Sebastian is ready to take on giants.
Their run through Oakville was uneventful. Sebastian spent most of it shuffling through playlists. Emir kept pace while panting like an asthmatic dog. Sebastian was running at half-speed, but he’ll credit Emir for his efforts. It was an equally brutal and amusing sight.
And now a very determined monster is staring him down from halfway up the field, complaining, “This is pointless!” like a disgruntled Godzilla.
“Emir,” Sebastian says while Emir stares resolutely at the ball in front of him, “I’m not letting you give up, okay?”
“No,” Emir says, as peevish as ever. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not. You’ve got this, dude.” Waiting for Emir’s attack, Sebastian sways into position.
Emir dribbles the ball. He’s improved. He’s not starting player material, but he shows promise. And his confidence when he doesn’t lose control of the ball as often gives him presence. He’s a cub growing into a wolf.
“Shouldn’t I be practicing to be a midfielder?” he says, gaining range as he dribbles closer.
Sebastian vacates his box to scoop the ball away from Emir. “You’ll make a better sweeper.” Sebastian spins around Emir only to be caught mid-motion. He grins. “You remind me of Piqué.”
“Who?”
Sebastian zigzags, but Emir’s on his heels. The sky is a splash of Caribbean blue today; sparse clouds make room for the heavy gold sun. The scents of summer grass fill Sebastian’s nose, but, with Emir this close, musk and sweat and something spicy underlie everything.
“He’s a professional—you know what, never mind.” He backtracks, but Emir isn’t fooled and gets a foot inside to steal the ball. “We need a sweeper,” Sebastian says.
“Isn’t that what Will is?”
Sebastian pauses, resting his hands on his hips. “He’s out, bad knee.” They’ll be lucky if Willie has a handful of games in him. Nearly every doctor in the entire state has warned Willie that he risks blowing out his kneecap if he plays. Their eyes meet, and Sebastian says, “We need an alternate.”
Emir stops, resting his foot on the ball. “So, I’m a Plan B.” Out loud, it’s harsh, but Sebastian can’t argue with him.
“You’d be the most important player on the field.”
“That’s you,” Emir says with a corner of his mouth raised. It’s a clever diversion, giving Emir just enough time to maneuver the ball around Sebastian. The goal is a few feet away. But Emir gives himself away by leaning too far to his left.
Sebastian fakes with him before slipping a foot in to pop the ball away.
“Sucker.”
Emir has a frustrated hand in his hair. “I don’t know if I could do it.”
Sebastian does keepie-uppies midfield. His tongue hangs out of the side of his mouth. “Try,” he says, half to Emir but also to himself, because he wants to believe he can make Emir into the player he’s shown potential to be.
Emir exhales shakily, proving he’s not sold on the idea.
“Think about it. You could make a big difference and show your dad how incredible you are.”
Emir teeters from foot to foot. His tiny, pleased smile shocks Sebastian’s gut.
“Yeah?” Emir’s eyebrows and mouth inch higher. “Okay.”
“Okay, then let’s do this, dickhead.”
Sebastian waits until Emir is in a defensive crouch, leading the ball up the grass until they meet near the goal. Emir shoves. Sebastian pulls. Their feet fight over the ball. Soccer is a contact sport, so it’s not as though Sebastian is out of line for grabbing Emir’s shirt. Emir is so fast, he needs a way to counter.
“Mine!”
“Not so fast.”
The ball is knocking around like a pinball. Their contacts have become more aggressive. Emir cheats, grabbing the waistband of Sebastian’s shorts. Sebastian’s hand jerks Emir’s hip. They’re nearly nose to nose, struggling not to lose their balance.
“Loser,” Emir says, getting the ball away from Sebastian. He dribbles it upfield. Sweaty and gasping, he turns to wave a hand at Sebastian like Neo in The Matrix. “C’mon,” he taunts.
Sebastian is enjoying Emir’s burst of ego. He won’t mind deflating it in a few seconds.
Emir fakes right. Sebastian charges forward to wrestle the ball away, but Emir is shoved bodily against Sebastian. He’s a torch against Sebastian’s exposed skin.
Sebastian trips on the ball, ready to eat grass on his way down. Emir catches his elbow. Sebastian cups a hand around Emir’s neck, pulling until they collide.
They burst into laughter. And then Sebastian kisses him.
It’s so quick, their mouths just smack.
Sebastian should write it off as a mistake; this isn’t a real kiss, where you’re lightheaded afterward or shoving your tongue down a hot guy’s mouth to taste the flavor of his gum.
This is nothing at all.
Sebastian barely keeps himself from falling on his ass. “Shit.” He meant to keep that in his mouth, the same mouth that’s currently buzzing with electricity.
Emir is pale, blinking. Perfect. I accidentally, I repeat, accidentally, just kissed him and he’s ready to puke. He didn’t want it, not the way Sebastian did, according to his lower half.
“Okay.” Emir pushes hair off his forehead and looks around.
“Okay,” Sebastian repeats in a wobbly voice.
If this is where Emir rejects him, Sebastian is completely cool with it. It was a mistake: no foul, no harm. He can live this down. He hopes.
“So,” Emir whispers. He locates the ball and kicks it to Sebastian. “Good practice.”
“Yeah,” Sebastian says, absently catching the ball with his foot.
“But the whole sweeper thing,” Emir is waving a hand around; his face is scrunched, “I don’t know about that. Just—let’s focus on other stuff.” He shakes his head, then jogs away before Sebastian can swallow the massive lump clogging his throat.
Should he apologize for kissing Emir? Ask him to keep practicing? Sebastian doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything, and that’s not the worst part. He grits his teeth and stares at the sun. He’s hoping for clarity, but the light just makes him see spots. Eventually, he dribbles the ball back to the Hot Box. He leans against it, face pinched. It’s hot, but Sebastian’s brain sticks on how much hotter it was with his fingers holding the back of Emir’s neck when they kissed.
* * *
By dinner, Sebastian is restless and not very hungry. He shows up in the dining hall, though. If he doesn’t, Willie or one of the guys will hound him until he does. Over the years, he’s become the “glue” for the team and, usually, that’s an amazing feeling. This evening, he can’t get out of his own head enough to savor his coolness.
“Prom, yay or nay?” Jack, who has beady dirt-brown eyes, asks Gio while pointing a plastic knife at him. Dinner is dry chicken, again, and all Sebastian’s managed to do is hack it to shreds as if he’s Leatherface.
Gio shrugs, munching on carrots. “If I can find the right girl—”
“None of them want you.” Jack wheezes at his own joke.
Gio flips him off, then says, “I could take your mom. She’s pretty hot.”
“Christ, dude,” Kyle chokes, milk spluttering from his mouth. “The disrespect, man.”
Gio chugs his Coke. Sebastian’s always surprised at how Gio owns his smugness without being an asshole. He reminds Sebastian of a super-young Benicio del Toro.
Sebastian leans back in his chair, fascinated by how his teammates carry their own senses of self-awareness, as if life is so easy despite their setbacks. They’ve all had shit shoveled on their dreams. Some of them won’t have enough money to attend community college when they graduate. But none of it weighs them down. They carry on, cracking jokes and living each day as if they’re high in the clouds. Sebastian has no clue how to earn, let alone keep such impenetrable confidence in his future. Instead, a giant pile of choices waits at his feet.
“Okay,” Mason says, stealing the cup of Jello from Sebastian’s tray and Willie’s too. He shoves a spoonful in his mouth. “Who wants to explain to me how junior made it to our table again?”
Grey’s shoulders drop at Mason’s callous reference. “I invited myself.”
“You’ve got balls,” Mason says, making a face. “Okay, maybe you don’t, but you know what I mean.”
“Audacity,” Grey clarifies. “And yes, I do. Why, are you attracted to bold women?” She bats her eyelashes.
“One,” Mason holds up a finger, “you’re a girl, not a woman. And two,” a second finger pops up, “I don’t understand you enough to be attracted to you.”
“So, there’s hope?”
Willie chokes on a laugh and thumps his chest repeatedly. This is all his fault.
Mason glowers at him and then cocks his head at Grey. His glare is intense, as if he’s attempting to shoot lasers and evaporate her. “You think you’re cute, don’t you?”
Grey’s mouth does this little quirk that’s more shy than confident. “Sometimes,” she says, barely lifting her shoulders.
Mason ignores her to spoon Jello into his mouth before starting in on Willie about what he’s wearing: a neon-green Barbie tank top with a rainbow on it that says “California Dream,” simultaneously owning his sexuality and his awesomeness.
Sebastian slouches, examining Grey. Soft, half-moon dimples form around her mouth. Her curls fall around her bright eyes, brown against green. It’s as if—
“Are you wearing eyeliner?” He inspects her. She kicks his shin under the table and Sebastian jolts, almost knocking everything over.
“Dude!” Mason scowls and protects his Jello. “You need to get whatever under control.”
Sebastian frowns, rubbing his shin. Grey stares, slit eyes warning I will make sure you never have children as she pouts. Sebastian rolls his eyes. It was an observation, not an attempt to ruin her whole scheme to woo Mason. She wasn’t making much progress, but he doesn’t want to burst her bubble.
“Okay,” Hunter says, plopping down next to Willie. He runs a hand through his hair. During the school year, he wears it close to his scalp in a fade, but he has naturally dark, springy curls for the summer. It looks good with his soft features. “Someone has to go sit with him.” Hunter is referring to the table in the corner.
Sebastian doesn’t make eye contact with anyone, including Emir.
Grey sits taller for a better view. “He might not want to be bothered.”
“He never wants to be bothered,” Mason complains. He licks his spoon clean while maintaining a frown.
“That’s the point!” Hunter says. “He needs a way in.”
Sebastian tucks his chin. He can’t tell them that he is Emir’s way in, if Emir would quit acting as though he doesn’t exist when the team’s around. Also, if Sebastian ever gets over what happened earlier, which is impossible since he hasn’t stopped replaying it in his head.
“I don’t think he likes me.” Willie pouts.
“Everyone likes you, Willster,” Sebastian says.
Hunter nods, shifting his hand from his own hair to Willie’s fluffy blond mop. Willie leans against Hunter like a pleased puppy.
“Yeah,” Mason sighs, elbows on the table. “Somehow, I’ve got a weird boy-crush on you too.”
Grey giggles. Willie flushes, sticking his tongue out at Mason. Something cold flicks over Hunter’s eyes but he hides it with a lazy laugh. That’s definitely new.
“So.” Grey crouches, like she’s planning a big secret mission to help Emir. “Who’s gonna do it?”
“Not me,” Mason insists.
Willie shrugs. “I’m out.”
Hunter’s frustrated groan prevents attention from falling on Sebastian. He’s grateful. He’s on the verge of a heart attack, sweating as though he’s just finished a lap around the pitch.
“You all suck,” Hunter announces. His chair screeches as he grabs his plate of food.
Sebastian’s still learning things about Hunter. His parents are intensely religious. He’s an AP student and sits with the geek squad during lunch. But he’s been friends with Willie since sophomore year. Also, he’s in good standing with Zach and his cronies. In fact, Hunter’s well-liked by a lot of students; he once got his name on the ballot for class president.
Hunter is bold, too, a fact proven when he crosses the room and parks himself in an empty chair at Emir’s table.
“Oh, shit,” whispers Mason. “He’s gonna die.”
“I truly liked him.” Grey sighs, as if she’s imagined a black ensemble to wear to Hunter’s funeral. She rests her cheek on her knuckles.
Sebastian sits very quietly. He’s trying to maintain a blank face. This could go perfectly or end in blood. He doesn’t know. But he doesn’t want anyone connecting him and Emir.
Emir startles, then frowns at Hunter’s presence. Hunter, with his winning smile and electric eyes, talks as if they’ve known each other for years. Maybe they share AP classes, since Emir’s a brainiac too. Maybe they just haven’t been project partners or discussed Big Bang Theory-genius stuff.
“There it is,” Mason hisses.
Emir squints at Hunter, then returns his attention to the book he was reading. Hunter’s face falls. Another person Emir’s shut out.
“Okay, boys, wrap it up! Bright and early tomorrow!” Coach Patrick booms from the entryway and claps his hands.
Grumbling, the team powers through their meals.
At Emir’s table, Hunter sits alone, frowning. Sebastian can barely react when Mason whispers, “Total waste of time,” in a voice oddly similar to the one in Sebastian’s head.