Oakville isn’t officially a town. It’s a short stretch of narrow road with one gas station, a single traffic light, and a few attractions for summer tourists, like a cheesy ‘50s-style diner with wonky air conditioning but the best burgers Sebastian’s ever had. The ice cream shop has outdoor seating, and an old drive-in at the edge of town brings in a handful of townies at night. But the rest is mostly old shops selling “Greetings from Oakville!” postcards or antiques, owned by lifers who refuse to move out.
“Here it is, kids!” Mason says in a corny TV announcer voice.
A mile and a half off the main road, a summer camp has been renovated into their training facility. An ancient wooden sign hangs at the entrance bridge: “Camp Haven.” It used to be Camp Heaven, a Christian youth camp, but one of the E’s fell off a decade ago.
“Welcome to hell,” Mason says as they pass over the bridge.
Willie chuckles from the back seat while Sebastian takes it all in once again.
The modernized cabins fit two boys, a stupid rule according to Willie, but that’s because he wants all three of them to bunk together. Behind the cabins sits a massive lake that shines like black diamonds after sunset. Nearby is the old main lodge, now a cafeteria. Guys use the picnic area to sneak cigarettes at night. Around the bend is a huge shed used for equipment storage, affectionately called “the Hot Box” because there’s no ventilation, a hard lesson Sebastian learned his first year. The locker room is bathed in an eternal stench of sweat and jockstraps, but the water pressure in the showers is amazing.
The vibe reminds Sebastian of Jason Voorhees, Camp Crystal Lake, and all those lame ‘80s horror movies Willie loves.
Mason grins and hops out of the car. “And look, most of the hellions have already arrived!”
Willie says, “Quit it, Mace,” as he pulls on his backpack. “This place is a sanctuary,” he announces. “A no-man’s-land, dude. Sacred.”
Sebastian snorts, dropping an arm around Willie’s shoulders and a hand in his sweaty hair.
“Very poetic, Will,” Mason mocks. “Keep waxing sweet haikus like that and I’m gonna marry you.” Clearly, Mason has no idea what a haiku is.
“Not because I’m a good kisser?”
Mason scrunches his face. “Dude, I’ll take your word on it.”
“You should.” Willie grins wryly. “I suck face better than I cook.”
Yep, these are Sebastian’s best friends.
Not too much later, the rest of the team pulls in. Sebastian’s eyes scan the usual faces along with rookies who trained with them during the spring. He’s not searching for anyone…
Captain Obvious, front and center.
High-fives and fist bumps are passed around. The bigger guys roughhouse, give noogies and headlocks, talk smack for the hell of it.
Mason chuckles and says, “They have no idea,” to Willie.
“Better call the ambulances now.”
The thing about soccer is, it’s a rough sport where the primary objective isn’t just getting the ball in the goal. It’s about maneuvering the ball toward the posts without being slaughtered on the way. All of them have racked up some harsh injuries over the years. It’s all worth it.
The brotherhood within the team is what attracted Sebastian and Willie. This team broke all the rules. He remembers Coach Patrick’s speech that first day: “No exclusions around here, boys! Be who you are! Be proud! Treat each other like family.”
Rumor was, Coach’s nephew Xander went to one of those blazer-and-tie Catholic schools and got kicked off the baseball team when he came out. Coach decided to change the system: Sexuality in sports became a nonfactor. Whom you were attracted to off the field didn’t matter. If you could get the ball to the goal without falling, you were in.
“At the end of the day, you’re a bunch of lost boys with big dreams, anyway. Screw the other BS!”
And that was that. No one cared when Willie came out, because he was the best defensive player they had. Mason’s make-out session with Miguel was forgotten the following Monday. Acceptance was huge for Sebastian. He had a place where he was safe and wanted. There was no turning back.
“Fresh blood!” Mason howls like a starved wolf.
“No hazing,” Willie warns.
“And no pranks,” Sebastian says, eyebrows knit together. “Remember what happened last year?”
Mason cackles; pride flashes in his eyes at the memory. The Great Riley Flood, capitalized, italicized, and overemphasized, nearly got Mason kicked off the team. A few of the returning players are still raw about it.
“That was kids’ stuff, Hughes. They were all overdramatic.”
“You flooded half the cabins, and our parents had to pay the bill for us to stay off-site for a week afterward,” Sebastian says.
Mason shrugs, like “no big deal.” He cocks his head to eye the smaller guys. “Are you done making noise?”
Sebastian elbows him, then sizes up their teammates.
Zach, Robbie, and Giovanni stand together, cracking jokes. Jack is trying to worm his way into their group while Charlie practices keepie-uppies with his new ball. And then there’s—
“Is that Shah?” Mason hisses.
Yep! Emir.
Maybe Sebastian should’ve brought this up on the ride to Oakville? He’s been tight with Willie and Mason for years. They would’ve understood Sebastian’s concerns. Secrets aren’t allowed in their little circle. But Sebastian hasn’t had the guts to discuss Emir with his friends, not yet.
“I heard…” Willie starts. Sebastian misses everything after “He signed up for tryouts a few months back” because he’s staring at Emir while his heart sinks into the acidic abyss of his stomach.
It’s been years since Sebastian and Emir Shah said more than five words to each other, not since they were scrawny ten-year-olds playing video games and reading comic books—when Sebastian only had one friend.
Emir stands off to the side. He still chews his lip nervously. Sebastian remembers the cheekbones, soft and distinct, but the stubble on his jaw is new, as is the knit beanie covering his dark hair. He’s wearing an oversized Bloomington Lions sweatshirt that swallows his skinny frame, athletic shorts, and tube socks that almost touch his knobby knees.
Christ, he’s wearing cleats!
Mason snorts. “This is some awful joke, man.” It comes out a little harsh. Sebastian suspects this isn’t because Mason has a thing against newbies, but because Emir isn’t exactly friends with anyone on the team. “Shah’s trying to be one of us?”
Sebastian hisses, “Shit,” under his breath when, in a very awkward, electric moment, Emir’s eyes meet his.
“It’s true, dude.” Willie’s mouth curls into a partial grin. “The coaches say he has potential.”
“Yeah, the potential to wreck our entire last season, bro.” Mason wrenches Willie into a headlock. They wrestle. Emir is momentarily forgotten, but not for Sebastian. And then his overthinking leads to one of the worst ideas ever conceived.
Sebastian tries to play it off when he jogs over to the other players. He gives out quick high-fives or chest bumps, leveling the frosh players with the evil eye just to rile them. “Chill, I won’t bite,” he teases. They laugh warily. “Watch out for Riley, though.”
One kid, peering at Mason, goes ghost-white, so Sebastian says, “Just feed his ego and you’ll be fine.”
When Sebastian reaches the end of the line, his jerky heart slams against his ribs. Where’s the off-switch for all these damn childhood memories that flood his mind? Emir’s “what the hell, dude!” glare quickly remedies that problem.
“Hey.” Sebastian grins nervously. “Emir?”
Emir scowls at him. His eyes are hypnotic—storm-cloud gray. Up close, moss green surrounds his irises.
“I mean, I know it’s you!” Sebastian laughs nervously, but Emir does nothing more than raise an exasperated brow. “It’s—it’s you. Here, at camp. And I wasn’t expecting that.” He sizes Emir up. Last year, Emir was a skateboard punk with tall, waxy hair and ripped jeans, a fan of band T-shirts and Vans. This isn’t that guy.
“Yeah,” Emir deadpans.
With sweaty palms, Sebastian tries another tactic: smiling like a psychopath. He’s taken aback by Emir. He’s used to hanging out with meatheads: guys who watch, play, and breathe the game. Stereotypes suck, but most of Sebastian’s teammates fit the mold.
“It’s good to see you?” It’s not supposed to come out as a question. “I remember, um, when we were younger—”
“We practically potty-trained together. Glad you remembered,” says Emir, dryly. His eyes flit around as if he wants to make sure no one catches them interacting.
Is being seen with me that awful?
“Yeah,” Sebastian says. “We’ve known each other that long, haven’t we?”
“Mmhm.”
Sebastian is distracted by the way rays of sunlight spread over Emir, highlighting the smoothness of his brown skin. His matured appearance is different in a good way. But his scowl gut-punches Sebastian back to reality.
“Your parents—from Yorkshire, right?” Sebastian winces. Making useless conversation isn’t a good icebreaker, but he just wants Emir to lighten up. “Your family moved over here when you were four. Our moms would have lunch together.”
Emir nods but doesn’t say much else.
Sebastian tries again. “My dad is from—”
“Sheffield,” Emir interrupts.
Sebastian’s mouth nearly splits his face—Emir remembers—but his delight dissolves at Emir’s annoyed expression.
“So, you’re here. At camp. And, um, why?”
Smooth move, douchebag, Sebastian thinks.
“What’s up with you, mate?” Emir hisses. His jaw tightens. “Should I not be here? You don’t want me getting in the way of your little team? Mucking things up, right?”
Sebastian gasps, adding to the utter embarrassment he’s accumulated. “Wait, what?”
“Don’t worry,” Emir says while shaking his head. “I won’t be in the way for long. I’m not any good. The coaches will either bench me or just kick me off the team. You don’t have to pretend like I’m one of the boys.” He stomps off toward the cabins, muttering “I thought you were better than that” just loud enough for Sebastian to hear.
A little supernova explodes in Sebastian’s brain, leaving him lightheaded. Did that just happen?
Willie and Mason flank him with sympathetic smiles. They had a clear view of Sebastian the Idiot. Like all his previous failures, he’s never living this one down.
“That guy has being an asshole down to a science,” Mason mumbles. He hooks an arm around Sebastian’s extremely tight shoulders.
“He’s just new,” Willie says.
“Whatever.”
“Give him a chance.”
Mason groans. “No, seriously, Will. We all know Shah’s a loner who never wanted to hang with any of us. This isn’t his crowd.”
When he was friends with Emir, this wasn’t Sebastian’s crowd either. Back then the guys in the neighborhood teased him for being short, chubby, and too clumsy to play street ball. “Bastian the Trashcan” was their favorite chant, everywhere he went. The nickname stuck for too long and haunted him in his bedroom mirror. His mom let him stay inside to play FIFA on his Xbox instead of being taunted. That put a target on his back at school. Bullies love to terrorize kids who isolate themselves; Sebastian was no exception.
“I’m sure he’ll come around,” Willie says. His optimism reminds Sebastian how sports brought him out of his shell. He played basketball, swam, and then dove headfirst into soccer.
“Or he’ll go away, whichever.” Mason changes the subject. “I’m rooming with Charlie this year.”
“Again,” Sebastian and Willie say, synchronized, then laugh at themselves.
Mason says, with a grunt and zero anger, “Get a life.” He leads the way toward their cabins.
Willie, a favorite among the coaches, scored their usual cabin for the summer. He’s proud and embarrassed when Sebastian says, “Sweet, Willster.”
“Here’s to a killer summer, right?”
Sebastian nudges Willie. “Our last summer here.”
“Our best summer!” shouts Mason, and Sebastian puts on his best fake grin. So far, it sure as hell doesn’t feel like their best summer.