Rain plinks steadily on the cabin’s roof while thunder rumbles in the distance. Fat, heavy, gray clouds sit in the sky like a fleet of battleships making port. A storm is approaching. This early, the rain’s as cold as it is annoying.
Sebastian shakes out his hair; his Bloomington hoodie does little to keep the rain off his head. Why didn’t I just sleep in? This is lazy, beneath-the-covers weather. Now he’s ruined his own day by fighting for ten minutes to drag Emir from under his blankets.
“You’re bloody insane!”
“Are you gonna get up now?”
Sebastian’s smart enough to know that if anyone saw them right now, with Sebastian straddling Emir’s hips, Emir’s wrists pinned to the bed by one of Sebastian’s hands, and Emir’s legs kicking wildly as he tries to squirm away, it would appear pretty suspicious. But the moment “You look like a wet, pathetic dog,” popped out of Emir’s mouth, it was on.
“I hate you!” Emir says through laughter, freeing an arm.
Sebastian’s quick reflexes keep Emir from punching him in the chin. Emir is freakishly strong for someone so skinny. “I’ve heard that before,” he tells Emir, locking his wrists above his head.
“Bastard!”
Sebastian coos at Emir almost adorably. He will never be adorable, though. Not ever. He is ruthless and cunning and a Bloomington Lion!
A very clumsy, preoccupied lion who notices three seconds too late that Emir has wretched an arm free and is tickling Sebastian’s ribs. It’s all over in a yelp as limbs smack against the ground. Sebastian gets an upside-down view of Emir’s smug grin as he peeks over the edge of his bed. He’s going to kill Emir, or at least mangle his stupid face, once he figures out if it’s medically appropriate for his ear to be kissing his knee.
“Jerk,” Sebastian grumbles, twisting until he’s certain he hasn’t broken something. He stands and dusts himself off. Emir shrugs with a bashful smile, as if he didn’t mean to nearly paralyze Sebastian.
Sebastian accepts the half-assed apology.
“It’s raining,” Emir complains when Sebastian insists they practice. It’s hard to take Emir seriously with his hair standing up at absurd heights.
“Rain or shine, the team plays.”
Emir falls back on the bed; his face is covered by a pillow. Sebastian can’t make out everything he’s saying, but he’s heard quite a few of the words used in Judd Apatow movies. He waits, impressed by how long Emir shouts into his pillow. The wet cold makes Sebastian desperately crave his bed.
Finally, Emir climbs out of bed. That’s good, because Sebastian is tempted to drag him, half naked, kicking and screaming, into the rain. Emir stomps around like one of Mason’s little sisters when she’s pissed he won’t play Barbies.
“You will suffer,” whispers Emir, too close for comfort. Warm breath skims against the side of Sebastian’s face before Emir continues shouting about how soccer sucks.
Sebastian, deft as a ninja, pulls his hood over his head to hide his mortified expression.
“You look like your dad,” Emir says while destroying his cabin in search of clothes.
“Do I?”
“Oh, my god, you’re a bloody Manchester fan like him, aren’t you?”
“Of course!”
Emir chucks a shirt across the room; a pout puckers his lips. “Yeah, whatever. Have you taken Ms. Haverly’s history class yet? It’s proper dreadful, mate.”
“Really?”
“The worst.”
They fall into an easy conversation about more teachers they hate. It’s weird, at first, but Sebastian doesn’t want to give Emir a reason to shut down again. Then he changes the topic to last season and the guys. In the middle of Sebastian’s ranting, Emir says, “Zach’s pretty good.” His head is stuck in the collar of his shirt, so it’s muffled.
Sebastian steps forward and tugs down the shirt. “He’s come a long way,” he tells Emir, trying not to laugh at Emir’s tousled hair. But then his eyes drop. Emir is pants-less in tight boxer-briefs. Sebastian tenses.
“Too bad he’s such a dick,” Emir says through a yawn.
“It was a rough night for him, that’s all.”
“If you say so.”
“Get to know him.”
Emir hums, running fingers through his hair. “Maybe I will, if I’m on the team long enough.”
“You’ll be fine, man.”
“Quit being nice,” Emir says with a huff negated by his tiny grin.
“It’s my job,” Sebastian says, gently punching Emir’s shoulder.
The heavy clouds hood Emir’s cabin in dramatic shadows. His eyes shine silver and moss in the dark. The cabin is eerily quiet with just the echo of thunder and the constant plink-plunk of rain on the roof.
Finally, Emir says, “I’m not going out in that,” with a frown. Now Emir’s eyes remind Sebastian of a cold, gray sky in November. All of this is unhealthy for his overcrowded brain.
“What’s a little rain?” he asks, pretending he didn’t just choke on the words.
“That’s a lot of rain, idiot.”
Sebastian doesn’t even flinch. Emir’s insults bite with less venom now. He retaliates by punching Emir’s arm; Emir slugs back with a high-pitched laugh. Sebastian has an urge to toss Emir on the bed for a wrestling match. But that could lead to—no, it would lead to—something involving a lot less clothing.
And there it is, like a kick in the head. Would Emir kiss him back? Does Sebastian want Emir to kiss him back?
“Let’s get this over with.” Emir sighs.
Sebastian follows Emir to the door. In the back of his mind, he’s stuck on how their brief kiss seemed like a wild summer in the heart of an ice storm.
“Let me win!”
“For what?”
“Because I said so!”
Raindrops drip from the end of Sebastian’s nose over his top lip to his unruly smile. His clothes are soaked from the storm.
“I don’t do charity, Emir,” he yells over the rolling thunder. “Beat me!”
The howling wind carries away Emir’s shouted “Arsehole!”
Sebastian’s laugh echoes in his ears. He licks the metallic flavor of rain from his lips. Emir slicks the limp fringe off his forehead and focuses on the ball. They’ve bypassed drills today and started their morning with an epic scrimmage that has gone scoreless.
“Let’s go, rookie.”
“Rookie?” Emir’s voice squeaks.
“Yeah, you heard me.” It’s a diversion; Sebastian goes for the ball. Emir one-ups him, spinning while the inside of his foot keeps the ball close. His speed is a nice counterattack, but the grass is slick. It’s impossible for him to get far without stumbling.
Emir goes down hard in a patch of mud, screaming, “Kiss my ass!”
Sebastian doubles over, hands on his knees, hacking a laugh into the cold. His hair’s gotten longer over the summer; it drips into his eyes as Emir gives him a middle finger salute from the ground.
Okay, so it’s not exactly Godzilla versus King Kong, but Sebastian’s sure Hughes versus Shah is still pretty legendary.
Emir grumbles, “I had you,” as Sebastian helps him up. He’s got an ugly brown smear from his armpit to his thigh. His hair sits drab and flat on his forehead.
Sebastian tries, and fails, not to snicker, gripping Emir’s hand until he’s on steady feet. Then his hand lingers in Emir’s. His fingers weave between Emir’s as if they belong there.
“You’re getting slow.”
“Bite me, Emi.”
“Or I could kiss you.”
“Wait, what?” slips out of Sebastian’s mouth, but he’s too late to recognize the distraction. Emir sweeps his foot between them. He snags the ball, and Sebastian is left in awe as a rookie smeared in mud takes the ball all the way up the field for a goal.
Emir meets him midfield, smiling wryly. Sebastian stands, hands on his hips, scowling, but he’s impressed.
“Ready?”
Emir drops the ball between them. “Are you ready, Hughes?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
“I guess you’re about to find out, dude.”
Emir’s mouth opens to retort. Sebastian uses the advantage to swoop in and steal the ball. Emir is shouting after him when he’s already down the field knocking in a goal. It’s a total douche move, but he fist-pumps the air when Emir finally reaches him.
“Again,” demands Emir.
They trade goals, back and forth. Their cleats are caked in mud; brown and green are the new colors of their clothes. Thunder booms off to the left. Rain turns to mist. Their battle continues without a break. Breathless and red-faced, they keep going.
“You’re cheating!” Emir whines.
“You kicked my shin last play, Emi,” Sebastian argues. His feet try to keep up with Emir’s and come up short. Emir weaves around him, but Sebastian manages to hook a few fingers in Emir’s hoodie to drag him back.
“Cheater!” yells Emir. His thin fingers coil around Sebastian’s hips, tugging. The ball pops out and rolls away, but they still wrestle for control.
Emir has Sebastian’s nape in a cold hand. Sebastian is sneaking a hand under the hem of Emir’s hoodie when Emir says, “You lost,” with a trembling laugh.
“Did not.”
“You let me win?”
“Maybe.”
They’re so close, their foreheads are a sliver away from touching. Raindrops are translucent pearls on the ends of Emir’s eyelashes. Sebastian’s faint breaths are rough. His chest squeezes tight at the curl of Emir’s smirk. Abandon ship! blares in his mind, but he can’t.
Their hips press together. Emir flushes; the world around them blurs. Sebastian has no idea why he’s leaning back until the light pressure of Emir’s thumb registers. It traces lazy circles on the nape of his neck. Sebastian bites his lip, unsure.
And then, Emir’s breath hitches and that’s all it takes.
It just happens.
This kiss is nothing like the first one. It’s mutual. It’s deliberate. Emir pushes as much as Sebastian pulls. It’s needy. Wet mouths move as if there’s not a second to lose. They’ll never be able to dance around this kiss. Sebastian likes that; he’s also half panicked over it.
Emir makes a choked noise. He presses farther in, as if he’s never been kissed this perfectly, and Sebastian’s brain goes offline.
Well, no, he has one very clear thought: Emir Shah, Emir Shah, more Emir Shah.
With his thumb at Emir’s jaw, Sebastian takes his time. He’s never kissed a boy. Holy shit, Sebastian is kissing his first boy, and it’s Emir Shah.
Emir’s mouth is something Sebastian needs more of. Sam was a lazy kisser; her mouth was flavored by pink bubblegum. They shared nice, but emotionless, kisses. Emir’s different. He tastes bitter and cold from the rain.
A slip of tongue catches Sebastian off guard, but he goes with it. His palm is heated by Emir’s cheek.
Emir jerks back, mumbling, “What are you doing, Bastian?”
Rain sticks Sebastian’s eyelashes together when he blinks. He shrugs, hand still on Emir’s cheek. He says, softly, “What I want.”
It’s difficult to read Emir’s expression with their foreheads pressed together. Sebastian sees more shock than anger, but he’s prepared for Emir to push him away or punch him. His ego will be bruised, but Sebastian can take it.
Hell, what are the chances I’m Emir’s type?
“I…” Black pupils expand, shrinking gray irises. Emir surges forward, kissing Sebastian again.
“Okayyeah,” Sebastian mumbles against Emir’s mouth. He succumbs to the hunger in his belly. He grabs Emir’s hoodie and drags him closer. His thigh fits between them, and Emir uses it like a cat rubbing against a post to scratch an itch. Sebastian is okay with that.
Rain pounds over them. It mutes the weird noises Sebastian makes, sparing him embarrassment. He’ll revisit how whiny he is while kissing at a later date. Much later. Right now, Emir’s tongue explores his teeth, while his own hands examine the lean-meets-muscle of Emir’s body. Nothing will ever make him pull away.
Of course, he’s so wrong.
At first, it’s just a whoop. Then they hear a howl, voices getting louder and closer.
Emir jerks away, pushing Sebastian back with a newfound force.
“What the—” Sebastian stumbles; his eyes are moon-sized.
Emir scrubs the back of his hand over his mouth.
The team comes into focus. The rain turns to a light mist, but Sebastian’s certain no one saw them kissing. He swallows whatever lump is caught at the back of his throat when he spots Mason leading the charge.
Emir shifts farther away.
“Who doesn’t love a good practice in the rain?” Mason, with wolfish eyes, rubs his hands together.
Jack elbows him. “Let’s see what these freshmen are made of.”
“They’re all better than you,” Hunter says. The gray, overcast sky washes out his usually ochre skin. Behind him, the players crow.
The team’s arrival kicks Sebastian in the teeth. If he wants to be captain, he can’t go around making out with teammates.
“Boys, scrimmage!” Coach Patrick blows his whistle. “Hughes, Drews, pick your squads!”
Sebastian does a quick headcount. Willie’s missing. He’s sitting in the bleachers next to Grey.
“He’s resting his knee,” Hunter whispers.
Sebastian doesn’t tell Hunter he wasn’t looking for Willie. His eyes find Emir, who is glaring at the mud on his shoes rather than Sebastian.
“I want Riley,” Jack says, startling Sebastian.
“Shit,” Sebastian mouths. Picking Mason should’ve been automatic.
Mason stomps over to Jack’s side.
“Fine,” Sebastian says, glancing at the leftovers. And then he says, proudly, “I’ll take Emir.”
The gasps are audible. Emir stands wide-eyed, hands jammed in his pockets, eyebrows raised. He skulks over, shoulders tight.
Carl whispers, “This is going to be good,” too loudly.
“Shut up,” Sebastian says. “Face it, Mason’s our strongest attacker. If he’s on the other team, I want a good defender, like Emir. It’s called strategy.” He doesn’t flinch when Jack sucks air through his teeth as though Sebastian’s digging his own grave. Jack is an intolerable jerk, and his opinion doesn’t matter.
Coach clears his throat. “Enough,” he warns, when a few guys snicker. He doesn’t tolerate bullshit; he always preaches about every member of the team being invaluable. They all have a role to play. Sebastian’s not sure if that’s from Remember the Titans or Any Given Sunday, but he agrees. Emir is as important as Mason.
“Right on, Bastian,” Hunter says.
“Jesus freak,” Carl replies, chuckling.
Hunter peers at Carl. “Let’s hope God blesses me not to humiliate your sorry ass all over the field today.” He bows his head. “Amen.”
To the left of Sebastian, Coach smiles, as if he’s impressed with Sebastian’s speech or his decision-making skills, or maybe he’s just trying not to laugh at Sebastian for picking a very green Emir.
This could all go horribly wrong in about five minutes. But first, they finish divvying up the remaining players. Sebastian steals Hunter and Smith, because Jack is too egotistical about picking Mason to remember he needs to build an offense around him. Jack gets Gio and Zach too. Sebastian settles for two freshmen over a shivering Kyle.
“C’mon,” Coach barks. “If any of you catch the flu because picking sides took so long, Drews and Hughes will be cleaning up your puke.”
The field is a slick surface made for disaster. Jack has stacked his team offensively, but Sebastian’s squad is balanced with players interchangeable by position. It’s a small advantage. He won’t stop Mason, but he can slow him down.
“Hey,” he calls to a sulking Emir. “We’re gonna win.”
Emir tilts his head to the heavens. “We’ll lose,” he says weakly.
Sebastian says, “And if you’re wrong, we run an extra mile tomorrow,” before swatting Emir’s ass; he puts a hand over his own mouth to hold back a laugh.
Emir narrows his eyes as if unconvinced. At the last second, he smiles. Sebastian relaxes, content in his tiny victory.
Mason’s eyes are rimmed by hurt or anger. “Good luck,” he scoffs, and trudges to his end of the field.
Sebastian shrugs. His mind is on one thing: crushing Jack’s team.
They lose, one-zip, but to Sebastian’s holy grail of delight, it’s not because of Emir, who holds his own against Jack’s team. He defends Sebastian’s box the way a knight defends his castle. Midway into the game, Emir goes toe to toe with Mason, putting on an epic show of fast feet. His nerves are visible: stiff shoulders, shaky legs, a wan expression every time Mason isn’t looking.
Sebastian’s proud he survived.
Their downfall is their lack of offense. Smith’s way too cocky for a sophomore. Kyle is all over the place. And Mikey, a freshman who’s more bones than muscle, bombs a penalty kick in the first five minutes.
Coach, disgusted, shouts, “Who taught you how to play, son?” while tugging the brim of his beat-up BHS Lions snapback low enough to hide his scowl.
Gio steals the ball when something goes wrong on an easy passing play between Smith and Kyle and cracks the ball right into Mason’s path.
Sebastian isn’t embarrassed to admit he and Willie spent an entire winter break repeatedly viewing the original Star Wars trilogy. The team’s defense racing behind Mason is like a fleet of TIE fighters trying to chase down the Millennium Falcon; it’s not possible.
Mason yells, “All the way, Hughes!”
Then Emir steps into his path.
Mason has a lot of tricks in his arsenal. He’s got sweet feet, but Emir’s high-speed. Mason spins. Emir counters. Mud and grass fly as they fight for the ball.
Kyle screams, “Get the damn ball, Shah!”
“Not happening.” Mason jerks left. Panting, Emir lurches with him. Sebastian bends into position. He’s prepared for anything. But Mason takes a fall to draw a foul against Emir. It’s a stunt he’s seen Neymar pull when stuck with a tough defense.
“Shit! Come on, Shah. Keep your hands and feet to yourself!” groans Mikey, knocking Emir’s shoulder when he passes.
Rivera stands over Mason. “Okay, Riley?”
Mason clutches his shin. He puts on a cheesy performance: groaning, rolling in the mud. His overdramatic stunt wins him sympathy points.
“I didn’t,” Emir says, then pauses, a hip cocked out, hands trembling as they rub across his face. He exhales. “It’s bullshit,” he says, glaring at Mason as if he might punch him.
Sebastian seconds that idea. He also wants to smooth a hand over Emir’s hair and tell him it’s nothing serious. He doesn’t.
“Boys, you know the drill.” Coach eases players away to help Mason up. “Penalty kick for Riley.”
“It’s cool, Shah,” Hunter says, softly, patting Emir’s ramrod-stiff shoulder.
Emir doesn’t jerk away. He nods with defeated eyes and his hands balled into fists.
Frustration contorts Sebastian’s face. His focus has gone haywire. He glares at Mason as Mason lines up with the ball. Mason raises his eyebrows. His mouth curves up smugly.
They lose because of Sebastian. One penalty kick, he missed one stupid penalty kick.
After the scrimmage, from the center of the bleachers, Willie yells, “Great plays, Hughes!”
Sebastian puts on a fake grin. He salutes Willie and Grey while stalking off. He’s soaked, mud squishes in uncomfortable places, and he was ridiculously sloppy. They’ll never beat the Spartans, or anyone in the conference, playing like that.
Zach reels an arm around his slumped shoulders. “You did good, Captain.” He’s smiling; his messy hair hangs in his eyes.
The rest of the guys shout their agreement, something Sebastian appreciates, but he’s not mentally ready to say anything back. He does, however, spy Mason limping off the field. A smug grin dominates his face; he doesn’t care how he got the win.
Sebastian’s had enough.
“What the hell, Mace?”
Mason turns, eyebrows lifted. “What’s up?”
“What’s up?” Sebastian repeats, flustered. He pokes Mason’s chest with a dirty finger. “You pulled that shit on purpose.”
Mason sniffs, glaring at Sebastian’s finger. “It happens all the time, Bastian.”
Sebastian wants to punch him. He wants to punch his best friend. Because of Emir. “It doesn’t make it right.”
“And it doesn’t make it right that you’re all pro-Shah, either.”
Sebastian’s upper lip curls. “Are you serious?”
Mason replies, “Deadly, dude.”
“So that’s it? You’re jealous of Emir?” Sebastian’s voice rises. He’s incredulous. His head throbs. “He’s scary-good, bro, how could I not pick him?” He doesn’t care about Mason’s skeptical expression, because he’s wet and cold and so over this whole picking-Emir thing.
Mason’s dripping brown hair hangs in his eyes when he rolls them. “You’re being a douche, Bastian.”
“You made Emir look bad back there.”
“So what?” Mason throws his arms up. “All of a sudden you care about Shah? People think he’s a joke.”
Sebastian says, “You’re the joke here, dude,” with more frustration than he’s ever directed at Mason. Their squabbles are brutally short, ending over pizza and laughs. After Mason’s dad left, Sebastian unconsciously adopted Mason into his life, and a reason to eject him has never existed.
“Don’t be a tool,” Mason says through his teeth. He blinks so much, Sebastian’s not sure if it’s rain or tears wetting his cheeks.
“You didn’t have to do that, Mace. He didn’t deserve that.”
“It is what it is. Get over it.” Mason’s neck is stretched; his repressed swallow is visible. Cold blue-green eyes match the stubborn jut of his chin. “I don’t get you, bro. Ever since he came around, you’ve been picking sides and… I just don’t get you.”
Me neither. If the roles had been reversed, Emir would’ve stood up for him if someone was being an ass. At least, the younger Emir would have.
“Not cool, Bastian.” Mason knocks his shoulder against Sebastian’s as he stomps away.
Sebastian doesn’t say a word to stop him.
When he turns, Sebastian catches Emir shivering and smiling sheepishly at Hunter’s reenactment of a big play Emir made during the game. “Dude, it was like, epic!” Hunter shouts, jumping up and down.
Emir lifts his chin higher. He bites his lip, turning it red and swollen, soft-looking.
Hunger that has absolutely nothing to do with food erupts in Sebastian’s stomach. It spreads to his chest. His heart slams into his ribs like a gorilla trying to break free of a cage. Emir looks just as hungry. “Holy shit,” Sebastian says under his breath.
Emir walks across the field toward his cabin quickly, as if he’s trying not to be caught.
And Sebastian, confused but excited, uses the returning storm as camouflage. He pulls up his hood and hugs himself against the pulsing downpour. He ducks between the trees like a special ops soldier. Nothing can get in the way of what he wants more than anything: Emir.