sebastian’s stupid heart isn’t so far up his throat that it might break out in Charlie Puth songs.
He’s right, though. Cole is all over Mason, and Robbie isn’t faring any better. Shaggy passes up to a Spartan winger, and Sebastian anticipates the coming attack.
Emir, like a strike of lightning, picks off the attacker. He snags the ball; the other guy is too winded to chase after him.
Rivera is barking, “Give it to Robbie; Robbie is open!” Willie bites his nails. Grey hangs her head between her knees.
It all happens in action movie slow motion. Ignoring Rivera, Emir passes the ball up to a shell-shocked Smith. No one’s covering him, so he runs. A Spartan clips Smith, but he scoops the ball to Zach before eating grass.
Zach takes a rip at the ball.
The whistle blows, fifteen minutes on the clock, and Sebastian stares at the jumbo scoreboard: SPARTANS — 0, LIONS — 1
The crowd loses their shit. The Spartans’ sideline is sick. Rivera lights into Emir for making such a risky play, but Emir keeps his chin up the entire time.
Rivera, eyes narrowed, says, “Get back out there, kid,” and Sebastian catches him smiling as
Emir jogs back onto the field.
“If I get benched next game,” Emir pauses, catching his breath, “I’m never speaking to you again.”
“Does that mean we’re speaking now? Like, we’re cool?”
Whatever Emir’s about to say, he’s too flustered, so he flips Sebastian off as he treks back into position. And, okay. Sebastian will take that. These days “I hate you” sounds a lot like “I love you” coming from Emir.
Mason scores another goal at the four-minute mark, but it’s pretty much academic after Zach’s goal. Sebastian shuts out Dawson five more times, and the Spartans never recover. It’s a clean sweep, two to zero. Sebastian can’t hear himself breathe over the roaring crowd.
The sky’s broken up with gold and maroon. Sweat chills Sebastian’s brow. It’s the middle of September, so the air is nippy when the game ends at sunset. Heads hanging, St. Catherine’s boys stomp out of the stadium. Cole trails, scowling, and Sebastian hopes they meet again in the state tournament so he can make that face permanent.
“Fellas, fellas,” shouts Zach in the locker room. His voice carries over the chorus of “Immortals” coming from the showers and all the laughter as guys strip out of dank uniforms. Willie’s on his shoulders, smiling from ear to ear, when Zach says, “Sergio’s Pizzeria for a couple of pies. It’s a team tradition.”
Sebastian’s huddled on a bench, squished between Hunter and Mason. Soaked, limp hair sticks to his forehead. He twists around to get a better view of all the action.
“First round,” says Zach, pointing at Sebastian, “is on our beloved captain.”
Hunter whoops happily.
Sebastian sags when a chant of “Captain Hughes” breaks out. Winning has never been so draining. But the exhaustion from war and relief and joy is incredible, and a night of pizza means fewer chances of the guys doing something arrest-worthy.
“You coming?”
Mason’s eyeing him, observant as a hawk, so Sebastian says, “Maybe, but there’s something I kinda want to do first.”
He has plans. He’s not sure if they’ll work out. Maybe this is his worst idea yet, including setting fire to a neighbor’s garbage with Mason when they were thirteen, or playing drunk Scrabble in a cemetery. Might as well, right?
Running with Lions Page 24
