From the edge of the pitch, the sun skids across the sky like a red cannonball rolling toward nothing. It leaves only purple and orange bruises from a war between light and dark. In the evening glow, Emir is soft, approachable. Without a beanie, his hair is fluffy. A thrift-store T-shirt and loose sweatpants compliment his cozy appearance. Granted, Sebastian’s view of Emir lately has been nothing but rough, so maybe he’s simply appreciating the moment.
Emir, humming to himself, juggles a ball between his feet. It escapes, but he chases it down, finally moving freely. When no one’s watching, pressure doesn’t exist; it’s like dancing in the dark. But Emir can’t control the ball for long.
Cicadas hum their nightly hymns, but underneath them Emir sings Michael Jackson. Music was always like magic for Emir. Eight years ago, it was all Emir needed to be himself around Sebastian.
“Shit.”
The ball wobbles from between Emir’s feet. In the middle of the pitch, Sebastian effortlessly stops it with one foot. He says, “That was good,” with too much glee in his voice.
Emir flinches at being caught. “It was okay.”
“Give yourself some credit,” Sebastian says, using the toe of his foot to scoop the ball into the air and then bouncing it off a knee. “Just keep going.”
“What if I quit first?”
“Is that the plan?”
Emir’s shrug is about as convincing as a puppy’s growl. “I haven’t decided,” he says when Sebastian passes the ball back to him. He fakes left, goes right, but Sebastian’s right in his face, grinning.
“Waiting for me to convince you?”
Emir says, “Waiting for you to fail,” but his lips twitch upward.
“That won’t happen.”
Emir rolls his eyes, trying to work around Sebastian. He sweeps the ball past Sebastian, making a run for it. Sebastian catches him, but barely.
“Not bad,” he says, spinning around Emir.
“I’m barely trying,” Emir says, breathless.
Sebastian relaxes. Well, he tries to relax, but his pulse pounds in his ears. They’re face to face, waiting for the next move. And Sebastian, having another idiot moment of epic proportions, brushes sweaty hair off Emir’s forehead with his fingers.
Emir, who is an inch or two shorter than Sebastian, peers through his eyelashes. He doesn’t say anything, but he looks ready to speak.
“Um, yeah.” Sebastian overheats.
Emir says, “Sure,” and leaves it at that.
They pass the ball back and forth; the sun sinks behind the trees. At five minutes to eight, the halogen floodlights that surround the pitch click on, illuminating the greens in lustered silver.
“What’re we here for?” Emir asks.
“To make you better.” Sebastian is trying to remain focused on the benefits to the team, not on his hormones.
Emir mumbles, “Horrible plan, mate.”
“Just give me a chance,” Sebastian insists.
Emir chews his lip. He reaches to brush the hair off his forehead, but Sebastian’s already done that. Emir’s hand dangles mid-air; a blush overtakes his face. “So,” he starts and then pauses, as if the world anchors him to the ground when he wants to fly. “Let’s do this, then?”
Under the hazy, firestorm sky, they practice. Sebastian teaches Emir passing first. “That’s better.” He applauds Emir’s ability to control possession of the ball for more than ten feet. Of course, Emir still keeps his head low, glaring at the ball as if he’s willing it to follow his commands. But Sebastian is content with his growing coordination.
Eventually, he’ll advance their training to marking an attacker, slide tackles, and complicated tricks, like hitting a header so the ball flies to your teammate.
The sky spits out stars as time slips between them.
Sebastian pushes hair off his brow and says, “Do you think you can get it back here to me?”
Emir groans softly, spinning in the grass. “Demanding asshole.” He clumsily works the ball back upfield.
“I heard that!”
“Good!” Emir gripes, but his laughter betrays him.
Sebastian rubs sweaty hands over his shorts. He usually wears gloves when he’s protecting the goal. He’s anticipating a shot attempt from Emir, but it never happens because Emir loses control of the ball.
“Bugger.” Emir makes a face. “See what you’ve gone and made me do.”
Sebastian snorts, flipping Emir the finger. “You just need more help.”
With total lack of common sense, Sebastian runs up to Emir, then comes around his backside to align his chest with Emir’s spine. He fits his arms around Emir’s lean frame; his hands smooth Emir’s waist. “Personal space” has vacated his vocabulary.
“This okay?” Sebastian asks.
Emir flinches, then nods.
In his head, Sebastian has ruled this a “teaching method,” though no one’s ever given him this brand of attention. “Follow me.” Emir’s muscles are coiled, but when Sebastian whispers, “I can help,” he leans into Sebastian’s chest.
Sebastian hooks his chin over Emir’s shoulder. “Less focus on what you want the ball to do,” he says, moving them in tandem toward the ball. “More on the way the ball wants you to move.”
Emir turns his head just a millimeter, and asks, “How do I do that?”
Sebastian clears his throat, his flow slightly disrupted by the brush of Emir’s soft but still stubbly cheek. “Stop forcing yourself.”
“It’s not that easy.”
Sebastian tightens his fingers on Emir’s hips. “Relax,” he says, his lips skimming Emir’s ear. Their feet guide the ball closer to the penalty box.
“I can’t relax with your,” Emir says, sounding smug, and with a deliberate arch in his spine, “junk against my bum, mate.”
Sebastian gasps and pulls away from Emir to chase down the ball that’s strayed from between them. His gnarly, cool-as-shit impersonation fails miserably. What did he expect? He wasn’t purposefully trying to do that.
“Shut up,” he says dejectedly.
“It’s cool, Bastian.”
No, it very well is not, since Sebastian has to turn away and adjust everything under his shorts.
Sebastian is disarmed by Emir’s easy grin when they’re face to face again. Emir wiggles his eyebrows and says, “I don’t mind a guy’s…” He waves a hand at Sebastian’s waist. “On my bum, but I usually don’t mix stupid sports and sex. It’s a rule.”
“It’s not stupid,” Sebastian says, piqued. “Sports, I mean, okay? Don’t put down soccer, because it’s all I’ve got these days.”
Emir’s mouth droops. “I didn’t mean to…” He shoves a twitchy hand through his hair.
Sebastian shrugs. It’s not as though Emir knows or understands how big soccer has been for him, how it’s given him something to be proud of. It’s been a purpose. Which is hard to explain to anyone who acts as if high school is just a stepping stone. To what? Once soccer is over, Sebastian’s sure as hell his future is DOA.
“Maybe we should call it a night?” he suggests.
“Wait, can’t we, um…” Emir’s voice is broken and small when he says, “This is important to me, Bastian.”
Sebastian hates realizing he’s Emir’s last chance. “C’mon,” he says, waving Emir over. He’s in front of the posts and instinctively ducking into position. “Take a shot.”
“Yeah?” Emir doesn’t wait for Sebastian’s response; he lines up for a kick.
Sebastian swats the ball away. “Again.”
Emir’s next shot is easier to block; the one after is too. Sebastian tosses the ball right back at Emir. He’s pissed at the world, not Emir, and takes it out on the ball.
“Better.”
“I can’t tell.” Emir takes another rip at the ball.
Concentrating on Emir’s improved approach, Sebastian loses track of time. Emir’s stuttering shuffle toward the ball turns into a stiff glide. That encourages Sebastian to fight harder guarding the posts.
He hasn’t had this much fun since he was a rookie.
“Why goalie?” Emir asks.
Sebastian chest-bumps the ball away. He’s impressed when Emir uses the inside of his foot to catch it. “You don’t want to know,” he tells Emir.
“I do,” Emir argues.
“I tried every position my freshman year. The glory is in being an attacker,” Sebastian explains, leaning over to catch his breath. “It’s why everyone loves Mason.”
Emir’s mouth twists, but he keeps quiet.
“I’m not as good as him,” Sebastian says.
This time, Emir snorts his disapproval.
Sebastian pinches his sweat-soaked shirt to pull it away from his skin. “I wasn’t quite the defender, like Willie,” he continues. He jumps to stop the ball, then tuck-and-rolls with it wrapped in his arms. “I was a certified benchwarmer.”
“A water boy?”
Sebastian tosses the ball back, amused. “I wasn’t cool enough for that.”
He is mesmerized by Emir’s new ability to maintain focus and dribble the ball. Emir’s face is shining with sweat, his eyebrows are lowered, and his mouth is pinched. But he’s into this.
“I was bad.” Sebastian laughs, self-deprecating.
“Ha! Couldn’t be worse than me.”
“Anyways,” Sebastian says, rubbing his finger over an eyebrow sticky with perspiration. “At the end of the first season, our goalie graduated. I went out for goalkeeper because, well, why not? Jack was a whiny brat. I figured I could be as good as him.”
The ball soars high, and Sebastian meets it midair with both hands. Emir grumbles, “Thanks, asshole,” when Sebastian tosses it back.
Sebastian falls back into place. “I did all I could to get better. Extra time at home or camp, wherever.”
“And?”
Sebastian waves his arms around in a “here we are” gesture. “My first game was against the Spartans,” says Sebastian, looking into the distance.
It took an overtime period before they dragged those pretentious assholes to the ground. The score was two to zero, and the crowd went bananas when Mason scored the winning goal. But Coach Patrick dug his fingers into the collar of Sebastian’s jersey and hauled him to the front of the team so he could soak in the fact that he shut out their rivals. That feeling still hits him with shuddering waves of warmth.
Emir stares at him as if Sebastian’s just had a war flashback. Sebastian doesn’t care. Memories like that are hard to come by. Most of the time, it’s school or relationships or trying not to screw up and get grounded before the next party—and the endless awkwardness.
Sebastian is determined to hold on to those memories.
Emir says, “I’ll never be like you.”
Sebastian blindly catches the ball Emir pelts at him. “Hey, are you trying to quit again, Shah? Save it, I’m not interested.”
Emir laughs, then licks his dry lips.
Sebastian gets stuck on how he’d really like to suck Emir’s lower lip, winces, and leans over to conceal his excitement.
“Thanks, Captain.”
Sebastian is so completely thrown by Emir’s words that he doesn’t pay any attention until—the ball zooms right past the side of Sebastian’s head.
“Goooal!” Emir howls like a Telemundo announcer. He runs around maniacally, cheering and high-fiving imaginary teammates. If he doesn’t quiet down, he’ll wake a coach, but Sebastian lets him have this moment. Maybe he’ll reflect fondly on this in a few years.
Sebastian’s happiness, for Emir, for the night, for the small victories, is unexpected. He waits until Emir slows down, breathless, before tossing another ball at him. “Again?” he says.
Emir says gleefully, “Yeah, again.”
They go for another hour. Emir is unable to sink another goal, but it doesn’t matter. He’s high off the last one. It’s enough to keep a warped smile on Sebastian’s mouth.
“I killed the giant,” Emir keeps saying. Sebastian rolls his eyes every single time.
He teaches Emir how to do keepie-uppies. They laugh and shove each other until they’re too sleepy to keep going.
* * *
Weekends aren’t a free-for-all, but a coach can only shove so many practices and Hoosiers references down teenagers’ throats before they rebel. The coaches give them mercy, with limitations. First, a curfew, a respectable one, too, because what teenager is ever in bed before midnight on a Saturday? Second, a bed check in the morning to make sure no one’s gone missing or run off to marry a townie in the night. That’s all.
After Saturday afternoon’s required lunch, the madhouse cracks open.
Half of the team piles into the first available car or walks into town. The seniors usually sneak in cheap beer or rum, which doesn’t always end well. Sebastian and a few others keep everyone in check, mostly.
“Do they need chaperones?” Coach Rivera asks.
“Let them go.” Coach Patrick smiles. They’re standing near the picnic area, observing. “It’s not like we have bail money, anyway.” Coach’s anticipating his own weekend routine: beer, pizza, and a Rocky movie marathon. All his best speeches come from Sylvester Stallone quotes.
A convertible, top down, speeds off with Jack straddling a headrest. “Que Dios nos ayude,” Rivera says. “God help us.” He’s a devout Catholic and often calls on his religion in moments like this.
Mason is perched on the hood of his car. Guys shout for him to hurry up. Tires spin, creating a fog of dirt. But Mason doesn’t move. His hair is slicked back; he’s wearing a loose tank top and green skinny jeans. Sunglasses slip from his brow to his nose. He winks at Sebastian. “Ready to destroy this place?”
“Um, no,” Sebastian says with a laugh. “I don’t want to know what the inside of juvie looks like, bro.”
“Boring.” Mason cocks his head back. A night in juvenile detention would be a dream come true for Mason. “Will has my back.”
Willie climbs into the back seat. With his pale skin and over-gelled hair, he would look ridiculous in an orange jumpsuit.
Charlie’s old Civic sputters past them. Icona Pop’s “I Love It” shakes the interior. Last year, the seniors made that song their anthem, singing it endlessly in the showers. Those guys were ridiculously comfortable with their sexuality, so no one gave them shit about it.
“Fifty bucks says Zach gets harassed by a cop first,” Hunter says.
Mason whistles his approval. “I’ll take that bet.” He’s king of the jungle on his car-throne; all his loyal subjects salute him on their way to Oakville. He says to Sebastian, “That is, if Bastian doesn’t save their asses first.”
“Hey,” Sebastian protests. “Wasn’t it I who made sure you didn’t get locked up two years ago for possession of greenery?”
“Touché.” Mason nods, looking grateful for the reminder.
“Dude, you should have a cape,” Hunter says. Sebastian beams—he’s been thinking the same thing. “And spandex,” he adds, and then Sebastian loses faith in Hunter’s sanity.
He glances up the road. His purpose for tagging along with the guys is simple: to protect them. The coaches don’t insist on caging the team in the campground because of Sebastian; the unsaid expectation is that Sebastian will make sure everyone does the right thing.
Sebastian wants to ask them, “What seventeen-year-old knows what that is?”
He tries not to let it bother him too much, though. He has fun with the guys, so it’s a fair trade. Well, mostly it is. Plus, he needs a break from training and dining hall food.
“Should we invite him?” Willie points to a cabin, where Emir is sitting outside.
Mason hastily replies, “No.”
“Seriously?” Hunter asks.
“Dead serious, dude. He doesn’t like us. If he did, he’d sit with us during meals. Or, you know, talk.”
Sebastian doesn’t understand why Mason loathes Emir, but he’s got his own issues to deal with. He’s kept their training sessions a secret, and Emir never says a word to him in public.
Also, there’s that minor wanting-to-kiss-Emir thing.
Emir’s on the steps with an open book in his lap and an unlit cigarette behind his left ear. He appears uninterested in his surroundings. But his eyes are guarded, not letting anyone in.
“Whaddya say, Bastian?” Willie asks.
Sebastian eyes his feet and shrugs.
“Let’s just go,” Mason insists, climbing off the hood to hop in the driver’s seat. “We’re missing the fun.”
“I’d call it mayhem,” Hunter jokes.
Emir’s eyes meet Sebastian’s, and Sebastian’s about to say something, go against Mason’s bratty attitude and invite him along, but Emir shakes his head. He and Emir can resemble friends away from everyone else, so why not around Sebastian’s friends?
“Yo, Bastian,” Mason shouts.
Sebastian falters. Screw Mason and Emir. He wants to tell Emir to get off his ass and come along, but Grey skips up and plops down next to Emir.
“Aren’t you going?” she asks.
Emir glances at Sebastian before lowering his eyes. “No, that’s not my crowd.”
In the background, Mason tuts.
“Well,” Grey says, pushing curls off her face, “They never let me tag along.”
“Because you’re twelve!”
“Willie wants me to come along,” she says to Mason.
Willie ducks when Mason twists around. He cuts a finger across his throat as if Willie is dead to him, at least for the next hour or so. “No effin’ way, Patrick,” Mason tells Grey. “The kids stay at home.”
“I’m the one who saves your ass when you come back, drunk and out of your mind.” Grey’s fierce stare pins Mason down. “I never rat you out. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Mason mumbles, “Thanks, but no,” with a scowl.
Grey’s usual neon vibrancy begins to dull.
Is that what it’s like having a crush on someone who doesn’t want you back? It steals your light?
“Whatever, Mace.” Grey rolls her eyes, but hurt tilts her lips downward. She turns back to Emir. “I’m not twelve, and I’m fun.” She sits taller, as if it’ll make her older than sixteen and cooler too.
Emir bites on his lopsided grin. “You think so?”
“Oh, I know it,” Grey assures in a way that could be misinterpreted, but then she giggles so hard she goes red all over, ruining the effect.
“I’m not,” Emir says, lifting his book. “But you can chill if you want. I’ve got sisters back home, so I’m sure I can handle you.” He points a finger in her face, warning, “But no trying to braid my hair.”
Grey lifts her hand to pinky swear. The easy bonding between Emir and Grey intimidates Sebastian. They barely know each other. Doesn’t he deserve that? Why does Sebastian get Emir the Asshole, with bitchy accessories?
“Whatever,” Sebastian whispers. And he most certainly doesn’t pout or stomp away like a kid, but he does climb into the passenger seat with a little less of a glow.
Willie tries to give him a fist bump. Sebastian returns it, half-assed. He kicks his feet up on the dash while Mason cranks up the car.
“I’m not gonna say it”—Mason totally does—“but he doesn’t like us.”
Sebastian ignores him. Emir just did Mason a solid by taking Grey off his hands, and he’s blind to it. He closes his eyes as Mason drives them away.