Sebastian learned freshman year that all the best trash talk doesn’t actually happen on the pitch.
It happens in the locker room.
The greatest shit-talking, towel-snapping, pranks, stories about getting laid, and bad jokes about a guy’s junk all go down around shower stalls and slamming lockers. Occasionally, one cerebral player gets in another player’s head, using words to knock him off his game in order to steal his starting spot. It’s a team sport, but everyone wants to be the star sometime.
Sebastian accepts this. But today, for whatever reason, he’s just not in the mood.
He yanks off his shirt. It’s soiled with grass, dirt, and sweat, a very rank combo. He pulls a new one from his locker and sniffs the underarm. Clean. He’s between practices, so he doesn’t bother with a shower. Coach Patrick is making them sleep, eat, and drink grass through their last days at camp.
“If you want to win a championship, you’ve got to sacrifice a nap or two,” Coach shouts every morning during laps. After lunch, it’s the same thing. He’s no Alex Fergusson, but he inspires most of the guys to power through drills.
Willie’s passing out chilled bottles of water. Sebastian snatches one with a nod of appreciation. Willie’s expression is easygoing. He says, “Don’t choke,” when Sebastian cracks the top and guzzles as if he’s been in the desert. He adds a rude gesture that Sebastian supposes is a reference to oral sex. Sebastian’s too zoned out to give a decent comeback, but Willie waves this off with disappointed eyes.
Sebastian can’t help it; he sucked today. He couldn’t block any of Mason’s shots. The freshmen are a bunch of uncoordinated minions and Gio’s passing is garbage. Sebastian’s blowing this whole “future captain” thing. He’s not bothered by that; nausea gurgles up any time he puts too much thought into it. Sebastian’s not ready.
To his left, the defenders are huddled around one of the benches. Sebastian sips his water. Carl, hard features accented by his crewcut, is leading the talk.
“With Will out for the season because of his knee, we’re screwed,” says Carl, hunched forward. He’s sweaty and sunburned on his nose.
“Shit.” Gio leans on a locker.
Rollins, a freshman winger, asks, “He can’t tough it out a few games?” He pushes damp black hair behind his ear.
“No way.” Carl’s face is more pinched than usual. “Dude’s toast. Done for. The body’s gone cold, my brother.” The guy likes his hyperbole, something Sebastian learned in freshman gym when he nailed Carl during a friendly baseball game. Carl rolled around the field for half an hour, claiming a dislocated shoulder.
Rollins sighs. “Damn.”
That’s the thing about Willie; he’s loved by the newbies, too.
Pressing his brow on his forearm, Sebastian rests against a closed locker. Coach Rivera was the one who told him, not Willie. Sebastian doesn’t blame Willie, though. Being told your high school sports career and any future plans to play have gone up in smoke is pretty heavy. Sebastian would be in far worse shape; he commends Willie’s upbeat attitude.
Hunter walks up, towel hanging from his neck. “We’ve got a good replacement,” he says.
Carl growls under his breath. “You’re effin’ brain-dead.”
“Who?”
Hunter turns to Gio. “Emir.”
“Shah,” Carl says, incredulous. “Can you believe that shit? You can’t replace Will with that guy.”
“Why not? He’s got the skill.”
Sebastian peeks over his shoulder. Carl’s upper lip is curled. He wants to put his fist through Carl’s face, but he’s staying out of it. Carl’s a jerk. At least the whole squad isn’t on his side.
“I dunno,” Rollins says. “I saw him keeping up with Zach. He’s cool.”
Carl points a thick finger in Rollins’ face. “No one asked you, frosh.” He turns to Hunter. “He’s a flake. Most of us don’t hang with him at school, anyway.”
Sebastian’s left hand clenches into a fist. Carl’s still mouthing off, and Hunter is arguing back, but with less heat. Carl needs to shut his stupid mouth. And then it hits Sebastian: Carl’s second string, and the next in line for Willie’s position. Emir on the team means less playing time for him. And that’s so ugly, because they’re a team. One for all, and all that shit.
“What about you, Hughes?” Carl sniffs; his face looks warped when Sebastian turns around. “We can survive without Shah, right?”
Sebastian’s eyes narrow.
And it’s as if Carl’s aware he hit a nerve, because he says, “Shah’s not my teammate,” with a venomous smirk.
Heart hammering in his ears, Sebastian stalks up to Carl. He spits, “I think you should shut the hell up and quit badmouthing him.”
“Why?” Carl’s not as tall as Sebastian. He has to tilt his chin up to stare Sebastian in the eyes. “Shah got you sweet on him or something?”
“No, I stick up for my team. He’s one of us.”
“Sounds like he’s got a stick up you.”
It’s hard for Sebastian to ignore the catcalls around them. His nails are digging into his palm. He imagines his knuckles bloody and Carl laid out on the cement.
Do it.
Carl shows his teeth. “He’s not one of us, Hughes.” He takes one small step closer to Sebastian. “He’s never been like us.”
To Lily’s utter delight, Sebastian’s never been in a real fight, just a few scuffs and scrapes like all kids, nothing serious. He’s willing to break her poor heart to fracture Carl’s jaw.
“What’s that mean?”
“He doesn’t get us, and we don’t get him. Two totally different sides of the world.”
“So, being different isn’t allowed on this team anymore?” Sebastian says, glowering. “Because Hunter is black. Gio is Hispanic. Oh, and Emir is Pakistani.” He steps forward, leaning into Carl’s face. “And Willie is gay, if that’s a problem.”
“Nope.”
Sebastian nods, once. “Then shut the hell up, because this is a family. We’re not douchebags or superior to anyone, got it?”
“I don’t want him in this family.”
That voice in the back of Sebastian’s head grows louder: Do it. His hands are numb, white-knuckled. A few other players join the crowd around them. Mason’s pushing through the mass of bodies. To his right, Emir is rigid; his eyes are dark slits.
Sebastian turns his glare back on Carl. “Screw you, Tiller,” he says, seething. “You don’t know him.”
“What, you want us all to have a group hug and pretend this isn’t how it goes? Team sports doesn’t mean everyone makes it at the end of the day. So now we’re playing rookies as starters just because? I’m not down with that, Hughes.”
Beating Carl up would be a mercy deal. The guy doesn’t have too many allies, and Sebastian can’t be the only one fed up with his tireless complaining. He has no sympathy for Carl, or his inability to lock down a starting position. That’s no excuse to be a dick.
Not all of Sebastian’s anger is directed toward Carl or is about Emir. This is for all the guys who shoved Sebastian around. For the ones who made him dislike his appearance. The kids chanting “Bastian the Trashcan.” For every asshole who sneered self-righteously at him, at his friends.
“Your friend,” Carl says, grinning, “can ride the bench by himself like he does during lunch.”
The room’s attention falls on Emir now. He looks away. Sebastian’s rage finally hits a new peak.
“Fuck you.”
Sebastian doesn’t know where that came from. His chest cracks open with pride. It’s as if he spat those two words at everyone who’s a douche like Carl.
“Yeah, fuck you too, Hughes. You’re not the captain,” Carl barks.
Sebastian’s fists shake at his sides. Coach Patrick doesn’t tolerate violence, not unless it’s on the field. All’s fair on the green. Sebastian just needs something to put his fist to. A wall, a door, whatever.
He’s giving in to the chant in his head: Do it, do it, do it…
“Move!” Coach Patrick barks like a rabid dog. Players are shoved around. His hand presses flat against Sebastian’s chest. His other hand grabs Carl’s shirt. He shoots Sebastian a glare. “Since you half-wits want to forget we have a game in a few weeks, we’ll skip lunch for another round on the pitch! You want to fight? Fight exhaustion, because I’m going to wear your asses thin for this.” When no one moves, Coach barks, “Now! Gear up.”
A mass exodus breaks out. Sebastian can’t identify who’s glaring at him and who’s looking at him with compassion. Breathing roughly, he slumps into a locker.
Coach seethes. “I expect more, Hughes, a lot more.” He stalks off, and Sebastian nearly crumbles under the weight of that last glare.
Sebastian drags a hand down his face. He tilts his head until fluorescent lights blur in his wet eyes. Coach hasn’t been this pissed in forever. Sebastian hasn’t let a guy get in his head like that since childhood. Dealing with bullies was easier back when he was undersized. He couldn’t fight back.
Today, Sebastian was ready to crush Carl. What kind of candidate for captain is he?
“Dude,” says Zach, patting Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian can’t look at him, but he sounds shocked. Join the club.
“C’mon, Bastian,” Mason whispers. “Shake it off.”
The scuff of cleats on the ground signals Mason’s exit. One by one, Sebastian’s failing his friends. When he finally raises his eyes, Emir is in front of him. His arms are folded and he’s not saying a word.
“What?”
Emir’s mouth parts, but he only sighs. His eyes are drained of brightness. Without a word, he stomps out of the locker room.
Yeah, I had that one coming, too.
When the room is empty, Sebastian pushes off his locker. He turns, rolls his shoulders, and then slams his fist into a locker door. His knuckles throb, but at least his anger is centered on the pain. It’s a shame, though. Relief doesn’t come.
* * *
“Is this who you are?”
Nope.
“Is this the type of player or person you want to be?”
Not at all.
“I don’t understand. Where’s the real Sebastian Hughes?”
I have no idea.
Sebastian’s not actually answering Coach O’Brien. He’s been letting O’Brien chew him out for ten minutes now. It’s hot, day-old vomit looks better than he does, and, to top it off, they had another scrimmage. It was a repeat of Team Drews versus Team Hughes, but this time they lost epically. Hell, he let Robbie make two goals on him. Robbie. He never lets Robbie sink one in. Sebastian has no explanation.
Their hard work over the summer is circling the drain.
His brain can’t come up with a damn thing to say to O’Brien or Rivera to make himself look better.
O’Brien sighs. “We can’t beat the Spartans like this.” He squeezes Sebastian’s shoulder, then says, carefully, “And you’re just—this isn’t good for you.”
Obviously. Sebastian hardens the line of his mouth and stares at the pitch. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“Okay.” O’Brien stares at him. “You’ve got this, Sebastian. You do.”
Sebastian doesn’t agree. He feigns a smile and skulks off. Cement is in his shoes as he climbs the bleachers. Willie passes him a water. Sebastian collapses and tries to absorb Willie’s genuine positivity as their shoulders knock.
“Feeling the burn yet?”
Choking on his first gulp of water, Sebastian flips him off. Willie’s humor could cure the zombie plague. Sebastian wipes his mouth with his wrist. “How about you?” His eyes drop to Willie’s knee.
“Best I can be.”
Sebastian’s not going to pry, because it’s Willie’s business and because Sebastian hasn’t been the best at telling people his own secrets.
Willie’s spine is curved on the empty bleachers behind him. “It’s bullshit, but I’m okay.” Oakville’s cloudless sky means the sun embellishes the blueness of his eyes, like the petals of forget-me-nots. “Coach says I can still suit up every game, cheer you guys on from the bench.”
Sebastian squeezes Willie’s good knee.
“It sucks,” Willie says, “but it’s not the end of the world.”
Sebastian envies Willie’s confidence. It is the end of the world, to have something you love taken from you. Sebastian’s suffocating all the time, trying to get his head around what’ll happen in a couple of months when soccer’s over. He has no idea who he is without this sport.
It takes some effort, but Sebastian manages not to frown. Willie’s mind-reading talent has probably already figured him out. He asks, “When?”
“Mom’s gonna try to schedule the operation before school starts.”
Sebastian is ripe with sweat, but he doesn’t care; he drops an arm around Willie’s shoulders. “We’ll figure it out.”
“You’ll bring my homework while I recover?”
“Yep. As long as you don’t ask me to help you with Shakespeare.”
“Because you suck at Shakespeare.”
“We both suck at Shakespeare, Willster.”
Willie’s smile tucks into his eyes, creasing the corners. “True story.”
Sebastian rests his chin on the top of Willie’s hair so Willie is half folded in a brotherly embrace. Leave it to Willie to take Sebastian’s mind off a shitty day.
* * *
“Mason Riley, front and center!”
Grey stands at the center of the pitch. She’s wearing a poorly-fitting team uniform, soft curls in a messy ponytail, cleats, and a warrior’s face. It’s very badass.
Most of the team’s spread out on the bleachers, still licking their wounds from practice. They lift their heads as soon as she barks. Gio whispers, “¡Qué mierda!” and Rivera points a warning finger at him with slit eyes.
Grey doesn’t budge. Her hands are on her hips, and a soccer ball is cradled in the crook of her arm.
“She looks scary.” Willie’s in awe.
“She is scary,” Sebastian whispers.
Mason’s sitting cross-legged on the grass with his back to Sebastian, but he’s bug-eyed, slack-jawed, and pale. At least, that’s how Sebastian imagines him.
Grey’s eyes shrink until Sebastian can’t find the green in them.
“Sweet baby Jesus, Mother Mary, and all the freakin’ saints,” says Mason. He chucks his water bottle and scrambles to his feet. His head snaps in Zach’s direction when he and a few others hum “Build Me Up, Buttercup,” and they quickly go quiet. If his iron-stiff shoulders tell anything, Sebastian would conclude that Mason’s pissed, and a little afraid too.
“What’s she gonna do?”
“I don’t know,” Sebastian says to Willie. “But I’m gonna like it.”
“What the hell…” Mason stops short of Grey. “…are you doing?”
Grey’s lips twitch. She’s not fazed by Mason’s hissing or flailing arms. She has reached hardcore, superhero levels of greatness.
“Grace—”
“I’m done with your bullshit, Riley.”
“Uh, language.” Kyle chortles from three levels below Sebastian, who flings his empty water bottle at the back of Kyle’s head. He’s pleased when Willie chuckles.
“Okay, okay.” Mason raises his hands, palms facing out as if he’s surrendering. “Point taken. You’re a big girl, and I’m—”
“Going to have a scrimmage game with me, right here and now. One-on-one.” Grey spins the soccer on one finger. “First goal wins, and winner calls their prize.”
Mason tosses his arms up like a Muppet and shouts incredulously, “You’re so weird!”
“If I win, we go on a date.”
A couple of catcalls and some wolfish yells of “You go girl” break out from the players. Willie cheers, spirit fingers and all. Yep, this is going to be awesome and bad.
“Have you lost your mind? Your father is—” Mason waves a hand behind him. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, Coach Patrick is on the bottom bleacher.
Grey clears her throat. “Coach—my dad has been nothing but supportive of me since I was a kid.” Her voice start to rise. “He’s always made sure I had what I needed, and he tells me all the time to go after what I want, no matter the cost.”
Coach squares his shoulders.
“Guess what I want?”
Mason mumbles, “A lobotomy.”
His bitchiness slides right off her back. She’s evolved into Grey two-point-oh. Sebastian tries not to groan at his own geekiness.
“A date, Riley.”
“Oh, wow, isn’t that romantic,” Mason sneers. He snatches the ball from her. His head tips closer. “But when you lose, you back off. For good. No more heart-eyes, flirting, being all weird. I get the same treatment as the other guys, got it?”
Grey flinches. Then she tightens her mouth, nods, and backs away. She’s actually going for it.
“Fifty bucks says he makes her cry.” Jack chuckles.
Gio rolls his eyes. “Twenty says Coach murders him and dumps the body in the lake.”
Mason and Grey stomp away from each other. Coach O’Brien charges onto the field, blowing his whistle. He lays down the rules. “Keep it clean,” he says, glaring at Mason. Grey’s mouth is drawn in a thin line; her eyes are still narrowed at Mason.
Sebastian bets she’ll kick Mason in the junk. He might laugh at that. In fact, he’s leaning in favor of it.
O’Brien clears out of the way. Mason moves like he’s playing a practice squad. He’s lazy. He tries to fake her out by going left, then right. “Come get it, Patrick.”
Grey bites her lip, watching him.
“Silly girl,” teases Mason. “This is the big leagues.”
Grey growls, then goes after him.
Mason has sick tricks and amazing footwork. He’s top in the conference for a reason. But Grey counters everything. She’s on him like a cougar chasing its prey. The team oohs when Mason can’t get around her, and Mason says, “You’re not that great.”
Grey slides a foot between them, tripping him up. It’s legal, so O’Brien doesn’t call her on it. But Mason’s unprepared.
“No shit,” says Smith, whistling.
Before Mason can react, Grey hooks a foot on the ball and sprints in the opposite direction.
Zach cups his hands around his mouth. “Down goes Riley!”
Sebastian bites his knuckles. Okay, he’s a dick for silently rooting for Grey and not for his best friend, but Sebastian’s a sucker for the underdog. Grey’s making him a believer.
“You little brat!” Mason yells, trailing behind Grey, but it’s too late. He’s beat, and Grey is going, going, gone.
The guys are half-stunned as Grey celebrates. They give her a standing ovation. Leave it to Grey to unify this team again.
Sebastian says, “Grey Patrick is a legend.” Today’s a day for the record books. He mentally dubs it The Day Mason Riley Had His Ass Handed to Him by Grey Patrick. It’s long, but catchy.
By the time Mason catches her, he’s wheezing. He collapses in the grass, sprawled like a paralyzed starfish. His hair is sweat-flat across his brow; his cheeks are flushed. The clouds circle over Mason, mocking him.
“So that’s what defeat looks like.” Cracking up, Willie elbows Sebastian’s ribs.
Grey saunters up, hands on her hips, towering over Mason. “I’ve watched you play for years, Riley.” Curls slip from her ponytail, framing her cheeks. “I know you better than you know yourself as a player.”
Mason scuffs the grass with his shoe.
“You’re weak on your left side and way too confident.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re amazing, just not perfect.”
On the bleacher below Sebastian, Rollins and Mikey sit a little taller. Not many people have successfully put Mason Riley in his place. By the start of the season, Sebastian bets the freshmen will be wearing T-shirts with Grey’s face on them.
Mason’s slight head-turn reveals a mouth twitching into a smile. He twists, getting his elbows under him for leverage. “So, what time do you want me to pick you up?”
“Never.” Grey ignores his melodramatic collapse on the green. “For years, I’ve let you be a jerkface because I’m younger. And because I’ve got a crush on you.” Her voice hardens. “It sucks to be me sometimes, so I don’t need you to rub my face in it.”
Mason’s sputtering.
Grey lifts her foot and presses it lightly against Mason’s chest. “I don’t want a date, Mason. I just want you to know that I accept that I’m young and I’m a weird girl.” Then, she hovers closer. “Also, you just got owned because I’m young and a weird girl.”
Mason thumps his head against the grass. “Wait, what?”
Grey’s already stepping over him. She scoops up the ball and turns it between her hands. A true badass. After all, Grey just flushed Mason’s reputation down the toilet. Her eyes meet Sebastian’s, and she mouths “Grey freaking Patrick.”
Sebastian’s lips split into a smile.
“That’s it boys, hit the showers! Dinner’s in a few.” Coach’s voice is stern. Grey sidles up to him. Coach hooks a big arm around her small shoulders. He whispers to her, and Grey shakes with laughter as they leave the pitch. The team follows.
“Epic,” Willie says, standing carefully.
“A classic!” Hunter swoops in out of nowhere to help Willie.
Sebastian starts down the bleachers. His feet slow when his eyes find Emir, waiting: tightly-wound frame, shoulders hunched, hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts. The pinch of his mouth pulls his cheeks inward. His chin is lowered defiantly, but their eyes still meet.
“What’s wrong?”
“Don’t do that again,” Emir says, voice scratchy, angry. “I don’t need anyone saving me.”
“I didn’t—”
Emir cuts Sebastian off. “I’ve dealt with this for years, okay? Who cares if people don’t like me or want to be around me?”
Sebastian’s not expecting this. He still doesn’t know what to expect with him. Will it be a scowling Emir or maybe a laughs-at-all-of-Sebastian’s-stupid-jokes Emir?
“I’m not here to make friends,” Emir says gruffly; the edges of his mouth are tight. Obviously, Sebastian’s done nothing but piss Emir off since day one. “I’m here for my dad, that’s it. If you’re guilty over what happened a long time ago, don’t drag me into it. We stopped being friends, and I survived.”
Trying to lower his anger to a simmer, Sebastian flexes his fingers.
“Don’t be a hero.”
And that’s what makes his blood boil. This isn’t all his fault. Doesn’t Emir get that? It’s Sebastian’s job to play peacemaker. He’s been doing this since way before Emir decided to try out. It hasn’t changed. Sebastian hasn’t changed.
“Fine.” An ache throbs from Sebastian’s temples to his eye sockets. “Do whatever, mate, ’cause I just—I don’t know what the hell I was doing. It’s not like I’m your—” Sebastian can’t man up enough to say the word he’s supposed to.
Emir lifts his chin. “Yeah, you’re not.”
Clouds swarm overhead, hiding some of the sunlight. This is the part where Sebastian’s supposed to tell Emir he expects them to still be friends when camp’s over and school starts. That he hopes they’ll be a lot more, too. That this isn’t a summer fling, a casual hookup, and that he’s tired of Emir being blasé, so unreadable that Sebastian’s confused and desperate. But he’s so exhausted, he can’t figure out where to start.
Emir’s hand sweeps over his face into his hair. When it drops away, his face is blank. He walks away without a word.