Running with Lions Page 3

  “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 His fatigue diminishes his all-American build; his creamy skin has been replaced by a blistering sunburn.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.

  4

  “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.