Running with Lions Read online

  “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,” Seb
astian 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.

  10

  “So, what’re you having to drink, sweet cheeks?” Liza, with her blue-tinted hair, kind face, and soft wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, asks. She snaps her gum, waiting patiently.

  Sebastian doesn’t know why he bothers running his eyes over the plastic menu. He’s been to the diner enough over the last three summers. Nothing about it has changed, not the stench of grease-dripping burgers or the collection of framed vintage photos featuring Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, and Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany’s lining the pastel blue walls. The neon vinyl stools complete the nod to ’50s nostalgia.

  Sebastian sits alone. He smiles at Liza. “Can I have a—?”

  “Root beer, right?”

  “Valerie Jones,” Sebastian says, his mouth curving slyly. Val is another girl who’s big on nicknames and never forgetting a face. It’s ironic, because Sebastian can’t forget her doe-brown eyes, sculpted rosy cheeks, and snarky smile.

  She teases Sebastian with a raised eyebrow before hugging him. He reciprocates with one arm, breathing in her coconut suntan lotion.

  “It’s still root beer, right?” Val asks.

  Sebastian nods a confirmation for her, then Liza.

  Liza rolls her eyes. He’s ordered the same thing forever, including the free slice of pie Liza slides him after every meal. “I’ll let you two catch up,” she says, snapping her gum. “Just call me when you’re ready to order the usual.” She saunters off with the limp of a grandma who’s been on her feet too long.

  Val peeks around him, tilting her head. “Alone?”

  Sebastian doesn’t mind being by himself. It’s easier to keep track of the team, who bookend the booths inside the diner. They’re lean but big, taking up as much space as possible. And they’re loud, rowdy guys, knocking back milkshakes and clearing their plates as if they’re starved. The slop here beats anything the dining hall produces.

  Sebastian’s head has been stuck on Emir. That doesn’t make for good conversation with this wild bunch. It’s not that he can’t talk about his attraction to dudes, it’s just that—well, the team hasn’t made their minds up about Emir yet.

  Neither has Sebastian.

  “Just chilling,” he says with his best laid-back shrug.

  “Still the babysitter?”

  “I prefer the term ‘Big Brother.’”

  “Bastian,” Val says, skeptically, “you’re half the size of some of those beasts.” Her nose wrinkles at him in an intensely loveable way.

  “Enjoy,” Liza says, sliding him his drink. An extra scoop of ice cream sends root beer burbling over the rim and a cherry sits on top. “Hey! You make a mess, you’re licking it up!” She scurries to a table stuffed with defensive players.

  Val’s chin is on her knuckles. She fills their silence with eyebrow wiggles and grins. They’ve always been good at replacing useless words with goofy facial expressions.

  “Are you alone?” he asks.

  Val jerks a thumb toward a corner booth where three gorgeous girls share a plate of fries drenched in ketchup. Their fine cheekbones and shiny hair scream “Private School Life.” “Friends from school,” Val explains.

  Sebastian makes a horrified face.

  Val rolls her eyes. “They’re visiting for the weekend. Brunch with my parents tomorrow ’cause my life is so glamorous.” She twirls a finger around her head. Val doesn’t take anything too seriously, except for Mason Riley. Well, she did take him seriously, but a lifetime happens between summers.

  “They look like fun,” teases Sebastian.

  “Oh, yeah,” Val says, playing along. “About as much as future sorority-row, trophy-wives-in-training can be.”

  Sebastian lets Val steal a sip of his drink. She crinkles her nose, gags, and passes it back. “Awful.” Then, seriously, she asks, “Are you still with Sam?”

  Somewhere between the breakup and realizing he didn’t love Sam, Sebastian developed a certain face at the mention of her. Mason told him the expression makes him look like a zombie, which is fair, since he was pretty dead during the last half of their relationship.

  “Ouch,” Val says, holding back a laugh. “That bad?”

  “Kinda.”

  Behind Sebastian, Mason is holed up at a table with Willie, Hunter, and Charlie. Judging by all the hand gestures and Macbeth-like reenactments, it’s obvious Mason is talking about the family trip to California three years ago.

  Val gives him an equally undead look when Sebastian turns back to her, so he avoids broaching the subject. She sighs. “It’s like us.” She lowers her chin.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s for the best. It’s my last year of high school.” Val’s lips twist into a smirk. “Carpe diem and all that shit they teach us.”

  Sebastian chuckles and swigs from his soda.

  “I’m going to design school in Paris.”

  Sebastian’s eyes widen. Val’s voice sounds certain as she explains her plans; her next four years are mapped out. He’s blown away, mainly because Sebastian has no idea what he’s going to do with his next four months besides play soccer. He’s jealous of people who are certain of their future before it happens. How can anyone know what they’ll do with their whole lives, when he can’t figure out where or even if he’s going to college? But here’s Val, not having a single panic attack about life after high school.

  “It’s great,” Val continues, as though he hasn’t been lost in space. She tucks a lock of hazelnut-colored hair behind her ear. “I’m in control of what my life looks like after graduation. I can decide whenever.”

  It all sounds so easy. Once she’s away from high school and not worried about silly romances, she’ll have it all together. Sebastian doesn’t believe it’s that simple, but he likes the dream she’s selling.

  Also, Mason is a total douche-canoe for letting her go. Sebastian doesn’t tell her, because it’s clear she’s already had that epiphany.

  “So that’s it?”

  “Life goes on after high school, Bastian.” Her hand covers his on the counter. “We all move on.”

  Sebastian wants to tell her life is impossible to figure out. How does he silence all the huge, monstrous fears biting at his mind?

  “Well, well,” Mason interrupts, sliding between them before Sebastian can get a word out. His back and elbows rest against the counter as he eyes Val wolfishly. “Looking good, Jones.”

  “Good to know,” she says.

  Mason’s face goes blank, then confused.

  “Well,” Val says, hopping off her stool. She leans over Mason to kiss Sebastian’s cheek. “Always good to see you, Bastian.” She saunters back to her table.

  Mason’s jaw tightens; his fingers curl and uncurl at his sides.

  “Mace, do you—”

  “Let’s get out of here, bro,” Mason says with a snarl, breathing heavily. He glares at the empty stool as if Val will magically reappear, and then jerks his head toward the door. “I heard Zach found some townie to buy beer.”

  Mason and Willie are opposites when it comes to discussing the F-word: feelings. That’s not Mason’s thing. When Sam broke up with Sebastian, Mason punched him in the shoulder and passed him a Heineken. “Drink it away” is Mason’s motto, his coping mechanism. Sebastian blames Mason’s dad ditching him and his five younger sisters. Mason’s claim to fame is being a soccer
god in Bloomington and a badass. Alcohol camouflages the scars from his youth, but strength isn’t measured by a guy’s ability to drain a six-pack and not cry.

  Mason looks ready to rip a hole in someone’s chest when he snaps, “Let’s go, man.”

  Sebastian sighs. Mason gathers the other players while Sebastian checks with Liza to make sure all the tabs are taken care of.

  He doesn’t even get his free slice of pie.

  * * *

  Three hours and four Michelobs later, Sebastian wonders if the entire night was a spectacularly awful idea.

  He’s still very sober, so he doesn’t understand why walking a straight line should be so difficult, unless it’s because he has a nearly two-hundred-pound slug named Zach hanging on him. They’ve been struggling to make it to Zach’s cabin for ten minutes. Bearing most of Zach’s weight, Sebastian anticipates their eventual collapse into the dirt.

  “Bro, the ground is…” Zach pauses to hiccup, then laugh, and says, “moving.”

  Decision made: This night is the worst.

  Most of the team made it back before curfew, though some were toppling over like building blocks. The sober ones, cranky freshmen, try to help where they can. “No brother left behind” is the golden rule among the Lions, a rule Sebastian’s dying to break because Zach’s exhaling rank, basement-ass beer breath in his face.

  “Do you see it? We’re, like, hovering.”

  “We’re not,” Sebastian tries, but Zach’s already on another tangent.

  Sebastian’s friends are no help. Mason’s taking a leak on a bush. Hunter is sprawled in the back seat of Mason’s car with his head in Willie’s lap as Willie destroys a John Mayer song with his off-key singing. No, Willie, your body is not a wonderland. Sebastian’s on his own, doing a mental headcount as he lugs Zach over dirt and pebbles.

  “I can fly!”

  “Shut up.” Sebastian has one arm around the small of Zach’s back. Zach is freakishly tall, something Sebastian isn’t jealous of. But it makes this whole tandem-walking thing weird. “You’re gonna wake the coaches,” he warns, as if that might work.

  “Then they’ll see I can fly!” Zach’s eyes are shadowed by his disheveled hair, but the moon shines off their hazel color.