Sebastian is trying to process his incredibly bad skill in dissolving the awkwardness between them in a poetic or romantic way, proving he learned nothing from Sam’s insufferable love for The Notebook. Their hands swing between them as if this isn’t weird, as if they weren’t at each other’s throats that first morning in Emir’s cabin. He’s afraid to get too comfortable.
“You’re quiet,” says Emir.
Crickets chirp their nightly hymns. An owl hoots at the stars. Sebastian is leading them through the dark toward Emir’s cabin. He wants to say something impressive.
Emir whispers, “Shit,” and, well, that’s definitely not a good start, but—
Sebastian squints at a flashlight flickering up ahead. Someone fumbles through the trees and bushes, moving in their direction. He can make out just enough of the man’s shape; it’s Coach Rivera.
Sebastian’s heart is trying to make out with his trachea. He forgets Emir’s holding his hand until Emir’s fingers squeeze uncomfortably around his own. Emir’s having a quiet panic attack, but Sebastian can handle this. It’s like being on the pitch, anticipating the other player’s next move.
“We’re gonna die.”
“Emir,” Sebastian says.
But Emir’s already mumbling, “We’re gonna get kicked out of camp, off the team, I can’t bloody believe it.”
The light is getting closer.
Sebastian whispers, “Look, go behind those trees. You’re skinny enough; he won’t see you.”
“Hey, I’m not—”
“Dude.” Sebastian is already turning Emir with one hand and has his other on the small of Emir’s back, pushing. “Now is not the time to argue.” Rivera’s rooting through bushes. He hasn’t pinpointed them yet, but Sebastian doesn’t like to gamble. “Go,” he says with a hiss.
Emir trips over a few rocks on his way to the trees.
Sebastian should be worried about Emir’s safety, but he’s on the verge of his own mini-avalanche of anxiety. So, he squares his shoulders, shields his eyes against the shine of Rivera’s flashlight, and accepts that he’s gone from “responsible one” to complete delinquent.
“Hughes?” Rivera pauses mid-step, then shouts, “Hughes!” while stumbling up to him.
Sebastian gives a carefree wave; his other hand is trembling. He smiles his best I’m innocent smile for Rivera. “What’s up, Coach?” he says around the lump in his throat. “Nice night, isn’t it?”
Rivera’s thick eyebrows descend. “It’s past curfew, Hughes.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“What’re you doing out this way?” Rivera sniffs, as if he’s going to catch alcohol on Sebastian’s breath or, worse, a hint of weed. Sebastian isn’t offended; he’s flattered that Rivera categorizes him as that guy. He sticks his chin out proudly when Rivera takes a step back.
“It’s late, Hughes.”
Sebastian nods.
“Why are you, out of all the chicos, out past curfew?” When Rivera’s tired or exasperated, his words drift between English and Spanish.
Sebastian rubs at his abdomen. “Had a big dinner tonight, so I needed a run to burn off the calories.” He’s amazed at how well he’s done keeping his voice casual, especially since his stomach’s doing back handsprings.
“Sí,” says Rivera, nodding, “Entiendo.”
Sebastian slouches, relief giving him a reason to smile genuinely. That is, of course, until Rivera drops a heavy hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
“It’s tough, mijo, being as good as you are,” he says, gruff and serious, but also kind. “I hate to be the bad guy, but we depend on you. Your teammates, the coaches, all of us. You’re our rock.”
Sebastian knows. “Yeah.” He scuffs one of his Converse on a nearby pebble. A running list of people who depend on Sebastian Hughes exists somewhere. It’s made up of Willie, Mason, his sister Carly, Emir, and his teammates.
At least Rivera doesn’t sugarcoat it, unlike everyone else. But no pressure, right?
“Hey,” Rivera says, still squeezing Sebastian’s shoulder, “Have you seen Shah anywhere? We’re doing bed checks, making sure you guys aren’t getting out of hand.”
Sebastian fidgets.
Rivera is shorter than Sebastian but still manages to look down at him. “Give it up, Hughes,” he says. “A couple of sophomores were puking in the bushes an hour ago.”
Shit. Sebastian doesn’t want details on who got caught. He’s overwhelmed with guilt. He should have stuck around, made sure all the guys went straight to their cabins after the bonfire.
Instead, he was skinny-dipping, making out, and being reckless.
Rivera waits.
“Maybe he’s out on a walk?” Rocking on his heels, Sebastian rubs the side of his neck. “He’s the homesick type. I’ve heard this is his first time away from home. That’s always weird for people.”
Rivera seems far from convinced. Sebastian doesn’t blame him.
“We grew up together,” Sebastian explains. “He freaks out in new places. Getting him to chill out during sleepovers was always hell.”
“Is he going to be any good for our team?”
Sebastian hates the high-pitched glee in his voice when he says, “He’s going to be great, if we can get his attitude in check.”
Rivera’s laugh is rumbly, like a bear’s. He says, “I trust your judgment, Hughes. You’ll help us make him into something, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Rivera says. He aims his flashlight at Sebastian’s face so the harsh white blinds him. “Now get to your cabin, and I won’t report to Patrick about you breaking curfew.”
When Rivera threatens to replace him with Jack if he’s caught again, Sebastian nods. Like hell! Jack couldn’t replace me. He doesn’t say it; the ice he’s treading is already thin.
“Okay,” he says. His heart finally returns to its former position when Rivera walks away.
“Is the coast clear?”
Sebastian peeks around before nodding.
“Were you scared?” asks Emir, picking leaves and twigs from his clothes as he walks up.
“Of being caught?”
“No, of the dark, you chicken shit.”
Sebastian chuckles. This whole night has been way too weird for his poor teenage heart. First Mason, then Emir, now Coach Rivera. If anything else happens, they’re going to have to airlift him to Bloomington Medical Hospital.
“Whatever,” he says, automatically taking Emir’s hand in his own.
“I heard you, Bastian,” Emir says. His voice is a nice interruption to their silence on their walk to Emir’s cabin. “You told Rivera I was homesick. And that you used to look after me.”
Sebastian hums. He doesn’t regret it, but he says, “Did it make you mad?” because he’s not about to be a dick about it.
“Yes,” Emir says. Then he shakes his head. “It didn’t. It’s just…”
Waiting, Sebastian steps over a chunky brown rock. But Emir doesn’t finish. He squeezes Sebastian’s hand, like Morse code. If Emir doesn’t say anything, Sebastian’s cool with that. Obviously, they each have their own issues with the whole “right words to say” thing.
There’s a very awkward moment at Emir’s door. Should he hug Emir and leave? Should there be a goodnight kiss? Sebastian has mostly applied these rules and protocol to girls he’s dated. He and Emir aren’t dating, haven’t done the whole “date” thing, but one thing is certain: letting Emir’s hand go isn’t high on his priority list.
Sebastian does let go, however, because of clammy palms and the lack of circulation in his fingers. Now his hand is cold. And he hasn’t made a move to do anything.
Emir pecks a dry kiss on his cheek. Well, that was pretty simple.
“Thanks,” Emir says, his hip angled against the door.
“For what?”
“I don’t know.” Emir looks at his feet. “But thanks.”
Sebastian’s chest is rapidly filling with warmth. He hastily says, “Goodnight,” and turns away before he makes a complete ass of himself. Then he stumbles on a small rock. The temptation to peek over his shoulder, just in case Emir is watching him, is diluted by his surprisingly strong will—or his utter mortification.
Once he gets to his cabin, Sebastian’s smiling so dorkily, he’s considering facial reconstruction.
Willie is laid out like a lazy starfish, head tipped back, openmouthed and snoring with dried drool on his chin. Sebastian kicks off his shoes just as Willie mumbles, “You’ll always be my favorite, Bastian.”
That reminder from the bonfire reemerges—he was such a tool about Willie’s crush.
Willie turns away, hugging his pillow. How did I ignore him? Willie, the selfless, nonjudgmental idiot, didn’t give Sebastian crap about Emir. Willie kept his secret. He never pointed out Sebastian’s mistakes. And he did all of that while crushing on Sebastian from afar.
Willie is perfect. Perfect for Hunter, not Sebastian, but that’s great, too.
Sebastian whispers, “You’ll always be my favorite, too,” and something in his chest relaxes when Willie replies, “Mace says we can’t pick favorites.”
“That’s ’cause Mason is nobody’s favorite.”
“True that.”
Willie’s voice is dreamy instead of croaky, as if he is sleep-talking. It’s a good talk either way. Sebastian strips off his shirt, but leaves his shorts on. He climbs into bed.
It takes him a while to fall asleep, and that’s the one thing about tonight that is routine.