“It’s good to be back.” Memories hit Sebastian the second he steps into the cabin.
Sunlight spills in from the nearby window; tall pine trees frame a sweet view of their practice pitch. He walks to a twin bed that’s angled awkwardly in a corner. A tattered poster of Keira Knightly has hung over it since their first summer.
“Still stinks, though,” Sebastian scoffs; the stench of dirt and sweat wrinkles his nose. He flops on the bed. Dust glitters in the air like the aftermath of a pixie war. “Smells like you, Willster.”
“Whatever,” Willie says from the other side of the room.
Sebastian runs his fingers along his initials carved into the wall above his headboard. He grabs his jersey from freshman year out of his bag and stuffs it under his pillow the way he does every summer.
“It sucks they won’t get us a TV,” Willie says. Only Coach Patrick’s and the rec room, where they scrutinize film footage, have televisions. Sebastian doesn’t mind. He and Willie can watch The Walking Dead marathons on his laptop.
“How long before the first practice?”
“Half an hour?” Willie is already unpacking. He smiles slyly, making a suggestive motion with his hand. “Do you need a little alone time?”
“No!” Sebastian laughs until his eyes tear up. “And I better not catch you!”
Willie has his practice clothes laid out. He flips Sebastian off and says, “You know the rules.” His jeans are pulled low, providing Sebastian a glimpse of pale ass he really didn’t need to see. “Sock on the door.”
Sebastian gazes at the ceiling rather than Willie’s shameless nudity.
“What’s up with Mace and what’s-her-name?”
“Valerie,” Sebastian tells him.
“Yeah. Val!” Willie grins lewdly. For a gay guy, Willie’s maintained a ridiculous crush on Mason’s ex-girlfriend.
Wait—is she an ex? Sebastian doesn’t know. Mason’s love life is very confusing, which Willie’s decided needs immediate attention.
“I don’t get them,” he says, pulling on a snapback. He’s a typical frat-boy-in-training, and Sebastian can’t decide if he likes it or not. “They’re always breaking up. Is he gonna cool it off before college?”
“You never know with Mace,” Sebastian replies, turning on his side. He stares at scuff marks from their cleats on the hardwood floor. “It’s never a clean break. Period.”
His experiences with romance have been like boxing Floyd Mayweather, Jr.—you never win.
“She’s a sweet girl,” Willie says.
“That’s why Mason fell for her.”
It might not be the only reason, since Val is gorgeous too. She walked into Mason’s life wearing denim shorts, wavy brown hair in a ponytail, and a cherry lollipop between her pouty pink lips. She was supposed to be a summer crush, but turned into four years of confusion.
Why doesn’t anyone ever get over a summer crush?
Willie daydreams while Sebastian pulls out a change of clothes. Silence with Willie is never awkward. Mason talks a lot, but Willie coolly observes the rest of the world.
“Can’t wait for the weekends around here,” Willie says.
Yeah, the weekends are great. Almost forty-eight hours of freedom from soccer, discipline, and all of Coach Patrick’s movie quotes about teamwork. Is there a universal coaching rule that every life lesson must come from Rudy or Hoosiers or Remember the Titans?
Sebastian anticipates swims at the lake, and crackling bonfires where they’ll talk about how the team will finally earn a “W” over all their opponents this season. Bloomington High’s a middle-of-the-road school when it comes to sports: Football sucks. Basketball is hot and cold. The swim team is good when they’re on. Soccer draws the biggest crowd, being the only sport that’s come close to putting a trophy in the barren case in the entrance hall of the school. “What about you?” Sebastian turns the topic back to Willie. “Gonna finally land a boyfriend?”
Of the three of them, Willie avoids relationships the most. He hasn’t given a real reason. Bloomington isn’t the easiest place to be an out-of-the-closet teen.
“You mean besides my hand?” Willie says, his lips teased by a smile.
Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Yeah, dude. Though that’s been a pretty solid relationship, right?”
Willie wiggles his eyebrows. “I dunno. With you and Mace around, I’m good. Right?”
“Yeah, you’ve got us, man. Who needs anything else?”
“Exactly!” Willie walks toward the door. “Now get your lazy ass up before we’re late,” he says as he goes.
He’s right; they can’t be late for practice. Sebastian gets off the bed and stretches his arms over his head until he hears something crack satisfyingly. He changes clothes, missing the softness of his old uniform that’s been stuffed in his closet at home for too long.
When they step outside, sun haloes the entire camp, making it a golden dream. Willie mumbles, “Time to die,” and that means one thing: Practice is going to suck.
* * *
After thirty minutes of practice, Sebastian’s muscles throb, and his skin drips layers of sweat. He hasn’t ached with this much life since spring training. The dizzying sun pounds on him as the team jogs laps. Their feet dragged during basic foot drills. This is their punishment.
“How does one pack of lions suck this bad?” Coach Patrick barks. He has a perpetual love for hats. They hide some of his face, but Sebastian can imagine those thoughtful, deep-brown eyes staring them down. Summer sun has given him a slight tan, but his cheeks are red with frustration. He’s menacing enough at nearly six-foot-five with a brawny build, but the stiffness of his round jaw adds to the effect. “What did you all do during the off-season?”
“Well, I didn’t suck anyone.” Mason’s been wheezing for air since halfway into practice.
“Dude, uncalled for.” Sebastian uses his collar to hide a grin from the coaches.
“Another one down!” Zach announces, cackling as a green-faced freshman runs past him to bend over a trashcan. Most of the frosh players barely survived the first hour, either collapsing on the sidelines or puking Gatorade behind the bleachers. The upperclassmen pick them apart like scavengers and earn extra laps for their lack of sympathy.
“Patético,” Gio says. He’s developed a habit of switching between languages since his parents, originally from Puebla, speak exclusively in Spanish at home. His insult draws Coach Patrick’s attention. Gio scrambles to catch the rest of the pack.
“Don’t think I don’t know what that means, Sanchez!” Coach yells.
Sebastian has studied every player; he can predict the survivors. Gio will make it. Hunter, a defender whose skin tone is mellow ochre, like an acorn, will too. He’s not sure about Charlie, who’s more out of shape than anyone, or Smith, whose sweaty, tie-dyed hair lies flat against his forehead.
“Kyle,” Sebastian says, huffing. “Try harder.”
Kyle’s blond hair flops into oceanic blue eyes. His fatigue diminishes his all-American build; his creamy skin has been replaced by a blistering sunburn. Still, he pushes himself a little more.
All of them are lumps of hard clay, waiting to be softened, then molded.
“You’ll suffer later, Hughes!” Mason cries as Sebastian passes him for the second time today. He’s balancing a ball between his feet, never missing a beat, even when Mason flips him off.
“Bite me!”
“You’re a prick.”
Sebastian shrugs. He says, “You taught me,” before going for another lap.
During cooldowns, Willie steals a ball from Zach. He parades around the pitch like an MVP. “Bro, you make it too easy!” Willie guffaws. Drills are a joke to Willie; he claims it’s the Irish half of his lineage. For three seasons, he’s played sweeper, the last line of defense between an attacker and the goalie.
“All-star moves, Willster!” Sebastian shouts.
“Don’t encourage the idiot.” Mason is doubled over, hands on his knees. When he can inhale, he says, “I’m the only one who can have an ego around here.”
“Of course,” replies Sebastian, bouncing a ball from the toe of his shoe to his knee, then his chest. Rinse and repeat. “No one can out-Mason you.” He ignores Mason’s sarcastic response to focus. Like Mason, he wants to be the best. Soccer is his life; it’s where he belongs.
Zach waves at him, shouting, “Heads up!” while he waits for Sebastian to pass him the ball.
Sebastian says, “Keep up this time, okay?” before head-butting the ball to Zach.
“Watch out!” Zach calls. He dodges the coaches carrying Tom off the field.
“Another one down.” Mason sighs. “Amateurs.”
“Just give them a chance, Mace,” Willie whines.
“For what?”
“Because we need them. They’re trying.”
“Seriously, this is you using your brain right now?” Mason asks.
Willie mouths something back.
Eventually, Sebastian will step in before it gets out of hand. He’s not their captain, but Sebastian has spent most of his life being called “Super-Dad” and “The Responsible One.” This particular trait was inherited from his dad, the middle child of six, who looked after his younger siblings while also covering for his older sisters when they snuck out to parties with their boyfriends. Despite being the youngest child, Sebastian has an urge to protect his friends and teammates.
“A good heart doesn’t need a reason; take care of people the way you’d want them to take care of you,” his mom always says.
Yeah, he’s doubled down on the responsible thing, and this is Sebastian Hughes: first guy to take care of a sick teammate, ensure everyone does their studies, and prevent the wilder ones, mainly Zach and Mason, from getting arrested. He’s the peacemaker. This pack of misfits is his misfits.
“It’s okay if they suck right now. You did too,” Willie tells Mason.
Mason was a disaster his first few games. He missed passes more than he came close to scoring, and a bad case of nervous upchuck sidelined him for the second half of a big game. Now, Mason is their best attacker, justifiable ego included.
Swiping off sweat, Sebastian drags his wrist over his forehead. “We’re gonna be champions this year, remember?”
“You’re gonna make a great captain.”
Sebastian flinches and sputters when he says, “I’m just a decent goalie, man.”
“Get a life, loser.”
“You first.”
Laughing, they fake like they’re going to punch each other.
“Why am I friends with you two?” Willie asks, limping away.
A skateboarding injury screwed up Willie’s knee a few years ago. It flares up every season, but Willie refuses to sit out, no matter how much Coach Patrick begs him. Willie believes soccer is his one great contribution in life, a thought all the players share. None of them are super-scholars, ruling out law or medicine. This is what they can offer this world: kicking ass at soccer. No one wants to pass up that opportunity.
“Is that it? Is that all you’ve got?” Jack taunts someone from the penalty box.
It’s Emir.
Jack is their second string goalie. He’s adequate at best. Emir’s lack of skill is clear when he struggles to get around Jack’s shitty defense.
With his beanie pushed back and his dark fringe catching in his eyelashes, Emir says, “Shut up.” His formless kick sends the ball sailing wide.
Jack crows.
Emir’s eyebrows furrow. Exhausted, he scrunches his face. Tension keeps his shoulders tight as a wire hanger. He sets up the next ball. He scowls, breathing hard. He tries again. And misses.
Jack doesn’t put much effort into blocking because the ball never comes close. “Should I just take a nap?” he asks.
Sebastian folds his arms over his chest and tilts his head. Emir has too much force in his kicks. He’s way too focused; his motions are unnatural and erratic.
He’s got potential, Sebastian says to himself, as Emir grumbles at the next ball. “C’mon! Go in this time.”
“Is this kid for real?” Smith asks.
“He’s gonna need a lot of help,” Hunter mumbles after a mouthful of water. “Any volunteers?”
“Count me out,” Zach says, long sweaty hair falling like a curtain over his eyes. “He acts like a jerk at school. We never got along.”
“Have you tried talking to him?” Hunter asks. “Or is that something you’re just sorry at, like picking up women?”
Zach drags Hunter into a headlock. Zach’s not a born asshole. His mom ditched him and his dad years ago. Since then, he doesn’t play nice with anyone he can’t guarantee will stick around.
Playing nice isn’t Emir’s thing either. He swears while stomping away.
“Hey! Shah! We’re not done.” Coach O’Brien’s voice booms like a megaphone. He’s the defensive coach and a stern, stocky man. He spent three years in a professional league before too many injuries sidelined him for good.
“I am.”
“Shah!”
Emir strides off like a man on a mission.
Sebastian ignores Mason’s whispered, “He kinda looks like he doesn’t want to be here, Bastian,” turns away, and gets in another lap. He tells himself it’s to loosen his muscles, but the truth is he wants a better view of Emir before he marches off to his cabin.
Emir’s “screw you” attitude simmers in defeat.
Sebastian quits halfway into his run. It’s merely first-day fatigue, that’s all. It has nothing to do with Emir.