“Trade you peas for garlic bread,” Willie offers.
“Sure,” Sebastian says, passing the bread while Willie spoons his peas onto Sebastian’s plate. The peas are mushy, but the garlic bread is overbaked and greasy, so it’s a fair exchange. The food in the dining hall is either dry pieces of grilled chicken or pasta drenched in debatable “tomato sauce,” but it’s better than school cafeteria food.
Everyone sticks to the same people they talk to during school. Sebastian shares a table with Willie and Mason; usually Zach or Hunter or Charlie joins them. Spread around like lighthouses across the shore is the rest of the team. The coaching staff takes a table in the corner, where they talk between bites of food about strategy, their opponents, and the professional leagues.
“What about Montreal this year? Will they be any good?”
“Probably,” Kyle says to Charlie after swallowing a mouthful of chicken.
The guys always banter about the same things: their favorite teams, inappropriate jokes, and girls. Usually the last two go hand in hand. Sometimes, discussions turn to their first game of every season—a match against their rivals, St. Catherine’s.
“Dumb Spartans,” someone will say, and the whole team will grunt.
Tonight, the team is fairly quiet; their asses were handed to them during practice. Heads lowered, they mumble through their meal.
Charlie tosses Smith a dinner roll. He asks, “Who’s going to win the Western Conference?” and hoots when Smith catches the roll one-handed.
“My money’s on Seattle.”
“That’s ’cause you’re an idiot.” Zach grins smugly at Jack. They fist-bump across the table.
Gio flips them off. “Vete al infierno.” He loves to tell the others to go to hell during their fantasy league tournaments. This year, he’s stuck with a bunch of Seattle’s injury-plagued players.
Sebastian looks out of a window. The sun’s a heavy flare dropping behind the trees.
Zach goes on about a pretty girl he’s dating. It sounds promising, according to Zach’s standards. He jostles Sebastian with an elbow, then says, “She’s got a friend for you, bro. Remember Amelia?”
Sebastian shrugs. He vaguely recalls sharing a class, not that they talked. He scoops peas into his mouth to avoid responding.
“She’s pretty,” Willie mentions.
Yeah, thanks, Will!
“See,” Zach says, pointing his fork at Sebastian, “the gays approve.” His voice isn’t mocking, and Willie sits tall as if he’s accomplished something. He’s a traitor, and Sebastian considers stealing back his garlic bread.
“Who has time for dramatic romances?” Mason drums his hands on the table. “Definitely not me.”
Sebastian is thankful the attention is off of him and his nonexistent romantic life.
This time, Zach derides Mason, asking, “So you and Val aren’t hooking up this year?” When Mason hesitates, Zach lifts his eyebrows. He chugs his Red Bull.
Mason argues, “I didn’t say that—”
“Slow down, Zach,” Carl, another defenseman with jackal eyes and a blond crewcut, sneers. “He’s saving himself for Coach’s daughter, remember?”
Zach and half the team laugh. He snaps his fingers; his eyes are lit. “That’s right! You and Grey?”
Mason scowls, scratching his nose. “Knock it off, dude. I have no interest in—”
“Where is the brat, anyway?” Smith asks Mason.
“How am I supposed to know?” Mason nearly shouts, but his throat tightens around the last word. He glares at Willie, who chokes and laughs simultaneously. Mason probably isn’t against burying Willie’s body somewhere in the woods at this point.
Sebastian’s about to interfere, but—
“I’m here! I’m here! Sorry I’m late!”
Well, there goes saving Mason’s ass.
A girl with floppy bronze curls, pink cheeks, and bright emerald eyes runs breathlessly to the coaches’ table. She’s wearing a wrinkled BHS Lions T-shirt, denim shorts, and dirty Chuck Taylor All Stars.
Coach Patrick gazes at her with a smile. “It’s okay,” he says gruffly.
“Hi, Coach,” she says with a wink. She pecks a kiss to his cheek. He gives her one of those one-armed half-hugs. When she pulls back, Sebastian can see that the entire team is watching.
Sebastian can’t control his own grin when he sizes her up. Grace freaking Patrick, the Coach’s stepdaughter, doesn’t look much different than the twelve-year-old soccer fan who used to follow the team from match to match. Back then, she carried a mini-clipboard in her skinny arms, trying to play field general like her stepfather.
“You’ve got an audience, Grace,” Coach Patrick says with a chuckle.
She wrinkles her nose. No one calls her Grace but Coach. The last guy who did got kneed in the balls. She goes by Grey. “Grace is for princesses,” she told Sebastian once, “and I’m a soccer brat, through and through. No pink dresses and tiaras for me.”
Sebastian respected her wishes because, besides being a wannabe coach, Grey is a phenomenal soccer player. But she’s not interested in playing. Grey prefers observing from the sidelines, and carrying a pretty gnarly crush on Mason.
“Grey,” she mumbles under her breath.
Coach gives her a meaningful look and pats her hip.
When she sees Sebastian, her dimples show. She’s taller, more statuesque, than when she was twelve. Then she finds Mason, who is noticeably tense.
“Love is in the air,” Zach sings softly.
“Screw you,” Mason whispers.
“Okay fellas, let’s welcome Grace—” Coach snorts when Grey smacks his shoulder. “I mean, Grey, to camp.”
“More like welcome to my hell,” Mason says to Sebastian.
“You know the rules,” Coach says.
They all do. It’s soccer suicide to give Grey any shit, which a few of their best players learned the hard way. But Grey is a good kid, so there’s no real reason to mess with her.
Grey, still pink and shy, sucks in a deep breath before shouting, “Let’s kill it this year, Lions!”
The team echoes their approval, but something else follows. A few players hum under their breath. The sound builds and builds like a bee in Sebastian’s ear, until they’re all staring directly at Mason.
Their first year at camp, when Grey made her crush too apparent by wearing Mason’s jersey number to every scrimmage, the seniors taunted Mason. In the showers, a chorus of “Build Me Up, Buttercup” and kissy faces broke out daily. It’s an historic tradition now.
“Knock it off,” grumbles Mason, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.
“Bro, she’s been in love with you since she was twelve,” Zach says, cackling as he shoves Mason’s shoulder.
Mason flips him the middle finger and pushes his plate of food away. He slouches in his chair. “She’s a pain in my ass.”
Sebastian lets Zach and Charlie give Mason a hard time, partly because Mason will prank them all before the summer is over. Sebastian gets distracted observing his surroundings. He’s not actively searching for anyone…
Which is a total douchebag lie, so he can’t blame his eyes when they zone in on a table in the corner.
Head lowered, Emir sits alone, forking his food around his plate. He’s without his beanie; his mussed dark hair matches the color of his thick eyelashes. His jaw protrudes as he grinds his teeth. One of his legs shakes under the table. Quickly, he scans the room. He’s painfully out of place, a square piece for a round hole. Everyone else has a spot, including the freshmen piled together at one table.
“Someone’s gonna have to help that guy fit in,” Charlie says, shaking Sebastian out of his guilty stare. He’s lost track of how long he’s been watching, but most of the guys have finished their food and filed out of the hall.
“Not me,” Mason says, holding up both hands as if he’s surrendering. “We’re not friends.”
Willie rolls his eyes. “He’s not friends with anyone, Mace. That’s not the point.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Maybe he’s not interested in friends?” Zach suggests, scratching at his five o’clock shadow. Zach’s built more like a college freshman than a high school senior. He’s always been mature, physically.
“Or he doesn’t like any of us,” says Charlie.
“I doubt that,” Hunter says with an easy tone. “Whether he likes us or not, someone has to help him improve on the pitch, or we’re all screwed if we need him to play.”
Sebastian, in a vain attempt to become invisible, leans on the table and covers his face with his hands. This will only go one way. Someone—Willie—will suggest Sebastian convince Emir to let them help, and then Sebastian—the perpetually whipped guy he is—will be the hero by bringing the team together for Emir.
Aren’t there already enough Disney teen movies like that?
But while Sebastian waits for the inevitable, Mason says, “Let’s just leave him alone. His bad attitude won’t do us any good.”
No one argues with him. It’s as if they’ve all already given up on Emir. Sebastian wants to tell them how messed up that is. It’s a team, not a clique. They don’t leave anyone to figure it out on their own.
By the time he gets the balls up to confront anyone, the guys have cleared out, including Emir. It’s just Sebastian, half-eaten pasta going cold on his plate, thoughts stewing in his head. He pushes the plate away and thumps his head on the table.
Yep, he’s going to make one awful captain.
* * *
When Sebastian finally steps outside, the sky is streaked the colors of a circus tent: red, canary yellow, and swirls of blue. Behind the trees, the sun’s setting. The summer air is quiet, not far from muggy.
Sweat shines on Sebastian’s skin as he lugs equipment across the lawn toward the shed. Traditionally, it’s the team’s job to maintain the grounds. Sebastian doesn’t mind, because he gets a sweet view of the pinprick stars over the lake.
“Christ,” he hisses, mopping at the sweat on his brow with his T-shirt. He shoves the shirt into the back pocket of his jeans. He’d walk around in just his damn boxer-briefs if he dared, but he’s self-conscious just being shirtless. Lately, familiar words keep looping in his head: Bastian the Trashcan. After months of skipping his workout routine, he’s not rocking a Hollister model’s body. His confidence is shot. The bags of cheese puffs while streaming Netflix didn’t help either.
He glares at his stomach’s post-dinner pudge. “You’ll get it back, eventually,” he says with a sigh. Muscles straining against the load of bricks-heavy bag of equipment, he starts his walk again.
“Want help with that?” Grey asks. The black sports car she leans against is sleek. Sebastian can’t identify the make and model, but the paint is glossy, so it must be new.
“Looks like you’ve got enough to carry.” Sebastian grins, nodding his head toward the bags at Grey’s feet.
“Possibly,” she says, smiling. “Maybe you can help me?”
Sebastian pokes his lips out. “Now Grey, you haven’t turned into a spoiled rich girl who expects big, strong guys like me to rescue you, have you?”
Grey rolls her eyes. Besides the team, Grey is all Coach has, so maybe she’s a tiny bit spoiled. But Grey is too cool and goofy to adopt a diva attitude.
She points at the car and says, “It was a sweet sixteen gift from Coach.” She never calls him Dad. Sebastian isn’t sure if it’s because Coach married her mom when Grey was old enough to know the truth or because she’s stuck in a sports headspace all the time. “I told him not to.”
Sebastian whistles, impressed. “Too flashy?”
“Too girly.” She sticks her tongue out. “I wanted a muscle car.”
Sebastian snorts. Welcome back, twelve-year-old Grey!
“Coach is trying to bribe me into joining the girls’ soccer team,” she says dryly, blowing upward to get the curls out of her face. They fall right back. “I’m not interested, though.”
“Why not?”
“Just because,” she whines, pouting. At least that hasn’t changed either. She digs the toes of her Chuck Taylors in the dirt. She asks, cheeks crimson, “So, um, how’s Mace doing?” Curls curtain her face as she stares at her shoes.
“Still hung up on that crush?”
“Nope.”
Sebastian doesn’t believe her, but whatever. He gets it. He hasn’t crushed on anyone since he was like, eleven? He met Sam at a party, they exchanged numbers and made out at a movie, and that was it. The unrequited infatuation phase never happened.
“Look at you!” He adjusts the balance of equipment on his shoulders. “He has you lovesick right now, doesn’t he?”
“Shut the hell up, I don’t like—” She pauses, more abashed than angry. Her eyes meet Sebastian’s, and he levels her with his best disbelieving stare. “Mace is just a good guy, okay?” she says. “Awesome player. That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s it.”
Sebastian expects her to stomp her foot. When she doesn’t, he considers her a little more carefully. “He treats you like garbage, Gee.”
Her shoulders slump. “Not all of the time.”
It’s a weak effort, but Sebastian empathizes. Sam wasn’t the best at feeding his own superhero confidence.
“Okay,” he finally says. “Then ask him out already.”
Grey freezes, tension gripping her mouth. In a hushed voice, she pleads, “I can’t. You know how Coach is about anyone trying to date me. He’d kick Mace off the team.”
Yeah, that would suck. Being in love sucks, actually! How does anyone do it?
“Plus,” Grey sighs, tucking curls behind her ear, “Mace wouldn’t be interested, anyway.” She’s trying to smile through the words, but all the cracks in her usually hardcore armor are visible.
Sebastian says, “You’re Grace-freaking-Patrick, dude. I’ve never seen you back down from a fight.” He once witnessed Grey get in the face of a defenseman twice her size for an illegal tackle against Mason. She didn’t blink when he growled at her. “Work it out, okay?”
Grey beams as if Sebastian’s a victorious gladiator. Any time she smiles, he’s as overwhelmed as if he’s just slain Godzilla.
“Love you, Bastian.”
“Love you too, you spoiled princess.” The corner of his mouth lifts when she scrunches her nose. He readjusts the equipment. “Now carry your own bags. I’ve got to finish this up and hit the sack because your dad—”
“Stepdad,” she corrects.
“—is going to go General Zod on our asses tomorrow if we don’t get it together.”
“General who?”
“Oh, my God.” Sebastian groans at the sky. “Never speak to me again. Ever.”
Grey’s cackling fades as he walks away. Leave it to her to get his mind off everything. As far as friends go, most days Grey is ranked right next to Willie. He forgets the weight of the equipment and the sweat dripping off his nose as he treks toward the Hot Box.
The few trees that surround the practice field allow an excellent view of blossoming stars. Sebastian’s found a spot near the edge of the field. The city’s smog and lights hide the stars in Bloomington. But out here? Stars are giant ivory beacons, casting their glow in a smear of indigo.
Sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, Sebastian gulps a healthy amount of borrowed Gatorade. Okay, he stole it, but he’s earned it. Besides, no one will miss it. After moving the equipment, Sebastian’s muscles are numb. He has to wiggle his fingers and toes just to ensure they work. But mostly, his mind drains him.
When Sebastian first started playing, he pushed himself just to survive. Extra hours on the pitch before and after practice were a necessity. He did more reps in the weight room than anyone else. Cardio became his enemy and his friend. Whatever was needed to stay competitive, Sebastian did.
Sebastian’s determined to make this year memorable. It’s a craving, an addiction. He carries the weight of being an anchor for the team, on and off the field. Who wants to have that responsibility at seventeen? It’s messed up, but the truth isn’t always a pretty, dreamy montage. Sometimes, Sebastian would rather life sold him a lie about his purpose.
Crawling out of his thoughts, he downs more Gatorade. His eyes focus straight ahead to the pitch. At this hour, it should be empty, but it isn’t. Sebastian has a clear view of drooping shoulders, a knit beanie, and a perpetual scowl.
It’s him.
Emir lines himself up before running toward one soccer ball in a row of them. His foot smashes a ball toward one of the posts. It misses, and Emir shouts, “Are you kidding me?” while marching to his next ball. Emir kicks up a clump of grass and misses the ball. His head bows as he says, “Stupid piece of…”
Sebastian winces.
Emir walks himself through all the steps, reciting tips the coaches give amateur players: “One foot in front of the other… See your target…” It doesn’t work, though. Emir stalks the balls as if he’s starring in a National Geographic special on caged beasts let into the wild.
Sebastian says, “Calm down,” so softly he can hardly hear himself.
Emir chants, “Pull it together, Shah,” but all his motions are stiff.
“You’ve got it,” Sebastian says. Wait—this is a total out-of-body experience. Is he actually rooting for Emir?
Emir’s fingers curl into fists by his sides as he glares at another ball. His beanie is pushed back, exposing sweaty hair stuck to his forehead. “Go in or die,” he growls at his mortal enemy: the ball. He races forward, catching the ball with the wrong side of his foot. It sails over the posts. “Bloody idiot!” he howls at the sky.
This is a massacre, and not in a hilarious way like Funny or Die videos on YouTube. But Sebastian can’t avert his eyes. Maybe it’s empathy? He’s not too sure.
Emir’s rubs his fists over his eyes. He stutters, “Can’t you do any better?” Smeared tears shine on his cheeks. He wipes them away. “Abbu would be so…” His words die in his throat.
“Shit.” Guilt sits heavy on Sebastian’s chest. Everyone’s hero, right?
Emir collapses in a pile of ragged exhaustion in the middle of the field near his discarded sweatshirt. Has he been out here since after dinner? He’s stretched out like a dead starfish, reciting, “Just give up, mate, this was a mistake,” to the stars.
Sebastian’s seen enough. He pushes to his feet and dusts prickly grass from his clothes. His stomach drops when Emir crosses his vision again; that voice in the back of his head needs to shut up. The point it’s trying to make is simple. They don’t quit on this team. Sebastian doesn’t quit at anything. “I wish I got a cool cape for this,” he grumbles, turning away. He walks toward his cabin. Briefly, he wishes he had Mason’s ability to walk away from people without guilt.
The last thing Sebastian needs is insomnia. Great, now my safe place is ruined!
Willie’s snoring roars like a jacked-up lawn mower, but that’s not what keeps Sebastian awake. Sweat clings to his brow, but it’s not the heat either. Nope, it’s his thoughts—and Emir’s defeated voice in his head, to be exact.
“Can’t you do any better?”
Sebastian’s quite intimate with that voice and those words. They’re the same words Sebastian heard when he was younger and the world gave up on him, back when he wasn’t good at anything, until soccer came along.
Maybe he can do for Emir what soccer did for him?
Sebastian turns on his side. The alarm clock’s bleeding red numbers assault his vision. 3:36 a.m. Crap. He needs to sleep and to stop silly thoughts of saving someone else’s ass when he’s still not sure how to save himself.