“Are you happy?” Sebastian asks his phone when the alarm screams at him. He aches like twice-run-over roadkill, but that’s okay. The sky has cracked open for an epic sunrise, and that means one glorious thing: Time for a morning jog.
“You’re annoying,” Sebastian tells his phone. He groans when his phone responds by going back to sleep mode. After a yawn and stretch, Sebastian makes quick work of pulling on a comfy hoodie and a pair of loose shorts. He steals Willie’s iPod from the desk between their beds.
Willie’s snoring away, dead to the world.
“Lucky you,” Sebastian grumbles, and Willie answers by snuffling his pillow.
Sebastian grabs his sneakers. He runs to the pantry for bottled water before hitting the hiking trail.
Bloomington is pretty cool, but Oakville is a different version of awesome. It’s the nature vibe he likes: glittery dew on green leaves, heady, clean air, everything gold and ivy instead of gray and dull.
He jogs around the edge of camp, down by the lake, following a winding dirt path that leads to town. None of the other guys want any part of waking up before the ass-crack-of-dawn to join him. Mornings are his private sanctuary.
“Hello, Mr. Walsh!” Sebastian shouts when he’s passing an auto shop in town. The owner, a husky man, stands in the parking lot surveying his muscle cars and used tires.
Mr. Walsh waves back, grinning in his gruff, kind way. “Back for another summer, Bastian?”
“Always!”
Sebastian likes checking out the small shops. Their “SALE” signs are hung in the windows and the owners sweep the sidewalks in front of their doors, preparing for another day of boring small-town life. Never slowing, he nods at all of them. He likes to run a few miles in under an hour, keeping pace to Willie’s truly suck playlists. How many acoustic covers can one person download?
Daft Punk comes on, and Sebastian says, “Finally,” before sprinting back to camp for breakfast.
Mason grunts, then says, “You stink,” when Sebastian flops into a chair at their table. Mason’s useless without caffeine in the morning. He’s already sipping coffee from a paper cup.
“Good morning, Mace,” Sebastian says in a singsong voice rather than flipping him off.
A tray of food is pushed toward him. “The usual?” Willie offers. His mellowness in the morning reminds Sebastian that life is good.
On the tray is everything Sebastian loves: wheat toast slathered in Nutella, fresh fruit, chopped bananas in Greek yogurt. These are three reasons Willie is lightyears ahead of Mason in the friendship department.
“Wicked. Thanks, Willster.”
Waving as if it’s nothing, Willie turns pink and ducks his head. But Sebastian is curious. When has Willie ever been bashful?
“Kiss-ass.” Mason pokes Willie with a plastic spoon. “You never get me breakfast.”
Willie replies, indignant, “Because you don’t eat breakfast.”
“Coffee—”
“Is not breakfast,” Willie tells him.
Mason sips loudly at his coffee in rebuttal. Willie rolls his eyes and digs into his bowl of Cheerios.
One day, Sebastian is going to let them go all Thunderdome on each other and congratulate the winner. Of course, he’ll be short one best friend, but that’s bound to happen eventually.
“I hate you two,” Mason grumbles to the lip of his cup. “You’re like an awful bromance.”
“Hey!” Willie protests. “You wanted to marry me yesterday.”
“I was mistaken.”
“Whatever.”
Leaning back, Sebastian bites his lip. Mason is territorial when it comes to friendships, but he’ll get over it. The thing about this team is, there’s always been a lovefest between the players. All the testosterone and machismo exists on the field and in the locker room, where they can grab their crotches and have pissing contests. But this team has a thing for waxing poetic about their undying love too.
Mason pushes hair off his forehead. “Get a room already.”
“You’re disgusting.” Sebastian shakes his head at him.
“And you’re just a boring virgin.”
Sebastian’s mouth tightens as he whispers, “I’m not a virgin, dickhead.”
“Oh, that’s right. Just with guys, correct?” Mason’s far too smug, as if he’s shut Sebastian down.
Sebastian sighs through his nose. This is an excellent time for him to reevaluate his reasons for being Mason Riley’s best friend.
The dining hall stinks of sweaty soccer players, but it’s the smell of all the foods Sebastian used to love that he’s struggling with: burnt bacon, fried eggs, stacks of rubbery pancakes. He frowns at his stomach. If it wasn’t for those chants in the back of his head, the echoing voices of his bullies, he’d be stuffing his face the way Charlie is.
Get a grip, come on. He cautiously glances around the room.
Grey smiles at him from the coaches’ table. It’s empty, though, like her eyes. She wants to belong among them, but no one is welcoming her.
“Are you going to bother speaking to her?” Willie asks Mason.
“Maybe.” Mason pauses dramatically. “I haven’t decided.”
“Wait, what? Dude, you’re such a dick to girls.”
“Shut up, Will,” Mason bites back.
Today, Sebastian’s not in the mood to play Dad and break them up. He waves to Grey—damn Mason—and she brightens up like the neon lights of Times Square.
“You’re full of shit, Riley,” Willie says, pointing his spoon at Mason.
“Because I don’t suck up to Coach’s daughter to get a better playing position?”
“I’m not friends with her because of that.”
“No?” Mason asks. “Oh, I forgot. You have to be friends with everyone.”
It’s true. A world where Mason Riley is actually right is just ridiculous, but Willie has the heart of a damn puppy. Some people are assholes. They don’t deserve Willie.
“So that’s it?” Willie asks, incredulous at Mason’s careless shrug.
“I haven’t decided.”
“Asshole.”
Mason arrogantly says, “And proud,” just to rile Willie more.
They’ll be at it for hours. Sebastian turns to converse with his teammates. Between the repetitive “That’s what she said” jokes and boasting about a championship win, Sebastian manages to fit in. Guys argue over the best players in the league, the endless war of Seattle or Dallas. They laugh with Sebastian instead of staring at him when he talks.
Popularity isn’t his thing but, with these rowdy boys, it’s good to know he matters. It also scares him that life has become just two things for the past four years: graduating and soccer. Shouldn’t there be something else?
Emir walks into the dining hall, dragging his feet. He balances a tray in one hand and a can of Red Bull in the other. His appearance is sleepwalker-lite: hair spiked up, the sleeves of his shirt pulled over his knuckles, his scowl halfhearted. He’s almost soft and inviting.
That’s a big almost.
Sebastian wants to kick himself. He shouldn’t be staring at Emir. And he sure as hell isn’t going to admit to himself the reasons why.
Emir’s lost. His eyes scan the room for somewhere to sit. Just as with Grey, no one makes the effort to help.
In the world’s biggest mistake, Sebastian says, “Hey,” circling his fingers around one of Emir’s thin wrists.
Emir freezes, glaring at Sebastian’s hand, then his eyes. An eerie hush falls around them.
Sebastian attempts to lock onto his bravery. He almost succeeds, but then Emir hisses “What?” in a hostile voice, and Sebastian falters.
He struggles against the boulder in his throat. “Um,” he tries with the entire team’s eyes on them.
He gets it. Willie, Mason, and he are pretty much the Three Amigos around here. It’s not an exclusive club. Zach and Sebastian have known each other all their lives. And Charlie and Mason have been terrors together since preschool. But there’s always room for more. Sebastian knows Emir. Well, he did, so Emir can fit in too, right?
Sebastian sheepishly offers, “You can sit with us if you want,” when Emir’s face softens just a little. Foolishly, Sebastian takes that as the universe giving him a thumbs-up.
Emir, exploding Sebastian’s theory, whispers, “Not happening, dude.” He twists his arm free and stomps away.
“Burn,” someone hisses nearby.
Sebastian wipes the wounded expression off his face. But his heart hammers like a fifty-piece drum section at a parade as Emir sits at his table in the corner. Sebastian turns away and glares at his untouched food.
“What’s with him?”
“Does he love soccer, like the rest of us?” Jack says to Gio.
Mason says, “I told you, bro. He doesn’t like us.”
Sebastian wants Mason to shut the hell up, but he forks at his food for something to do. It doesn’t hold his attention long. Since he’s an epic idiot, his eyes find Emir looking back at him. Tears sting his eyes from their staring contest, but Sebastian holds the stare until something calm replaces the anger in Emir’s face. It’s a start.
Emir looks down first. His spoon draws lazy circles in his cereal. He’s so tense and small. All their lives, Emir has been smaller but faster than Sebastian. He could outrun Sebastian any day of the week.
It’s as if they’re still running from something.
“Hurry up, slackers! Scrimmage on the field in fifteen!” Coach Patrick barks from the doorway. The collective groan only intensifies the glee in his eyes.
Mason clears his throat. He says, “I don’t think Shah is going to last long.”
Sebastian’s a total jerk for not saying anything back. He hopes this time Mason is wrong.
The rush of a sweaty, sunbaked scrimmage is just what Sebastian needs. His teammates show off their new skills, which are terrible imitations of footwork they’ve seen in the latest FIFA video game. It’s classic. Most of them fall on their faces.
The workouts afterward are worse. Once again, they are a disorganized pack of rabid cubs, and the coaching staff makes them suffer. This form of torture has to be illegal.
Coach O’Brien shouts at the defensive line: “Knees up! Eyes forward! How do you expect to beat those Spartans if you can’t keep up with the ball?”
“Vamos, hombre! Is that the best you’ve got?” Coach Rivera yells. “Want another thirty minutes of cardio added to tomorrow’s practice?” His dark eyes narrow at Smith, who is struggling to keep up. “Smith! Where’s your form?” he asks after a sip of his cinnamon coffee.
“At your wife’s house,” Smith mutters.
“I heard that! My husband would appreciate it if you picked your crap up one of these days.” Grins are rare for Rivera, but his lips twitch when Smith trips over his own feet. His nascent smile fades just as quickly as it came when he starts yapping at Jack and Robbie for falling behind.
Coach Patrick paces the field end to end. “You all play like you’ve never seen a soccer ball! This isn’t tryouts.” His feet leave tracks in the grass. “Less than two months,” he shouts. Without his hat, his scowl is visible and demands one thing of every player: gratitude. He expects nothing less than discipline on the field. “That’s all you’ve got ‘til we meet the Spartans at home. If we’re going to win any games, you better survive working as a unit. I don’t see any heroes around here.”
“Riley would disagree, sir,” Zach says, hacking. He’s still breathless from the suicide drills.
Mason counters with, “Just repeating what your girlfriend tells me.” He’s just as winded as Zach. They flip each other off, earning another lap from Coach.
Yep, they’re doomed. Might as well forfeit the trophy now.
The team scrambles through basic drills and ball control techniques. A zigzag of orange cones is set up for passing exercises. Upperclassmen practice block tackling midfield. On the sidelines, the freshmen compete for who can puke colorful streams of Gatorade the farthest. Sebastian doesn’t hoot at them as the other upperclassmen do. He was the same as a frosh and he made varsity. They can too!
His afternoon is spent in his home, the penalty box, fending off shots from the offensive line.
“Too much force!” He smacks away another ball from Kyle. He’s a transfer from Bloomington West with way too much confidence in his kicks. Every shot is predictable, and Sebastian barely puts forth effort.
Kyle replies, “Screw you,” but Sebastian shrugs it off. In time, Kyle will find his bearings.
It doesn’t help that Willie’s crowing from the sidelines. He shouts, “Bombs away!” when another guy misses.
Sebastian ignores his friend’s manic sense of humor to observe the obvious: Willie’s bad knee, bandaged and iced, is propped on a bleacher below him. It’s a sure sign he’s already overdone it.
Sebastian tries to sound admonishing when he says, “Willster,” but it doesn’t work.
“You can’t beat Hughes! He’s like the Eyrie castle on Game of Thrones!” Willie yells. He’s an invaluable asset, as much the team’s cheerleader as their best defenseman.
“William!” Coach Rivera barks from midfield. “Hughes doesn’t need an ego, quit it!”
Willie shrinks from Rivera. The roguish glint in his eyes indicates this silence is temporary.
Grey, next to him with her clipboard in her lap, chews the top of her pen mercilessly. She takes notes on every player as if she expects there will be a quiz. Sebastian likes that she’s got a good head on her shoulders. He could encourage her to pursue the coaching thing if she can get her mind off Mason, the reason behind her lip-biting and her stone-cold posture.
Mason sinks ball after ball into the goal Jack’s protecting on the other side of the field. “Ding-dong!” he howls, grinning wolfishly at Jack’s pathetic defense.
Grey pumps a fist in the air, screeching, “Yes!” She cringes, red as a ripe strawberry, as the other guys hoot at her.
Mason groans, “Christ,” and gives her a dirty look. Zach is blowing him kisses from the sidelines, so Mason mouths, “Eat shit,” but Coach Patrick catches him. He slinks back into position to prepare for his next kick.
Sebastian has no interest in getting involved in that love boat. He stumbles off the field to flop next to Willie in the bleachers, where Willie brandishes a Gatorade. “Anything good happen?” Sebastian asks once he’s cracked the Gatorade and had a sip.
Willie points toward Jack’s side of the field. “Emir has potential.” Sebastian shrugs slightly and stays quiet. Willie continues, “He’d make a good wingback.”
Sebastian studies the pitch; his eyebrows furrow at how scattered Emir is. He seems determined, but nothing else.
“We need one,” Grey chimes in. “To replace Kendrick.” She is nothing but positive about the team’s prospects.
Sebastian shrugs again. Kendrick was decent, but completely replaceable, last season. Emir is faster and has the potential to be better. “Sweeper,” he suggests, tapping a finger on his chin. Willie gapes at him. “With practice, I mean. Reminds me of Cameron.”
“Geoff Cameron?” Grey asks.
“Wait, the Geoff Cameron,” says Willie, way too skeptically.
Sebastian nods. “Potential, right?”
Willie goes paler, as if he can’t tell if Sebastian’s finally taken one too many soccer balls to the head, but Emir is fast. He steals the ball without sweating. It’s the lack of coordination afterward that does him in.
Willie rants, damning Sebastian’s very existence. That’s no surprise. Geoff Cameron is a legend to Willie, and Sebastian said it mostly to piss him off.
He ignores Willie to observe Emir scooping the ball away to win another one-versus-one battle against Smith. He’s fascinating. His prideful stance is maintained the entire time Coach O’Brien barks at him for sloppy footwork or while Carl points and laughs.
Tipping his Gatorade for another sip, Sebastian whispers, “Awesome.” He almost chokes while swallowing, though. Emir is eyeing him. Busted! Wait—did Emir just smile? Nope. Sebastian must have a concussion. Emir’s turned away, so he’ll never know.
“Watch out!” Grey yells. Kyle is coming upfield too fast. Wham! Emir’s folded up on the grass. Shit, that’ll leave a mark. Being laid out protecting the goal far too often has taught Sebastian that.
“Eyes ahead of you, Shah!” Coach O’Brien snaps, while Hunter runs to help Emir up.
“I’m fine,” Emir mumbles, getting to his feet without Hunter’s assistance.
Hunter’s affronted expression lasts a bit too long before he shakes his head.
“C’mon kid,” Coach Patrick, stern but fatherly, says. “Shake it off, Shah. Don’t let it beat you.”
Kyle babbles apologies, but Emir doesn’t make eye contact. He grabs his ribs and flinches before limping back into position. He doesn’t say a word, but glares at a ball.
“Wow, dude, that’s uncool,” Zach says, stretched out a few bleachers below them. “He totally blew Hunter off, the dick.”
Sebastian rubs his sweaty palm over his mouth, so he doesn’t say the wrong thing. Emir isn’t being an asshole on purpose. Putting his finger on why will take time.
“Dunno, Bastian,” Willie says, their shoulders touching. “He doesn’t look much like Cameron to me, bro.”
Sebastian ignores a hardcore desire to roll his eyes. Willie is cool, but sometimes he reminds Sebastian of Mason. Sebastian doesn’t want to be told he’s wrong yet again.
Coach Patrick has an arm around Emir’s shoulders. He’s giving Emir an earful, one of Coach’s notorious fatherly talks, but Emir doesn’t seem all that interested. He’s glowering; his chest is heaving.
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be here?” Grey suggests.
“Huh, maybe.” Sebastian slumps; his throat holds in the words “He needs a friend” because he’s a major tool.
“You’ll get it, Emir,” Grey shouts, clapping. She receives a hopeful nod from Emir, and suddenly Sebastian wants that for himself. There’s only one way to get it.