Sebastian loves Greek mythology, all the stories about heroes and legends, monsters and tragedy, romance and death. He wrote an epic paper about Jason and the Argonauts. It’s the only reason he passed Mr. Gentry’s lit class sophomore year. He knows this game is a clash between Titans and Olympic gods from the first coin toss.
Three minutes into the first period, a Spartan takes Kyle out with a brutal, illegal tackle. Kyle is carried off, and the other guy, Jeffries, takes a red card and gets a high-five from Cole on his way to the bench. The Spartans aren’t going down without taking half the Lions with them.
Cain, a frosh, comes in for Kyle, but Sebastian’s hopes slip. Kyle was one of their best offensive threats.
The game continues with a little less enthusiasm. Then Carl takes out two Spartans with a shove when the refs are following Mason around the pitch. He shoots Sebastian a wry grin. “Oops, I didn’t see them.”
Sebastian bites his lip to maintain a straight face. He still hardcore hates Carl’s guts, but St. Catherine’s coach losing his shit on the sidelines is pretty damn funny.
It’s a scoreless game halfway into the first period. Sebastian’s giddy over blocking five of St. Catherine’s attempts. Mason may not have nailed a shot yet, but their offense is running great passes. It’s all good.
Sebastian doesn’t let a single free kick get past him. Between these stripes and posts is his house. Dawson and all his flunkies aren’t faster than his hands.
Willie is animated on the sidelines. Smacking his hands on a clipboard, he barks, “Run a forty-two.” When Cain trips over his own feet, Willie swears at the clouds. Hunter’s hands smooth Willie’s shoulder from behind. He leans back, and Sebastian almost chastises them for PDA in the middle of a very important game.
The whistle blows, and Sebastian drops into his zone. Ten seconds in, Dawson’s bulleting toward him. Sebastian hunches into position. But a black-and-gold blur steals the ball. Emir passes it up to Gio with a “Go, Gio, go” before Sebastian’s caught his breath.
It’s the tenth time Emir’s done that. Yes, Sebastian’s keeping count.
O’Brien shouts, “Nice play, Shah!” and Emir barely reacts. He maintains the same face: furrowed brow, thinned lips, steely eyes. But Sebastian has this synergy with Emir, something that began somewhere in the middle of Camp Haven’s pitch under a stormy-gray sky. It’s only the start of the season. Sebastian can’t imagine how good they’ll be together in a month.
Over his shoulder, sweaty hair pushed back, Emir shouts, “Am I still a rookie?”
Sebastian smiles with his eyes.
By the time the ref blows the whistle for halftime, Sebastian doesn’t remember the last five minutes. He’s developed an obsession with the gold SHAH on the back of Emir’s jersey.
“They’re afraid of us.” Coach Patrick paces the locker room. The team is gathered around him, mopping up sweat, chugging from paper cups spilling Gatorade. “Last year, we were down two goals in the first half.” His eyes center on Sebastian. “Now they can’t get around our defense.”
“And they won’t,” says Zach, softly patting Emir’s cheek.
“Yeah,” agrees Coach. “So, now—”
“They’re weak on the left side.”
Coach mutters, “Yes, I’m aware, Grace.” She grouses back. Coach points at Mason. “That’s the plan, Riley. Concentrate on getting the ball toward the left. Rivera says their goalie is tracking you, so we might use Robbie as a decoy.”
Mason scrunches his face, indignant. Then, with as much modesty as he can muster, he mumbles, “Yeah, sure. Go Lions.” He gives Robbie a thumbs-up.
Robbie’s white as a sheet when Sebastian palms his back. He says, encouragingly, “Come on, rookie,” and leads the charge back through the tunnel.
The second half brings a new buzz to the stadium. The crowd’s loud enough to drown out any calls on the field. Sebastian’s hunched over, scouting. He has his eye on one thing. The Spartans have also changed their lineup. Michaelson and Cole have switched, putting a giant obstacle right in Mason’s path.
Shit.
The whistle blows, and Sebastian makes a last-second decision. He shouts, “Em! Emi!”
Emir’s head snaps around, and Sebastian cringes at his scowl. Maybe calling him Emi wasn’t his brightest moment, but whatever. If they’re going to win, he needs Emir on his side.
“If they get through, get the ball to Smith.”
Emir’s eyebrows slide inward. It’s possible he’ll ignore Sebastian’s advice. But then Emir nods eagerly. And, no, Sebastian’s stupid heart isn’t so far up his throat that it might break out in Charlie Puth songs.
He’s right, though. Cole is all over Mason, and Robbie isn’t faring any better. Shaggy passes up to a Spartan winger, and Sebastian anticipates the coming attack.
Emir, like a strike of lightning, picks off the attacker. He snags the ball; the other guy is too winded to chase after him.
Rivera is barking, “Give it to Robbie; Robbie is open!” Willie bites his nails. Grey hangs her head between her knees.
It all happens in action movie slow motion. Ignoring Rivera, Emir passes the ball up to a shell-shocked Smith. No one’s covering him, so he runs. A Spartan clips Smith, but he scoops the ball to Zach before eating grass.
Zach takes a rip at the ball.
The whistle blows, fifteen minutes on the clock, and Sebastian stares at the jumbo scoreboard: SPARTANS — 0, LIONS — 1
The crowd loses their shit. The Spartans’ sideline is sick. Rivera lights into Emir for making such a risky play, but Emir keeps his chin up the entire time.
Rivera, eyes narrowed, says, “Get back out there, kid,” and Sebastian catches him smiling as Emir jogs back onto the field.
“If I get benched next game,” Emir pauses, catching his breath, “I’m never speaking to you again.”
“Does that mean we’re speaking now? Like, we’re cool?”
Whatever Emir’s about to say, he’s too flustered, so he flips Sebastian off as he treks back into position. And, okay. Sebastian will take that. These days “I hate you” sounds a lot like “I love you” coming from Emir.
Mason scores another goal at the four-minute mark, but it’s pretty much academic after Zach’s goal. Sebastian shuts out Dawson five more times, and the Spartans never recover. It’s a clean sweep, two to zero. Sebastian can’t hear himself breathe over the roaring crowd.
The sky’s broken up with gold and maroon. Sweat chills Sebastian’s brow. It’s the middle of September, so the air is nippy when the game ends at sunset. Heads hanging, St. Catherine’s boys stomp out of the stadium. Cole trails, scowling, and Sebastian hopes they meet again in the state tournament so he can make that face permanent.
“Fellas, fellas,” shouts Zach in the locker room. His voice carries over the chorus of “Immortals” coming from the showers and all the laughter as guys strip out of dank uniforms. Willie’s on his shoulders, smiling from ear to ear, when Zach says, “Sergio’s Pizzeria for a couple of pies. It’s a team tradition.”
Sebastian’s huddled on a bench, squished between Hunter and Mason. Soaked, limp hair sticks to his forehead. He twists around to get a better view of all the action.
“First round,” says Zach, pointing at Sebastian, “is on our beloved captain.”
Hunter whoops happily.
Sebastian sags when a chant of “Captain Hughes” breaks out. Winning has never been so draining. But the exhaustion from war and relief and joy is incredible, and a night of pizza means fewer chances of the guys doing something arrest-worthy.
“You coming?”
Mason’s eyeing him, observant as a hawk, so Sebastian says, “Maybe, but there’s something I kinda want to do first.”
He has plans. He’s not sure if they’ll work out. Maybe this is his worst idea yet, including setting fire to a neighbor’s garbage with Mason when they were thirteen, or playing drunk Scrabble in a cemetery. Might as well, right?
Sebastian whispers, “Could use your help, actually.”
Mason flicks up an eyebrow. His silence only elevates the ridiculous thump of Sebastian’s heartbeat. But a glint shines in Mason’s eyes. “Anything you need, Captain.”