“Beckham is a legend.”
Jack is pointing an accusing plastic fork at Gio. He’s got a pale, freckled rat-face that’s slowly turning red as Gio scoffs. His eyes are bloodshot, adding to his deranged look.
Gio says, “He’s got nothing on Ryan Giggs, amigo.”
Groaning, Jack drops his fork and throws his hands up.
It’s late afternoon, and the team has finally spun into the dining hall like a category five tornado. This argument, and a few others, is prominent between soccer players at Bloomington High. Sebastian skipped the lunch line after his jog and plops down at their table with a protein shake for a front-row seat.
He’s betting on Kyle’s usual Ronaldo favoritism or—
“What about Rooney?”
Bingo! Sebastian chuckles to himself. He turns back to Mason, who seems to have a kickass hangover and is poring over a cup of coffee.
“That looks gross,” Mason says, eyes barely open. Sebastian takes a huge slug of his shake. Mason’s still wearing pajama bottoms and his hair is floppy, as if it took an army just to get him out of bed.
Sebastian wipes his mouth with his hand. “So does your face,” he says, and is rewarded with a middle finger salute. He slouches in his chair. It’s plastic and uncomfortable, but he makes do by propping his feet on an empty seat next to Willie.
Willie and Hunter are leaning into each other. They whisper as if they’re plotting a bank robbery. That wouldn’t end prettily.
“What’s in there?” Mason waves a hand at Sebastian’s drink.
“Whey, green stuff, bananas, more green stuff.”
Mason shudders. “I’m gonna puke in your mouth, man.”
Sebastian shies away from Mason. Projectile vomit wasn’t on today’s lunch menu.
“Here.”
Sebastian isn’t always the most observant person. He is, however, frozen in shock at the sight of Grey sitting across from them at their table. She waves dainty fingers; her curls are tied in a ponytail. Sebastian curves up an eyebrow.
“Take two,” she tells Mason, pushing a pill bottle at him. “They’re for motion sickness but should do the trick. And they’re herbal.”
“Who and what is happening?” Mason asks. “Willie, dude, did you do this?”
Willie is bright red, laughing at something Hunter says, and unaware of Mason’s existence.
“Don’t be a jerk,” Grey mumbles.
Mason snatches the bottle; pills rattle inside. He pops the top and downs two, grimacing. Over his coffee cup, he glares weakly at her.
“These will kill me, won’t they? Is that your plot?”
“You think I want to kill you?” Grey asks.
“I think you want to do a lot of things to me.” Mason leaves his statement open for interpretation.
“Listen.” Grey sighs, rubbing her temples. “I caught Charlie ralphing his guts up in the bushes and covered for you guys when Rivera came asking about it. I deserve a ‘Thanks, Grey’ at least.”
Mason gives her a thumbs-up before returning to his coffee.
Lifting an eyebrow, Sebastian turns to Grey. “Really? This?” he asks, pointing at Mason, who has found a conversation with Charlie to keep him distracted from Grey.
Willie peeks at them. Sebastian knows he invited Grey to their table. Willie’s that guy who’s friends with everyone. The entire senior class back in Bloomington gets a high-five or a “Hey, beautiful” for the girls. Popularity’s easy for Willie. Sebastian’s wagering on Willie for Homecoming King.
Around Sebastian, guys talk about SAT scores, AP classes, and prom. Willie raises an eyebrow dramatically when Hunter mentions attending UCLA. Mason’s still undecided. Sebastian slouches, waiting for a subject change, and Coach Patrick provides it.
“Guys, guys!” he yells from the front of the room. “Rest up today. Tomorrow, we start practicing for the Spartans. I’ve got some footage of their spring practices. Are we ready?”
Grunts break out around the room, steady as the rhythm of a drumline.
“You’re gonna take them down this year, right?”
Now tables rattle; a few guys slam their trays.
“We’re Lions, correct?”
Growls and roars echo against the walls. Jack tries to maul Smith. Coach is great at riling the guys up. Sebastian chews his thumbnail. Coach Patrick will always be his favorite.
“He’s stressed about the first game,” Grey confesses when the room starts to clear out. She fiddles with a curl. “Our offense is good, but the defense needs work.”
Sebastian nods; he has his elbows on the table with his chin in his hands.
To his left, Mason says, “Then I guess Willie better get back on the field.”
Eyeing the table, Willie tugs a hand through his hair. His mouth is drawn into a thin white line. Hunter pulls on Willie’s ear until he lifts his chin. They get lost in a conversation about video games.
Sebastian hasn’t figured out how to get Willie out of his funk, but at least Hunter’s around.
“Go, Bloomington!” someone shouts on the way out the door.
“Go, Lions,” Sebastian whispers.
The bank of windows on the side of the room lets in blasts of sun and heat that make Sebastian want to go for a swim. At the table under the windows, Emir is folded awkwardly with a comic book balanced on his knees. A mostly untouched bowl of fruit sits by his elbow. Trails of dark fringe fall over his brow, helping to hide his eyes. But his mouth is hanging open; he must be captivated by whatever he’s reading. Sebastian stares at his lips, slick with spit from a pink tongue, and—
“Bastian, bro.”
Mason snaps fingers at him. Sebastian nearly falls out of his seat but catches his balance by smacking his hands on the table. It almost tips over. Four sets of wide eyes stare at him, and his cheeks burn. Breathless, he tries to speak but only gets out, “Um, yeah, swimming sounds like a great idea!” He’s pretty sure no one was talking about swimming.
“Okay,” Mason drawls with a raised eyebrow. “I need a nap, but yes. Go. Swim away.”
Sebastian wants to bang his head on the table.
“Cool,” Willie says, because he is a godsend. “I could use a dip.”
“Me too.” Nodding, Hunter slings an arm around Willie’s neck.
Sebastian sags in his chair; his chin nearly hits the table. He peers at Emir’s table, praying his moronic display has gone unnoticed, but Emir hasn’t moved an inch. Obviously, Sebastian isn’t worth noticing.
* * *
Sebastian wakes up on Monday with orange sunlight beating against his eyelids. His cell, still hell-bent on betraying his rest, squawks. Sebastian almost tosses it across the room but remembers his mom won’t buy him another one, so he rolls his eyes at it instead.
He makes it through his morning routine of clothes, sneakers, and stealing Willie’s iPod: a major accomplishment Sebastian completes with one eye open. He records a video of Willie making out with his pillow. He’ll use it for blackmail if Willie ever tells anyone Sebastian ate a cricket on a dare.
Camp Haven is quiet, the morning hues of tangerine and ocean blue painted across the cabins and trees. Sebastian squints against a glaring sun. He’s in that hazy space where he’s not asleep but still dreaming, and that’s his only reason for stumbling to Emir’s cabin after he brushes his teeth.
The window is already propped open. Sebastian’s sense of comfort quickly fades. This might be a trap. Maybe thumbtacks are waiting on the other side of the window.
“Nah.” He laughs to himself, pressing his arms on the ledge of the window to vault inside.
Sunlight draws crisp edges in the cabin. Emir is tucked into a small ball, buried under mounds of blankets. His head is sticking out. He’s sucking his lower lip like an infant.
Looks are definitely deceiving.
Emir rolls away from the sunlight, exposing his shirtless back when the blankets slip lower. Staring at the hawk tattoo between Emir’s shoulder blades, Sebastian bites hard on his own lip. He’s always wanted a tattoo of his own, but this sweet piece of artwork drives the thought home. His mind starts to drift in a wicked daydream of tracing all the ink under his fingertips while Emir gasps and—his whole brain derails.
“Okay,” he whispers. “That’s not healthy, at all.”
Floorboards creak on his way to the bed. Sebastian pauses. Emir’s shoulders rise and fall; the side of his face reveals a mask of peace. His hand curls into a fist on the pillow.
The urge just to let Emir be almost beats out Sebastian’s plans to wake him.
Sebastian’s hand is cold against Emir’s sleep-warm back. Goosebumps raise across Emir’s skin. Sebastian’s fingers outline every knob on his spine. “Emir,” he whispers. Emir is icy and petulant, so words like cute and adorable should not be crossing Sebastian’s mind. “C’mon, man. Get up, Emir.”
Emir shakes awake like a puppy, nose twitching and body convulsing. His eyes pop open, then glare. “What the hell, Bastian?”
Sebastian wants to point out that Emir was expecting him, since the window was open, but he says, “I—”
“Nope. No way, mate. Go away.” Emir turns to snuffle into his pillow. “Not happening.”
“Emir—”
Emir, completely destroying all of those “innocent” thoughts that crossed Sebastian’s mind, starts to hum. He curls inward as if he can disappear.
Sebastian knee-walks his way onto the bed. He jabs a hand under the blankets and tickles Emir’s ribs until he jerks and yelps. It’s a small victory. “You know you want to—”
“Kick your ass?”
Sebastian can’t figure out how Emir can be so devilishly handsome while peeking through his eyelashes. “Funny,” he says.
Emir squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to squirm away, mumbling, “Go screw yourself,” but his expression is soft, like a feisty kitten coming down from a catnip high.
Poser. “Time for a run. All of the experts, and Oprah, say exercise is good for you.”
“They lied, all of them. Horrible, disrespectful lies,” says Emir. “Now leave.”
Sebastian squawks pathetically before flicking Emir’s spine. “Don’t be a dick,” he says, then pulls on Emir’s resistant shoulder. Sebastian’s stronger than Emir, which pleases his ego. “We’re doing this. You’re going to get better.”
Emir growls like a sleeping lion. It doesn’t help that whatever is going on below Sebastian’s belly likes that noise. Horrified, he turns away to take a deep breath and calm down. He’s disappointed in his body, because getting aroused while trying to wake a teammate is so inappropriate.
He imagines crying babies, Mr. Drake’s boring history class, anything to stop images of Emir, neck kisses, and their bodies tangled. He’s seriously frying brain cells. Emir isn’t helping one bit by complaining, “You aren’t going away, are you?” in a husky voice.
“I mean…” Sebastian’s sweating. His fingers are curled in Emir’s sheets. “It’s not as if you asked for my help, so, whatever. I can ditch, if you want.” He didn’t mean it as a desperate question, but it comes out that way. His embarrassment is at nuclear levels.
Emir sighs. “No, it’s okay.” He rolls over behind Sebastian and pushes up on his elbows. Sluggishly, Emir crawls from under the blankets. He plops down next to Sebastian. The frustrated line between his eyebrows is replaced by a sleepy smile, and he shoves Sebastian’s shoulder when he stands. “I really hate you.”
“Well, thank baby Jesus, the feeling’s mutual!” Sebastian teases. Then, seriously, he says, “Do you?”
“Nope,” Emir says around a yawn, standing on his tiptoes with his hands stretched toward the ceiling. “But you’re annoying in the morning.”
Sebastian can take that. But his brain only accepts Emir’s attitude because his eyes are busy darting over Emir’s body. In just a pair of briefs and socks, Emir’s sepia skin pales to gold under the sunlight. He’s on the skinny side, but small muscles are defined everywhere. It doesn’t help that his hair sticks up in a tall fluff. And then there are his narrow hips, angles hiding behind the waistband of his underwear, the material stretched—
“Um.”
Sebastian snaps his head up.
Emir’s headshake is followed by laughter. He says, “Hey, it’s cool. Don’t you ever get morning wood?”
If there was a blurb in the biography of Sebastian’s life, those last two words would be bolded and italicized. He clears his throat, then shrugs, playing it smooth. He focuses on the nearby wall, studying its matte-finished, golden wood—
Christ, his mind is seriously screwed up, and the wall is no longer a good distraction.
“Dude.” Emir punches Sebastian’s arm. “It’s a guy thing, I get it. You’re just sizing up the competition, right?” At the mahogany dresser in the corner, he pulls out clothes. In a mildly deprecating voice, he says, “I’m not that impressive.”
In what alternate universe? All the gold hexagons the sun creates over Emir’s skin accentuate his amazing features. His messy hair is an inky spiral. And just when Sebastian can get past Emir’s appeal because he’s been an uncalled-for asshole, Emir turns his head, and his blinking, pale gray eyes attack Sebastian.
It’s an unfair use of good genes.
“Bastian?”
Sebastian raises his hand like at roll call during homeroom.
“What time is it?”
Sebastian pulls out his phone. “A little after seven.”
“What the bloody hell,” Emir whines while pulling on a hoodie.
Obviously, Sebastian’s ears burn with love at Emir’s British accent coiled around his name. It’s all downhill from here. By the time he stops spacing out and drooling, Emir is at the door, fully dressed, scowl included.
“You coming?”
Sebastian scolds his brain for thinking not yet.
Emir taps his foot. He’s gone from sleepy morning nymph to raging demon in five minutes flat. “Let’s get this over with.”
Sebastian couldn’t agree more. Then he can run to his cabin, put a sock on the door, and pray Willie has an extra-long breakfast.