Running with Lions Page 9

  “Perfect.”

  At this rate, weight training in the fall won’t be necessary.

  “I love you, man,” Zach slurs, head lolling to one side. “Like, you’re my bro and my captain and—”

  “Okay, got it.” Sebastian carefully prevents Zach from teetering over. If he can get Zach to focus a little, they’ll make it to the door before he turns twenty-one.

  Sebastian lets Zach talk, because Zach can concentrate on his limbs when he’s yapping about whatever’s on his mind. Zach badgers him about always being sober, something Sebastian does for his benefit. And, for the record, beer tastes like sour mouthwash and bile. No one is convincing Sebastian otherwise, not even the guys.

  “I’m not wasted,” declares Zach.

  “Not at all,” Sebastian lies. Zach stumbles, and Sebastian’s legendary reflexes kick in. He stops Zach from face-planting into a bush.

  Zach mumbles gratitude before launching into a story about that time Sebastian did get loose with the guys. At Carl’s last party. Sebastian was just so done with Sam’s shit, he had a healthy hit off Mason’s joint, coughing violently before mellowing out with vodka. He was a champ for not passing out, or flirting with a wall, as Jack did.

  “Dude!” Zach gasps as if he’s been kicked in the face. “I totally did something stupid, didn’t I?”

  “Well.” Sebastian considers listing all the things Zach did. He can’t hold in “You nearly puked all over Val’s friend.”

  Zach turns pale. “Was she pretty?”

  “They were all pretty.”

  And they were, not that Sebastian flirted with any of them. One girl, with eyes like a Disney woodland creature and an uneven smile, was cute. He usually would’ve at least made an attempt to flirt, with his corny jokes, but tonight he couldn’t get past how her eyes were green instead of gray thunderclouds. Massive downer.

  “So,” Zach says, tipping forward, “I didn’t get her number?”

  “Nope.”

  Zach and that girl would’ve had a lovely story to tell their grandchildren about how they met: “Yep, I nearly blew chunks in her hair and then asked her to the movies!” More romantic comedies should start that way.

  “She wasn’t interested anyway.” Zach vainly attempts to stand erect. “She had goals, and a high school loser like me wasn’t good enough.”

  “Hey,” Sebastian says. “You’re not a loser, Zach.” Obnoxious when he’s drunk? Sure. But not a loser.

  Zach grins lopsidedly, as if he almost believes Sebastian. Guys like him—Zach lives in a rundown home with a chain-smoking father who would rather yell at the TV than come to any of Zach’s games—don’t always win the cheerleader types. Zach isn’t what Sebastian would call fragile, but anyone’s entire universe can be shattered when it involves approval from family or someone you’re attracted to.

  “Maybe she heard you were a virgin,” Sebastian says with a labored chuckle. Humor is always good medicine for unhealthy thoughts.

  Zach, shitfaced and wobbly, scoffs. “I am not. I get plenty of tail.”

  “That’s not what the girls in Bloomington say.”

  “Liar!” Zach smacks a hand over his eyes, sputtering. “You’re a dick, Hughes.”

  Sebastian pauses so Zach can regain his breath. He leans over as if he might finally hurl. Sebastian hopes not. These are his favorite low top Chuck Taylors; the fabric is worn and faded.

  “Cool?”

  It takes a second before Zach nods, pulling a grin out of thin air. “You should’ve scored with someone tonight. Get over the whole Sam thing, you know?”

  That’s all Sebastian is, right? Soccer, graduation, and Sam. These days, Sebastian wants his life to be made up of soccer, soccer, and more soccer. But he’s over it, the Sam part. Some exes are just a sentence in the story of life, not the defining chapter with all the drama and awesome climax.

  “Maybe next time?” Sebastian offers.

  “Yes! Next time, I’m so gonna get you laid,” Zach says. “That’s life goals, bro.”

  Great. This is all Mason’s fault, like so many things in Sebastian’s life, and he’ll make Mason suffer for not helping him drag Zach around.

  Zach yawns. Sebastian grimaces because, really? Zach has the nerve to be tired when it’s Sebastian who has Mount freakin’ Olympus hanging off his shoulders?

  “Are we there yet?”

  “Dude, are you shitting me, like—”

  “Hey.”

  Sebastian barely recognizes the groggy, soft voice before another arm loops around Zach’s back. He inclines forward, a difficult task considering how bulky Zach is. Emir’s sleep-mussed hair and weary gray eyes heighten his moody expression.

  “What are you—?”

  Emir grunts at Sebastian. “You looked like you were about to die.”

  I am. Sebastian smiles.

  Emir yawns, then makes a disgusted face. “He stinks.”

  Sebastian, no longer carrying the weight of Godzilla on his own, laughs until the knot of frustration unravels in his belly. He doesn’t care if Zach balks because, for once, he’s not trying to save one of his teammates’ asses on his own. When he strains to gaze around Zach, Emir’s amused expression greets him.

  “So,” Emir says as they lurch closer to Zach’s cabin, “do you do this often?”

  Sebastian says, “No, but… I’m the only one who watches over them,” to his feet. He’s not embarrassed but sometimes saying the truth out loud makes it sound worse than it is.

  “Huh.”

  “And I could’ve done it by myself,” Sebastian says hastily, but that’s not being defensive. He just doesn’t want anyone calling him a victim.

  “You think so?”

  “Maybe?” Sebastian’s not sure. “I was almost there.”

  Emir pffts, and it forces Sebastian to accept that, nope, he wasn’t all that close.

  Behind Zach’s back, their hands brush occasionally, fingers almost linking as they try to realign him. Goosebumps spread from Sebastian’s neck to his chest. The touch of Emir’s soft hand has him dizzy, a problem he’s never had with other guys. It’s scary, because that puts Emir in the small category of Guys Sebastian’s Been Attracted To.

  “Did we wake you?” The stranglehold his throat has around his words mortifies him.

  He can’t tell if Emir is nodding or shaking his head until Emir says, “Still can’t sleep proper around here.”

  Sebastian hums. The whole night, including this moment, is a train wreck.

  And to add to it, Zach says, “Well, if it isn’t the great Emir Shah,” as if he’s just noticed Emir is under the wing of his arm. “So, what’s your story?”

  “My what?” Emir cranes back.

  By tugging Zach in his direction, Sebastian desperately tries to make sure they all don’t eat dirt.

  “Your story, man,” Zach says, exasperated. “No one knows you.”

  “I like it that way.”

  Sebastian’s brow furrows. It’s not the answer he expected. Then again, nothing about Emir has been predictable.

  “Oh, come on, man,” Zach says. “Everyone needs a story.” He stops, causing Sebastian to groan, before he considers Emir. “What are you? Brainiac? Band geek? Art geek? Goth? You’re definitely not part of the jock crowd.”

  “I’m not a stereotype.” Emir glares as if he might just drop Zach, but he doesn’t, and Sebastian is relieved.

  “Okay, but you’re very,” Zach says, then takes a deep breath, “quiet. It’s scary. How are you going to make friends with us?”

  “I’m not here to make friends.”

  Things are seconds from going nuclear. Sebastian tries to walk a little faster, but it’s difficult since neither Zach nor Emir is cooperating. He’s tired and confused by Emir’s constant hot-and-cold vibe. All he wants is his bed and for everyone to
shut up.

  “Are you playing the weird-kid angle?” asks Zach, hacking a laugh at Emir’s scowl.

  “I’m not playing anything—”

  “When we were kids,” Zach barrels on, “you didn’t say a word unless Bastian was around.”

  “Zach,” warns Sebastian, because he doesn’t need this right now.

  “No, no,” Zach says. “What’s wrong with the rest of us? I don’t get it. I don’t get you, Shah.”

  Sebastian almost drops Zach trying to read Emir’s face. He’s red all over and breathing hard; his eyes are glassy. His jaw works as though a mouthful of profanity is going to fly out, but he doesn’t say anything. He glares straight ahead. It’s a girl-from-The-Exorcist vibe.

  Zach swings his arms off both of them. He stumbles, then regains his balance. Puffing boozy breath, he smirks over his shoulder at Emir. “Here’s a tip, Shah: We’re a family on this team—”

  “Zach, man, please,” Sebastian begs.

  But Zach continues, “If you want in, you better learn there are more guys than your superhero Bastian.”

  Zach sways side to side, then stumbles up the porch. He thuds his shoulder into the door a few times before it pops open. Then, it smacks shut.

  Sebastian turns, whispering, “Emir,” but it’s useless.

  Highlighting his shaking shoulders and red face, moonlight haloes Emir. Tears haven’t drowned his eyelashes, but they’re threatening. “I need to get to bed,” he says in a broken voice.

  “Wait, just let me—”

  “Here’s a fun fact: Everyone in high school is a dick,” Emir snaps. He waves a hand around. “Your friends aren’t excluded.” He wipes a finger across his left cheek, giving Sebastian just enough time to pull something poignant out of his ass.

  The words never come. At least, not until Emir stomps off, head hanging and fists shaking.

  “Thank you.”

  11

  Camp Haven is a ghost town the next morning. Most of the team sleeps through breakfast. Their buzzes give way to headaches, exhaustion, and fits of nausea. Guys creep zombie-like into the rec room for a monster FIFA tournament on the Xbox. A handful hide behind sunglasses from any threat of light.

  Sebastian skips his morning run. He hardly slept last night. He declines Kyle and Gio’s invitation for a round of ping pong. He’s no good to anyone when his mind is drifting, lost at sea without a buoy. He’s drowning in Val and Mason, Zach’s attitude, the team, and Emir Shah.

  Why is it so hard to get the one person who dreads seeing you off your brain? It should be a piece of cake.

  Sebastian’s brain is so stuffed full of shit that Emir just circles around the surface like flotsam in a clogged drain.

  The lake is a good place to free his thoughts. Sunlight glints off the water, gold against azure. Robins and sparrows chirp their sweet anthems. He presses his phone to his ear, flops on the wooden dock that stretches a few feet into the lake, and dips his toes in the cold water.

  “Bumble Bee!”

  Sebastian winces. One day Lily will realize the nickname is childish and tragic and finally stop calling him that.

  They go through their usual catch-up; Lily carries most of the conversation. He hasn’t got much to say. Her voice is enough until she says, “Something’s on your mind, Bastian,” and he considers belly flopping into the lake and drowning so he’ll never have to admit to her how screwed up he is.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Sebastian William—”

  Oh, shit. Lily only uses his middle name when he’s on the verge of pissing her off beyond repair.

  “It’s no biggie, Mom. It’s just—our first game against the Spartans is so soon.”

  She hums. “Your mortal enemies.”

  Sebastian does a pretty great job at holding in his sigh. “I’m nervous; it’s a big deal. We need to beat them.” His feet kick up a splash; sunlit, golden droplets ripple the lake’s surface.

  “Well, sweetheart,” Lily says, “win or lose, what’s the most important part?”

  “Kicking ass and winning the championship.”

  Lily has always been blasé about his swearing, thanks to Carly, who has pulled enough outrageous stunts and brought home enough questionable boyfriends for Sebastian to get a pass. “It’s about you,” she says, her tone serious. Sebastian quickly sobers. “This has been your dream, right? Making the team. Having this journey.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And now you’re the best goalie in the conference—”

  “I’m not the best.”

  “Whatever,” Lily says with an almost audible smile. “The nerves are normal.”

  But what about the pressure of keeping everyone in line? Figuring out his life’s aspirations? Also, these weird prickly feelings about his ex-best friend? Of course, he doesn’t mention any of that to her, but they’re recurring nightmares.

  Maybe someone should create new hashtag: “Life’s complicated, but so is math.”

  Lily talks randomly about his dad, the family dog, Thor, and her garden. She brings up school, and he sneakily avoids the topic because, no way, he doesn’t have the strength for a discussion about college. Sebastian isn’t ready for the reality of being an adult: earning a degree, starting a family, and living the dreams his parents have for him.

  Lily says, “It’ll all work out.”

  He can’t help but reply, “That’s what you’re supposed to say.”

  “Well, it’s true!”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  “I don’t need to, Sebastian William, I’m your mother.”

  Sebastian lets the subject die. He’s already pushed her far enough and he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

  “Maybe if you find a nice girl, who’s not Sam, you might stop being such a pest,” Lily says, half laughing, half hopeful.

  He should tell her. Hands down, being bisexual is the one part of his life Sebastian hasn’t had to think about. It’s also the one thing he hasn’t had to be great at, not the way he’s had to try to be a good friend, to be a perfectionist on the pitch, to make an impact.

  It’s scary, coming out to his parents. When it comes to being anything other than straight, it seems there’s a fine-print clause: a penalty for full disclosure when you belong to the LGBTQ community. Sebastian doesn’t get it. It shouldn’t matter if he falls for a girl or boy. Love is supposed to be a happy, comforting emotion, but it always comes with conflict. And being anything but straight means making these huge declarations to the people closest to you.

  Why is coming out to loved ones like giving a speech in your campaign for President?

  “Bastian?”

  He chokes. His parents won’t hate him for who he is, but he’s not certain they’ll understand him either. “Yeah, Mom,” Sebastian stutters. “Maybe I will find someone.” And the rest, he keeps to himself.

  Sebastian stares at the screen after they hang up. He stands, feeling lighter than before. He jogs back to his cabin.

  Mirrors aren’t the friendliest of objects. Sebastian decided that years ago, but it’s inescapably clear now that he’s standing shirtless, inspecting his body.

  In his head, on repeat, he hears it: “Bastian the Trashcan, Bastian the Trashcan…”

  Behind him, Willie and Hunter are bundled under an afghan on Willie’s bed, snoring and dead to the world. Willie’s face is mashed in Hunter’s neck. Hunter’s fingers are twisted in Willie’s hair; their lower halves are tangled. A pair of cuddling bros.

  Sebastian figured they’d be like that for another hour, which was all the encouragement he needed to change clothes for a late run. Then he caught a sideways glimpse of himself. Now, he can’t move his feet.

  He’s repositioning his body to appear normal. Yes, he likes some things about himself: his skin has a natural, creamy tan and he has a broad ches
t and narrow hips. But the flaws stick out. He’s lost definition in his arms. His metabolism finally caught up with his growth spurts, so his belly is softer. He pulls at the extra tissue above his hip and hisses, “What the hell,” when it stretches painfully.

  Sebastian’s tried changing his diet, more time in the weight room, counting calories, anything to make a difference, to end those taunts in his brain. But in the reflection, an older version of that bullied kid glares at him.

  “Shit.”

  The knot in his chest expands. Emir would never go for him. Not that Emir wants him, but why would he? Sebastian’s not in Emir’s league, at least, not physically.

  “And these are the days of our lives…” Willie mumbles in his sleep; one leg hangs off the bed. Hunter is squeezing an arm around him so they both don’t roll off. It would be a viral hit if Sebastian recorded it on his phone, but he decides not to.

  Bro code.

  Sebastian eyes his reflection one last time. “Screw you, evil mirror” is implied when he flips himself the bird. He tugs on a tank top, steals Willie’s iPod, and heads for the door.

  He can still squeeze in a run before lunch if he hurries.

  12

  “Beckham is a legend.”

  Jack is pointing an accusing plastic fork at Gio. He’s got a pale, freckled rat-face that’s slowly turning red as Gio scoffs. His eyes are bloodshot, adding to his deranged look.

  Gio says, “He’s got nothing on Ryan Giggs, amigo.”

  Groaning, Jack drops his fork and throws his hands up.

  It’s late afternoon, and the team has finally spun into the dining hall like a category five tornado. This argument, and a few others, is prominent between soccer players at Bloomington High. Sebastian skipped the lunch line after his jog and plops down at their table with a protein shake for a front-row seat.

  He’s betting on Kyle’s usual Ronaldo favoritism or—

  “What about Rooney?”

  Bingo! Sebastian chuckles to himself. He turns back to Mason, who seems to have a kickass hangover and is poring over a cup of coffee.