Late in the afternoon, Coach O’Brien’s whistle blows a final time.
Thank God, because Sebastian is exhausted and cardio sucks, especially in the dead heat of summer on an endless green field with no shade. Sebastian could definitely live without this. He jogs off the field, dodges other players to get to a paper cup of ice cold water, and then finds Willie.
“I was thinking,” Willie starts, and Sebastian’s lips quirk at the gleam in his eyes. Last year, when he shared a science class with Willie and Mason, all of their worst ideas started with, “So I was thinking,” or, “I promise it won’t get us arrested this time,” which was a clear indication that, yes, they would get arrested or at least serve detention. And yet Sebastian always went along with whatever ridiculous idea they suggested.
Willie says, “Jacobs’s School of Music.”
“For college?” asks Sebastian after a gulp of water.
Willie nods, adjusting the bag of ice on his knee. Sebastian drags a hand over his mouth. Willie’s blue eyes are spacey, like a child fantasizing about Christmas morning.
“Why?”
“It’s not far from Bloomington. Pops can visit, and music’s the perfect major for me.” Willie’s a music junkie; his weekends are spent playing bass in a punk cover band. Sebastian’s been to a few of their shows. Willie’s got skills. “Or I could just go to college in the city.”
Sebastian makes a face. They’ve agreed against one thing: State University. It’s either a specialty school or getting the hell out of Bloomington, starting fresh.
“What about New York?”
Willie, in a perfectly spot-on Brooklyn accent, repeats, “New Yawk?”
“They’ve got the Red Bulls professional team. And the schools are good. Sweet living, you know?”
“It could be, but what about being closer? Somewhere we both could go?”
Sebastian tosses an arm around Willie’s shoulder, pulling him in. “But imagine it: a crappy apartment in the city, cab rides every morning, making the team—”
Willie clears his throat. “Sorry to disappoint you, Bastian but…” He points at his knee. “I don’t envision taking this all the way like we planned.”
Willie is through after this season. He has two options: surgery or lifelong rehab. An operation before college is a death sentence for an athlete. Recruiters aren’t scouting injury cases.
“Yeah,” Sebastian mumbles. “Guess so.”
Willie smiles just enough to hide the mourning in his eyes.
“Bloomington’s cool,” Sebastian says with a shrug. “Mom wouldn’t complain.” But Sebastian’s daydreams about sharing a shithole dorm at Bloomington University with Willie and hitting the bars for weekend college games on a widescreen TV aren’t enticing enough. He wants out. Life after high school is a mystery, but Sebastian won’t solve it in Bloomington.
Hunter plops down next to Willie. He announces, “Pasta and salad for lunch today,” with all the dread of a prisoner about to be executed. “Have we not suffered enough?”
Willie chuckles. “Nope.”
“Well, then.” Hunter leans on Willie. “At least you have to die with me.”
Hunter and Willie slip into a private conversation. Sebastian doesn’t mind. He’s spaced out, anyway. On the pitch, Coach Patrick and O’Brien discuss strategy. The defensive line is coming together nicely, except for Emir.
He can’t pass accurately and has zero coordination. It’s as if his foot’s allergic to the ball. But he outruns all attackers, beating them to their next move. If he can just harness that, maybe Sebastian can work around the rest.
“Keep it up, Shah!” Coach Patrick yells, glancing at his clipboard.
When Emir stumbles again, Coach O’Brien tosses his hat on the green. His hair is thinning; sunlight glares off his skull. “Why do you have two left feet? Is that possible? Jesus, Mary, and have mercy, kid, where is your head?”
Carl shouts, “Up his ass!” while chasing a ball.
“Hey!” Gio yells, pointing at Carl. “Don’t screw up his concentration.”
But it’s too late. The ball’s rolled too far in front of Emir, allowing Kyle to sidestep him and make a play.
O’Brien fusses, “Carl, you wanna do some more laps? We can skip lunch if you’d like?”
“No, thank you!”
“Then give the lad a break,” O’Brien snaps. His scowl exaggerates his wrinkles. “Try again, Shah.”
Sebastian’s bony elbows rest on his knees. He’s drained his cup, but keeps it close to his mouth, hiding how intensely he’s studying Emir.
Emir’s expression reads as if he’ll march off the field and quit. Then, something flashes in his eyes, a reminder, before he marks another player to steal possession of the ball.
Yes!
Sebastian doesn’t scream but he might do a small fist pump out of view. He’s a dork, okay, but Emir did it. Of course, he doesn’t keep control of the ball. Robbie swoops in like a hired assassin to take it back, but it’s enough for Coach Patrick to nod his approval when Emir passes.
“What about fullback?”
Sebastian startles. Hunter and Willie have stopped their random geeky ranting to turn their attention back on him. Willie’s expectant face means the question was obviously for Sebastian.
“Emir?”
Willie rolls his eyes. “Well, not for them.” He points to the gaggle of freshmen doing passing drills—badly. They are no doubt headed for the reserve team at the end of camp. Or, as Mason appropriately calls it, soccer limbo.
Hunter says, “I don’t know if he has it in him. But defense is definitely his strong point.”
“Yeah,” Willie concedes. “Definitely defense.”
Sebastian can teach Emir to be a great defender. I’m the team goalie; defense is in my blood. And he trusts Willie and Hunter’s judgment, even if they’re now arguing about who’d be the better soccer player, Mario or Luigi. At least they’re interested in Emir’s success. Now, if Sebastian can convince Emir that he isn’t helping because Emir’s a charity case.
On the sidelines, Coach Patrick is talking to Emir; his thick hand squeezes Emir’s bony shoulder. Judging by his stance, Coach’s giving one of his famous pick-me-up speeches, something he doesn’t often do publicly. When a player is struggling, Coach pulls him into the office, shuts the door, and recites every Rocky quote possible. It’s repetitious, but Coach never lets anyone feel like a failure.
When Coach walks away, Emir kicks at the grass and mumbles. Most of the guys steer clear of him. His tightly-wound shoulders don’t invite company; nor does his otherworldly frown.
Sebastian bounds down the squeaky bleachers. His heart hammers triple-time; a black hole gapes in his stomach. Willie calls after him, but Sebastian’s feet keep pounding on wood that’s sure to snap. The other guys might crack on him later, but he doesn’t stop.
“Wait up.”
Emir spins around with an annoyed sigh. “Please, don’t do this.”
“But—”
“Don’t.”
Sebastian shakes off the chill spreading through his body. He rubs Emir’s shoulder; the sweat makes Emir’s shirt stick to his skin. Oddly, it’s not gross.
Emir lowers his eyes. “You don’t have to—”
Sebastian cuts him off with, “Meet me here after dinner,” as if Emir wasn’t speaking.
“What for?”
Sebastian raises his brow. “Do me a favor and meet me here, okay?”
Emir nods, whispering, “Okay” with little fight in his voice. It’s progress.
The sun, warm and bright, beats relentlessly. Emir’s a siren drawing Sebastian in with his face rather than his voice. Sebastian, realizing he’s doomed, snatches his hand away to shake off whatever that was.
Emir’s mouth goes soft. Sebastian is hit with the thought of kissing Emir, which is just horrible. It’s difficult to resent someone while wanting something more.
“Hughes, lunch! I’m starved, bro!”
Sebastian’s appreciation for Mason’s whiny voice is immeasurable. He steps back, still breathless, needing to get away from Emir and unsure he’s cool with that. “Okay,” he says, too low, then jogs toward his friends. They’ve lagged just enough that Sebastian doesn’t have to run.
“Pasta time,” Hunter says, piggybacking Willie with Mason to his left. Sebastian flanks Mason’s other side, keeping his head lowered. He doesn’t say anything.
At least in the dining hall, Sebastian can escape Emir. Too bad there’s nowhere in his head to retreat from the thought of sliding his mouth over Emir’s.
A true tragedy.