Running with Lions Page 6

  The dirt path between him and Emir’s cabin looks like a trap. Despite last night’s talk, Sebastian is apprehensive. This could be an elaborate prank by Emir, his dark revenge for whatever happened between them that left their friendship toast—well, not toast, but ambiguous.

  “Man up,” he mumbles, lifting his chin. He can do this. But when he knocks at Emir’s door, no one answers. “Perfect.”

  Sebastian taps an impatient foot on the wooden porch. A brilliant idea that could also be horribly idiotic hits him. Jogging to the side of the cabin, Sebastian finds the window. He nudges and—crack! “Awesome,” he whispers. Window locks, like everything at camp, are old and worthless. The window slides up with a shudder.

  He’s no future Olympian, but Sebastian has strong calves from soccer. Leg day finally pays off as he vaults inside.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Sebastian collapses in a heap on the wood floor. It’s unnatural for his body to pretzel like this. He doesn’t break any limbs, so it’s a victory.

  From Sebastian’s current angle, it looks as though Emir has a room to himself. “Huh,” he whispers. Surveying all the extra space in the room, he stands and dusts himself off.

  The air is heady with incense and cigarettes. Emir has created one giant bed by pushing the twin beds together. Sebastian forgot how neat Emir is. Everything is in its place, clean and organized, except a small crimson rug trimmed in gold that Sebastian trips on.

  “Crap.”

  Emir remains peacefully asleep under a messy tangle of sheets.

  Sebastian almost considers leaving Emir to his dreams. Then he remembers Emir’s scowling and frowning, and his guilt dissolves. He shuffles to the bed and repeats, “Hey,” until Emir stirs.

  Emir, gloriously stubborn, turns and cuddles a pillow.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Sebastian complains, but Emir simply curls into a fetal position. His breaths are still even. “Are you related to Will?”

  Emir’s response is a soft, easy exhalation.

  “Dude,” groans Sebastian, flopping onto the edge of the bed. He considers Emir. Against a white pillowcase, dark hair lies like spilled ink. Sunbeams bronze his brown skin. Prickly morning stubble sprouts from his chin.

  Sebastian decides to go with Plan B. When they were younger, sneaking into each other’s room while the other slept was the norm. Spare feathers from old pillows were used to tickle each other awake, or sometimes a finger, like the one Sebastian uses now to graze Emir’s cheek and the soft skin under his jaw.

  Emir’s nose twitches.

  “Cute.” Sebastian chuckles, skimming Emir’s chin. “You’re not so bad asleep.” He’s on the verge of brushing Emir’s lower lip when a pair of silver eyes pop open and lock on him. Sebastian recoils at the glare-of-certain-death. His arm jerks his hand out of harm’s way.

  “What the actual hell?” The sun gleams in to highlight Emir’s frown. “This is a nightmare.”

  Sebastian says, “Time to practice,” as if this is so normal.

  “You prick,” Emir says, voice cracked with sleep. He turns away and tries to bury his head under a pillow, but Sebastian snatches it away.

  He’s already taunting the tiger; he might as well see how far he can get.

  “Go away!”

  A witty response is on the tip of Sebastian’s tongue, until he notices Emir is shirtless. A sick hawk with spread wings and sharp talons is inked inches below his nape, between his shoulder blades. Sebastian’s brain short-circuits, distracted by the beautiful detail.

  He sputters, “What the—” but stops short, horrified about staring at Emir like that. “Dude,” he gasps, losing a battle with his stupid mouth. He’s thrilled when Emir turns over and glares. “Um, Emi…”

  Emir’s eyes are immense.

  Sebastian hasn’t used that nickname since before they were teens. Now, he’s blurted it as if they’re still killing goblins and ogres on his couch back home.

  “Did you—”

  Frantic, Sebastian interrupts Emir. “I’m here to help, remember!” It’s supposed to be a question, but Sebastian’s voice goes screechy at the end, making it a shouted declaration. He should’ve quit while he was ahead.

  Emir raises a thick eyebrow. “Help or torture me?”

  “Both?” It’s not his best response, but he’s stuck on the tattoo and how the pillow crease on Emir’s cheek makes him adorable.

  “You’re disturbing.”

  “Does that mean we can get started?”

  Emir glares at the ceiling. His brooding gray eyes shine. His jaw is tight, as if he is coming up with creative ways to kill Sebastian.

  Sebastian finds the overacting more amusing than intimidating. “I’m not leaving, man,” he tells Emir.

  Emir puffs out a breath. “Noted, mate.”

  Sebastian scoots off the bed and ruffles his hair. He stands to the side and waits for Emir to follow. If he must, Sebastian will drag Emir’s ass to the pitch. His mind is set, and Sebastian’s no quitter. “Emir,” he says, voice edging on frustration.

  “Bloody prick.” Emir finally rips the sheets away and crawls off the bed. He’s small in nothing but red boxer-briefs. “I’ve barely gotten any sleep.”

  “Why?”

  “I just…” Emir pauses, pink tongue brushing his lips. “This place freaks me out, okay? I’ve never been away from my family—”

  “But we used to have sleepovers at my house.”

  “That was different,” Emir snaps, eyebrows furrowed. His tensed muscles strain under his skin.

  “How?”

  Emir frowns before shaking his head. “You don’t get it,” he mumbles. “That’s when we were friends” is implied. Sebastian deems himself an asshole for broaching the topic when Emir says, “Just let it go.”

  Sebastian does. He’s not here to put bandages over wounds that still haven’t healed. “Okay,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair again. “Are you up for practicing, then?”

  Emir sighs. “Whatever,” he says through his teeth. “Could you like, um, stop staring?”

  Sebastian’s skin prickles. Emir is standing there, all skinny limbs and compact muscles, hairy legs, and a flat belly. Sebastian is confident in his bisexuality; how’s he supposed to look away from a half naked guy? But this is Emir, who has a very strong dislike for Sebastian.

  “Sorry,” he stammers, spinning on his heels so his back is to Emir. “Really, really didn’t mean to do that.”

  Emir chuckles. “’S cool. I’m used to people staring at me.” His voice is hoarse. “They say some pretty harsh things.”

  “What do they say?”

  Emir laughs acrimoniously. “You don’t want to know. They don’t compliment my eyes or the smoothness of my skin.”

  Sebastian can imagine the cruel words from kids who don’t understand someone who sticks to himself. They don’t share any classes; Emir’s book-smart, unlike Sebastian, who’d rather read comics than learn trig. But Sebastian knows Emir’s refusal to socialize invites the talking. Surviving high school is about having two things: confidence and friends.

  Emir lacks both.

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’re okay,” Sebastian says while Emir locates clothes, hopping behind Sebastian’s back in a search for shoes.

  “You don’t know me.”

  A wrinkle forms between Sebastian’s eyebrows; his shoulders stiffen. He needs a subject change before Emir tells him to go to hell. “What’s the rug for?” He rubs his index finger over an eyebrow.

  “None of your business.”

  Bad idea, confirmed.

  “Can we just get this over with?” Emir’s breath ghosts the side of Sebastian’s neck before he walks around to face him. His clothes are similar to Sebastian’s, but looser around his slight frame.

  Sebastian forces a tight sm
ile. “If we hurry, we can grab a late breakfast.”

  “Whatever, Bastian.” Emir is already halfway out the door.

  * * *

  “You don’t have to go so hard,” Sebastian says as Emir stumbles to keep up with him.

  Gasping, Emir flips him off. Roadkill sounds more alive than Emir. Sebastian’s jogging at half his usual pace, but he’ll give Emir credit for trying. He’s not a total asshole; he’s just not a morning person. The sun washes over them in neon waves of orange and yellow. Sebastian’s clothes are sticky with sweat. Adrenaline works through his blood like electricity, and he thrives on it.

  It’s a good morning.

  “You’re a masochist,” Emir says.

  “Break?” Sebastian offers, then snorts when Emir nods furiously. He wheezes when they slow down.

  Emir’s soaked shirt clings to his chest and stomach. Across his face, sweat glitters like stars in the sunlight. “I hate you right now.”

  “I can take it.” Sebastian shoves Emir’s shoulder. Emir counters with a fake punch that reminds Sebastian of being kids.

  “What does running have to do with my lack of soccer skills?” Emir asks.

  “Stamina.”

  “I haven’t had any complaints about that before.”

  Is Emir implying…? Sebastian hastily explains, “You’re no good on the pitch if you’re laid out, short of breath.”

  “I hate this.” Emir grunts, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat off his face. The shirt is lowered, revealing a pout.

  Sebastian is amused, but also horrified at the stupid He’s adorable chant smacking in his head like a racquet ball against Plexiglas. Maybe he has heatstroke? It’s a feasible explanation and much cooler than the truth: hormones.

  “Drinks,” Sebastian suggests. The desire to get the hell away from Emir is strong. He ducks off into a nearby gas station to purchase two Gatorades with a few dollars stuffed in his shoe.

  Cherry-red liquid dribbles down Emir’s chin as he guzzles. After a breath, he says, “Thanks.”

  It’s a warm morning; wafts of breeze circle their awkwardly silent walk to camp. During their run, Emir looked almost ready to start a conversation, but they had only huffs and grunts with little eye contact.

  The dirt road crunches under their sneakers. They sip their Gatorade as if it’s the most fascinating thing ever. Sebastian’s forfeited the idea of doing anything other than bicker until Emir asks, “Why soccer?”

  “What?”

  The skin around Emir’s eyes tightens. “Why soccer, mate?”

  “Oh.” Sebastian pushes hair off his forehead. “It’s a good story.”

  Emir raises his eyebrows.

  “Because of Coach Patrick,” Sebastian says. “He’s a hard-ass, right? Real piece of work. But he made being on the team about finding yourself first. Winning and being the best guy on the pitch came second.” He grins crookedly at the sky, where puffy clouds drift by.

  “Yeah?”

  “You know Willie is gay, right?” Sebastian checks for a nod from Emir. “And Mason is—”

  “A whore?” teases Emir.

  “We like to use the term ‘experimenting,’ dude.”

  Emir’s eyes roll dramatically.

  “Anyway,” Sebastian continues with a chuckle hanging in his throat. “Coach doesn’t care about that stuff. A fourth of our team is gay or bi or curious, but we still get respect from the other guys. For once, sexual orientation in sports isn’t a negative.”

  Emir scratches at his stubble. “Pretty cool.”

  “It is!”

  Sebastian’s never had to put any of this into words but, now that they’re discussing it, he wants to grab a megaphone and shout to anyone he passes how epically awesome Coach Patrick is for giving him this gift.

  Ahead, the road grows narrow, signaling their close proximity to camp. Shadows from thick canopies of emerald cool them. Sebastian’s mellow from the quiet buzz of bugs all around.

  “And you are…?” Emir leaves space for Sebastian to fill in.

  It’s heating up, and Sebastian uses that as a perfectly lame excuse to himself for his flushed skin. He says, “I’m bi. I’m into dudes and girls.”

  “I know what bi means.”

  Sebastian, flustered, quickly says, “Cool. Yep, I’m bi.” Emir’s unfazed nod relieves him. Despite the team’s rules, Sebastian isn’t rocking rainbow flags and announcing his sexuality at school. It’s always tricky coming out to a new guy. Emir’s no exception. “That okay?”

  “Yeah,” Emir replies with sheepish eyes. “Gay. Me. That’s what… I’m gay.”

  “Sweet.”

  Nostalgia, along with Emir walking closer, is making Sebastian’s skin tingle. He takes a gamble. “So, why soccer, for you?”

  “It’s not my thing, right?”

  “No” rolls off Sebastian’s tongue, but his brain yells Yes.

  “It just happened,” Emir says, his expression pained. “Kinda.” He rubs a hand over his face, and Sebastian is prepared for Emir to tell him he’s doing this for all the wrong reasons. “It’s my abbu.”

  “Your dad, right?”

  Emir says, exasperated, “Sorry. Never mind.”

  “Wait. I didn’t mean to be rude.” It’s been so long since Sebastian’s heard Emir speak in Urdu. The Shahs are British Pakistani. Sebastian’s forgotten most of the words he heard so often around Emir’s house. He says, “Abbu. That’s father in Urdu.”

  “Yeah,” Emir says, fondly impressed. “I can’t turn it off sometimes.”

  Sebastian admires Emir’s jaw and cheekbones. He resembles his mom, whom Sebastian remembers being lovely and smelling like summer. Emir’s nose and his quiet disposition come from his dad. Mr. Shah always said nice things to Sebastian.

  “It sucks when it comes out at school. The stuff people say. They talk about my accent, my parents, my skin…” Emir’s voice trails off; his narrowed eyes stare at the ground. “Just because I speak funny or don’t look like them.”

  “Yeah,” whispers Sebastian.

  Emir twists the cap of his Gatorade back and forth. “Anyway, my dad is a huge soccer fan. Since forever, he’s spent Saturdays crashed on the couch with games on the telly. Premier League, the MLS, whatever he can find.”

  Sebastian snorts. Oliver is the same. And Sebastian is always right next to him; they’re two couch potatoes arguing over their favorite players while Lily brings snacks and root beers. “Boys will be boys,” she’ll say before warning them to use coasters.

  “I’m here because he loves the sport as much as he loves his family and,” Emir pauses for a deep breath, as though he’s about to reveal the secrets of his soul, “I want to impress him.”

  Sebastian likes the range of pinks in Emir’s cheeks. Very irrational thoughts about how cute Emir can be make his stomach queasy. Sebastian shouldn’t go there when Emir is being vulnerable.

  “Is that stupid?” Emir asks, chewing his lip.

  “No.”

  “It’s my last year before college, and Abbu has done so much for my family that I feel like I owe him this.”

  Emir walks as though the whole world is pushing on his shoulders. Sebastian gets that. The burden to make your parents proud while still feeling clueless about what you’re doing with your own life is a struggle.

  “You’re not doing this for you?”

  “No,” Emir hisses. “I’m here to make Abbu proud. I can do that without any pity, okay?”

  Sebastian stops mid-step, stunned.

  “Thanks for the run,” Emir spits. He tosses his Gatorade bottle and turns away. Over his shoulder he says, “How about we not do this anymore.”

  “‘This’ what?”

  It’s as if the sound of Sebastian’s voice makes Emir glower all the more. “You pretending to give a damn if I make i
t or not.”

  Sebastian blinks hard, wanting to shout, “What the hell?” or punch Emir or walk away.

  Emir leaves first.

  And Sebastian has to question his own rationality, because he still wants to help Emir—if not for the team, for whatever he must have done to screw up what he and Emir had.

  8

  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?”