Running with Lions

by Julian Winters

  “Want help with that?” Grey asks. The black sports car she leans against is sleek. Sebastian can’t identify the make and model, but the paint is glossy, so it must be new.

  “Looks like you’ve got enough to carry.” Sebastian grins, nodding his head toward the bags at Grey’s feet.

  “Possibly,” she says, smiling. “Maybe you can help me?”

  Sebastian pokes his lips out. “Now Grey, you haven’t turned into a spoiled rich girl who expects big, strong guys like me to rescue you, have you?”

  Grey rolls her eyes. Besides the team, Grey is all Coach has, so maybe she’s a tiny bit spoiled. But Grey is too cool and goofy to adopt a diva attitude.

  She points at the car and says, “It was a sweet sixteen gift from Coach.” She never calls him Dad. Sebastian isn’t sure if it’s because Coach married her mom when Grey was old enough to know the truth or because she’s stuck in a sports headspace all the time. “I told him not to.”

  Sebastian whistles, impressed. “Too flashy?”

  “Too girly.” She sticks her tongue out. “I wanted a muscle car.”

  Sebastian snorts. Welcome back, twelve-year-old Grey!

  “Coach is trying to bribe me into joining the girls’ soccer team,” she says dryly, blowing upward to get the curls out of her face. They fall right back. “I’m not interested, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just because,” she whines, pouting. At least that hasn’t changed either. She digs the toes of her Chuck Taylors in the dirt. She asks, cheeks crimson, “So, um, how’s Mace doing?” Curls curtain her face as she stares at her shoes.

  “Still hung up on that crush?”

  “Nope.”

  Sebastian doesn’t believe her, but whatever. He gets it. He hasn’t crushed on anyone since he was like, eleven? He met Sam at a party, they exchanged numbers and made out at a movie, and that was it. The unrequited infatuation phase never happened.

  “Look at you!” He adjusts the balance of equipment on his shoulders. “He has you lovesick right now, doesn’t he?”

  “Shut the hell up, I don’t like—” She pauses, more abashed than angry. Her eyes meet Sebastian’s, and he levels her with his best disbelieving stare. “Mace is just a good guy, okay?” she says. “Awesome player. That’s all.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s it.”

  Sebastian expects her to stomp her foot. When she doesn’t, he considers her a little more carefully. “He treats you like garbage, Gee.”

  Her shoulders slump. “Not all of the time.”

  It’s a weak effort, but Sebastian empathizes. Sam wasn’t the best at feeding his own superhero confidence.

  “Okay,” he finally says. “Then ask him out already.”

  Grey freezes, tension gripping her mouth. In a hushed voice, she pleads, “I can’t. You know how Coach is about anyone trying to date me. He’d kick Mace off the team.”

  Yeah, that would suck. Being in love sucks, actually! How does anyone do it?

  “Plus,” Grey sighs, tucking curls behind her ear, “Mace wouldn’t be interested, anyway.” She’s trying to smile through the words, but all the cracks in her usually hardcore armor are visible.

  Sebastian says, “You’re Grace-freaking-Patrick, dude. I’ve never seen you back down from a fight.” He once witnessed Grey get in the face of a defenseman twice her size for an illegal tackle against Mason. She didn’t blink when he growled at her. “Work it out, okay?”

  Grey beams as if Sebastian’s a victorious gladiator. Any time she smiles, he’s as overwhelmed as if he’s just slain Godzilla.

  “Love you, Bastian.”

  “Love you too, you spoiled princess.” The corner of his mouth lifts when she scrunches her nose. He readjusts the equipment. “Now carry your own bags. I’ve got to finish this up and hit the sack because your dad—”

  “Stepdad,” she corrects.

  “—is going to go General Zod on our asses tomorrow if we don’t get it together.”

  “General who?”

  “Oh, my God.” Sebastian groans at the sky. “Never speak to me again. Ever.”

  Grey’s cackling fades as he walks away. Leave it to her to get his mind off everything. As far as friends go, most days Grey is ranked right next to Willie. He forgets the weight of the equipment and the sweat dripping off his nose as he treks toward the Hot Box.

  The few trees that surround the practice field allow an excellent view of blossoming stars. Sebastian’s found a spot near the edge of the field. The city’s smog and lights hide the stars in Bloomington. But out here? Stars are giant ivory beacons, casting their glow in a smear of indigo.

  Sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, Sebastian gulps a healthy amount of borrowed Gatorade. Okay, he stole it, but he’s earned it. Besides, no one will miss it. After moving the equipment, Sebastian’s muscles are numb. He has to wiggle his fingers and toes just to ensure they work. But mostly, his mind drains him.

  When Sebastian first started playing, he pushed himself just to survive. Extra hours on the pitch before and after practice were a necessity. He did more reps in the weight room than anyone else. Cardio became his enemy and his friend. Whatever was needed to stay competitive, Sebastian did.

  Sebastian’s determined to make this year memorable. It’s a craving, an addiction. He carries the weight of being an anchor for the team, on and off the field. Who wants to have that responsibility at seventeen? It’s messed up, but the truth isn’t always a pretty, dreamy montage. Sometimes, Sebastian would rather life sold him a lie about his purpose.

  Crawling out of his thoughts, he downs more Gatorade. His eyes focus straight ahead to the pitch. At this hour, it should be empty, but it isn’t. Sebastian has a clear view of drooping shoulders, a knit beanie, and a perpetual scowl.

  It’s him.

  Emir lines himself up before running toward one soccer ball in a row of them. His foot smashes a ball toward one of the posts. It misses, and Emir shouts, “Are you kidding me?” while marching to his next ball. Emir kicks up a clump of grass and misses the ball. His head bows as he says, “Stupid piece of…”

  Sebastian winces.

  Emir walks himself through all the steps, reciting tips the coaches give amateur players: “One foot in front of the other… See your target…” It doesn’t work, though. Emir stalks the balls as if he’s starring in a National Geographic special on caged beasts let into the wild.

  Sebastian says, “Calm down,” so softly he can hardly hear himself.

  Emir chants, “Pull it together, Shah,” but all his motions are stiff.

  “You’ve got it,” Sebastian says. Wait—this is a total out-of-body experience. Is he actually rooting for Emir?

  Emir’s fingers curl into fists by his sides as he glares at another ball. His beanie is pushed back, exposing sweaty hair stuck to his forehead. “Go in or die,” he growls at his mortal enemy: the ball. He races forward, catching the ball with the wrong side of his foot. It sails over the posts. “Bloody idiot!” he howls at the sky.

  This is a massacre, and not in a hilarious way like Funny or Die videos on YouTube. But Sebastian can’t avert his eyes. Maybe it’s empathy? He’s not too sure.

  Emir’s rubs his fists over his eyes. He stutters, “Can’t you do any better?” Smeared tears shine on his cheeks. He wipes them away. “Abbu would be so…” His words die in his throat.

  “Shit.” Guilt sits heavy on Sebastian’s chest. Everyone’s hero, right?

  Emir collapses in a pile of ragged exhaustion in the middle of the field near his discarded sweatshirt. Has he been out here since after dinner? He’s stretched out like a dead starfish, reciting, “Just give up, mate, this was a mistake,” to the stars.

  Sebastian’s seen enough. He pushes to his feet and dusts prickly grass from his clothes. His stomach drops when Emi
r crosses his vision again; that voice in the back of his head needs to shut up. The point it’s trying to make is simple. They don’t quit on this team. Sebastian doesn’t quit at anything. “I wish I got a cool cape for this,” he grumbles, turning away. He walks toward his cabin. Briefly, he wishes he had Mason’s ability to walk away from people without guilt.

  The last thing Sebastian needs is insomnia. Great, now my safe place is ruined!

  Willie’s snoring roars like a jacked-up lawn mower, but that’s not what keeps Sebastian awake. Sweat clings to his brow, but it’s not the heat either. Nope, it’s his thoughts—and Emir’s defeated voice in his head, to be exact.

  “Can’t you do any better?”

  Sebastian’s quite intimate with that voice and those words. They’re the same words Sebastian heard when he was younger and the world gave up on him, back when he wasn’t good at anything, until soccer came along.

  Maybe he can do for Emir what soccer did for him?

  Sebastian turns on his side. The alarm clock’s bleeding red numbers assault his vision. 3:36 a.m. Crap. He needs to sleep and to stop silly thoughts of saving someone else’s ass when he’s still not sure how to save himself.

  5

  “Are you happy?” Sebastian asks his phone when the alarm screams at him. He aches like twice-run-over roadkill, but that’s okay. The sky has cracked open for an epic sunrise, and that means one glorious thing: Time for a morning jog.

  “You’re annoying,” Sebastian tells his phone. He groans when his phone responds by going back to sleep mode. After a yawn and stretch, Sebastian makes quick work of pulling on a comfy hoodie and a pair of loose shorts. He steals Willie’s iPod from the desk between their beds.

  Willie’s snoring away, dead to the world.

  “Lucky you,” Sebastian grumbles, and Willie answers by snuffling his pillow.

  Sebastian grabs his sneakers. He runs to the pantry for bottled water before hitting the hiking trail.

  Bloomington is pretty cool, but Oakville is a different version of awesome. It’s the nature vibe he likes: glittery dew on green leaves, heady, clean air, everything gold and ivy instead of gray and dull.

  He jogs around the edge of camp, down by the lake, following a winding dirt path that leads to town. None of the other guys want any part of waking up before the ass-crack-of-dawn to join him. Mornings are his private sanctuary.

  “Hello, Mr. Walsh!” Sebastian shouts when he’s passing an auto shop in town. The owner, a husky man, stands in the parking lot surveying his muscle cars and used tires.

  Mr. Walsh waves back, grinning in his gruff, kind way. “Back for another summer, Bastian?”

  “Always!”

  Sebastian likes checking out the small shops. Their “SALE” signs are hung in the windows and the owners sweep the sidewalks in front of their doors, preparing for another day of boring small-town life. Never slowing, he nods at all of them. He likes to run a few miles in under an hour, keeping pace to Willie’s truly suck playlists. How many acoustic covers can one person download?

  Daft Punk comes on, and Sebastian says, “Finally,” before sprinting back to camp for breakfast.

  Mason grunts, then says, “You stink,” when Sebastian flops into a chair at their table. Mason’s useless without caffeine in the morning. He’s already sipping coffee from a paper cup.

  “Good morning, Mace,” Sebastian says in a singsong voice rather than flipping him off.

  A tray of food is pushed toward him. “The usual?” Willie offers. His mellowness in the morning reminds Sebastian that life is good.

  On the tray is everything Sebastian loves: wheat toast slathered in Nutella, fresh fruit, chopped bananas in Greek yogurt. These are three reasons Willie is lightyears ahead of Mason in the friendship department.

  “Wicked. Thanks, Willster.”

  Waving as if it’s nothing, Willie turns pink and ducks his head. But Sebastian is curious. When has Willie ever been bashful?

  “Kiss-ass.” Mason pokes Willie with a plastic spoon. “You never get me breakfast.”

  Willie replies, indignant, “Because you don’t eat breakfast.”

  “Coffee—”

  “Is not breakfast,” Willie tells him.

  Mason sips loudly at his coffee in rebuttal. Willie rolls his eyes and digs into his bowl of Cheerios.

  One day, Sebastian is going to let them go all Thunderdome on each other and congratulate the winner. Of course, he’ll be short one best friend, but that’s bound to happen eventually.

  “I hate you two,” Mason grumbles to the lip of his cup. “You’re like an awful bromance.”

  “Hey!” Willie protests. “You wanted to marry me yesterday.”

  “I was mistaken.”

  “Whatever.”

  Leaning back, Sebastian bites his lip. Mason is territorial when it comes to friendships, but he’ll get over it. The thing about this team is, there’s always been a lovefest between the players. All the testosterone and machismo exists on the field and in the locker room, where they can grab their crotches and have pissing contests. But this team has a thing for waxing poetic about their undying love too.

  Mason pushes hair off his forehead. “Get a room already.”

  “You’re disgusting.” Sebastian shakes his head at him.

  “And you’re just a boring virgin.”

  Sebastian’s mouth tightens as he whispers, “I’m not a virgin, dickhead.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Just with guys, correct?” Mason’s far too smug, as if he’s shut Sebastian down.

  Sebastian sighs through his nose. This is an excellent time for him to reevaluate his reasons for being Mason Riley’s best friend.

  The dining hall stinks of sweaty soccer players, but it’s the smell of all the foods Sebastian used to love that he’s struggling with: burnt bacon, fried eggs, stacks of rubbery pancakes. He frowns at his stomach. If it wasn’t for those chants in the back of his head, the echoing voices of his bullies, he’d be stuffing his face the way Charlie is.

  Get a grip, come on. He cautiously glances around the room.

  Grey smiles at him from the coaches’ table. It’s empty, though, like her eyes. She wants to belong among them, but no one is welcoming her.

  “Are you going to bother speaking to her?” Willie asks Mason.

  “Maybe.” Mason pauses dramatically. “I haven’t decided.”

  “Wait, what? Dude, you’re such a dick to girls.”

  “Shut up, Will,” Mason bites back.

  Today, Sebastian’s not in the mood to play Dad and break them up. He waves to Grey—damn Mason—and she brightens up like the neon lights of Times Square.

  “You’re full of shit, Riley,” Willie says, pointing his spoon at Mason.

  “Because I don’t suck up to Coach’s daughter to get a better playing position?”

  “I’m not friends with her because of that.”

  “No?” Mason asks. “Oh, I forgot. You have to be friends with everyone.”

  It’s true. A world where Mason Riley is actually right is just ridiculous, but Willie has the heart of a damn puppy. Some people are assholes. They don’t deserve Willie.

  “So that’s it?” Willie asks, incredulous at Mason’s careless shrug.

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “Asshole.”

  Mason arrogantly says, “And proud,” just to rile Willie more.

  They’ll be at it for hours. Sebastian turns to converse with his teammates. Between the repetitive “That’s what she said” jokes and boasting about a championship win, Sebastian manages to fit in. Guys argue over the best players in the league, the endless war of Seattle or Dallas. They laugh with Sebastian instead of staring at him when he talks.

  Popularity isn’t his thing but, with these rowdy boys, it’s good to know he matters. It also scares him that
life has become just two things for the past four years: graduating and soccer. Shouldn’t there be something else?

  Emir walks into the dining hall, dragging his feet. He balances a tray in one hand and a can of Red Bull in the other. His appearance is sleepwalker-lite: hair spiked up, the sleeves of his shirt pulled over his knuckles, his scowl halfhearted. He’s almost soft and inviting.

  That’s a big almost.

  Sebastian wants to kick himself. He shouldn’t be staring at Emir. And he sure as hell isn’t going to admit to himself the reasons why.

  Emir’s lost. His eyes scan the room for somewhere to sit. Just as with Grey, no one makes the effort to help.

  In the world’s biggest mistake, Sebastian says, “Hey,” circling his fingers around one of Emir’s thin wrists.

  Emir freezes, glaring at Sebastian’s hand, then his eyes. An eerie hush falls around them.

  Sebastian attempts to lock onto his bravery. He almost succeeds, but then Emir hisses “What?” in a hostile voice, and Sebastian falters.

  He struggles against the boulder in his throat. “Um,” he tries with the entire team’s eyes on them.

  He gets it. Willie, Mason, and he are pretty much the Three Amigos around here. It’s not an exclusive club. Zach and Sebastian have known each other all their lives. And Charlie and Mason have been terrors together since preschool. But there’s always room for more. Sebastian knows Emir. Well, he did, so Emir can fit in too, right?

  Sebastian sheepishly offers, “You can sit with us if you want,” when Emir’s face softens just a little. Foolishly, Sebastian takes that as the universe giving him a thumbs-up.

  Emir, exploding Sebastian’s theory, whispers, “Not happening, dude.” He twists his arm free and stomps away.

  “Burn,” someone hisses nearby.

  Sebastian wipes the wounded expression off his face. But his heart hammers like a fifty-piece drum section at a parade as Emir sits at his table in the corner. Sebastian turns away and glares at his untouched food.

  “What’s with him?”

  “Does he love soccer, like the rest of us?” Jack says to Gio.