Running with Lions

by Julian Winters

  Mason says, “I told you, bro. He doesn’t like us.”

  Sebastian wants Mason to shut the hell up, but he forks at his food for something to do. It doesn’t hold his attention long. Since he’s an epic idiot, his eyes find Emir looking back at him. Tears sting his eyes from their staring contest, but Sebastian holds the stare until something calm replaces the anger in Emir’s face. It’s a start.

  Emir looks down first. His spoon draws lazy circles in his cereal. He’s so tense and small. All their lives, Emir has been smaller but faster than Sebastian. He could outrun Sebastian any day of the week.

  It’s as if they’re still running from something.

  “Hurry up, slackers! Scrimmage on the field in fifteen!” Coach Patrick barks from the doorway. The collective groan only intensifies the glee in his eyes.

  Mason clears his throat. He says, “I don’t think Shah is going to last long.”

  Sebastian’s a total jerk for not saying anything back. He hopes this time Mason is wrong.

  The rush of a sweaty, sunbaked scrimmage is just what Sebastian needs. His teammates show off their new skills, which are terrible imitations of footwork they’ve seen in the latest FIFA video game. It’s classic. Most of them fall on their faces.

  The workouts afterward are worse. Once again, they are a disorganized pack of rabid cubs, and the coaching staff makes them suffer. This form of torture has to be illegal.

  Coach O’Brien shouts at the defensive line: “Knees up! Eyes forward! How do you expect to beat those Spartans if you can’t keep up with the ball?”

  “Vamos, hombre! Is that the best you’ve got?” Coach Rivera yells. “Want another thirty minutes of cardio added to tomorrow’s practice?” His dark eyes narrow at Smith, who is struggling to keep up. “Smith! Where’s your form?” he asks after a sip of his cinnamon coffee.

  “At your wife’s house,” Smith mutters.

  “I heard that! My husband would appreciate it if you picked your crap up one of these days.” Grins are rare for Rivera, but his lips twitch when Smith trips over his own feet. His nascent smile fades just as quickly as it came when he starts yapping at Jack and Robbie for falling behind.

  Coach Patrick paces the field end to end. “You all play like you’ve never seen a soccer ball! This isn’t tryouts.” His feet leave tracks in the grass. “Less than two months,” he shouts. Without his hat, his scowl is visible and demands one thing of every player: gratitude. He expects nothing less than discipline on the field. “That’s all you’ve got ‘til we meet the Spartans at home. If we’re going to win any games, you better survive working as a unit. I don’t see any heroes around here.”

  “Riley would disagree, sir,” Zach says, hacking. He’s still breathless from the suicide drills.

  Mason counters with, “Just repeating what your girlfriend tells me.” He’s just as winded as Zach. They flip each other off, earning another lap from Coach.

  Yep, they’re doomed. Might as well forfeit the trophy now.

  The team scrambles through basic drills and ball control techniques. A zigzag of orange cones is set up for passing exercises. Upperclassmen practice block tackling midfield. On the sidelines, the freshmen compete for who can puke colorful streams of Gatorade the farthest. Sebastian doesn’t hoot at them as the other upperclassmen do. He was the same as a frosh and he made varsity. They can too!

  His afternoon is spent in his home, the penalty box, fending off shots from the offensive line.

  “Too much force!” He smacks away another ball from Kyle. He’s a transfer from Bloomington West with way too much confidence in his kicks. Every shot is predictable, and Sebastian barely puts forth effort.

  Kyle replies, “Screw you,” but Sebastian shrugs it off. In time, Kyle will find his bearings.

  It doesn’t help that Willie’s crowing from the sidelines. He shouts, “Bombs away!” when another guy misses.

  Sebastian ignores his friend’s manic sense of humor to observe the obvious: Willie’s bad knee, bandaged and iced, is propped on a bleacher below him. It’s a sure sign he’s already overdone it.

  Sebastian tries to sound admonishing when he says, “Willster,” but it doesn’t work.

  “You can’t beat Hughes! He’s like the Eyrie castle on Game of Thrones!” Willie yells. He’s an invaluable asset, as much the team’s cheerleader as their best defenseman.

  “William!” Coach Rivera barks from midfield. “Hughes doesn’t need an ego, quit it!”

  Willie shrinks from Rivera. The roguish glint in his eyes indicates this silence is temporary.

  Grey, next to him with her clipboard in her lap, chews the top of her pen mercilessly. She takes notes on every player as if she expects there will be a quiz. Sebastian likes that she’s got a good head on her shoulders. He could encourage her to pursue the coaching thing if she can get her mind off Mason, the reason behind her lip-biting and her stone-cold posture.

  Mason sinks ball after ball into the goal Jack’s protecting on the other side of the field. “Ding-dong!” he howls, grinning wolfishly at Jack’s pathetic defense.

  Grey pumps a fist in the air, screeching, “Yes!” She cringes, red as a ripe strawberry, as the other guys hoot at her.

  Mason groans, “Christ,” and gives her a dirty look. Zach is blowing him kisses from the sidelines, so Mason mouths, “Eat shit,” but Coach Patrick catches him. He slinks back into position to prepare for his next kick.

  Sebastian has no interest in getting involved in that love boat. He stumbles off the field to flop next to Willie in the bleachers, where Willie brandishes a Gatorade. “Anything good happen?” Sebastian asks once he’s cracked the Gatorade and had a sip.

  Willie points toward Jack’s side of the field. “Emir has potential.” Sebastian shrugs slightly and stays quiet. Willie continues, “He’d make a good wingback.”

  Sebastian studies the pitch; his eyebrows furrow at how scattered Emir is. He seems determined, but nothing else.

  “We need one,” Grey chimes in. “To replace Kendrick.” She is nothing but positive about the team’s prospects.

  Sebastian shrugs again. Kendrick was decent, but completely replaceable, last season. Emir is faster and has the potential to be better. “Sweeper,” he suggests, tapping a finger on his chin. Willie gapes at him. “With practice, I mean. Reminds me of Cameron.”

  “Geoff Cameron?” Grey asks.

  “Wait, the Geoff Cameron,” says Willie, way too skeptically.

  Sebastian nods. “Potential, right?”

  Willie goes paler, as if he can’t tell if Sebastian’s finally taken one too many soccer balls to the head, but Emir is fast. He steals the ball without sweating. It’s the lack of coordination afterward that does him in.

  Willie rants, damning Sebastian’s very existence. That’s no surprise. Geoff Cameron is a legend to Willie, and Sebastian said it mostly to piss him off.

  He ignores Willie to observe Emir scooping the ball away to win another one-versus-one battle against Smith. He’s fascinating. His prideful stance is maintained the entire time Coach O’Brien barks at him for sloppy footwork or while Carl points and laughs.

  Tipping his Gatorade for another sip, Sebastian whispers, “Awesome.” He almost chokes while swallowing, though. Emir is eyeing him. Busted! Wait—did Emir just smile? Nope. Sebastian must have a concussion. Emir’s turned away, so he’ll never know.

  “Watch out!” Grey yells. Kyle is coming upfield too fast. Wham! Emir’s folded up on the grass. Shit, that’ll leave a mark. Being laid out protecting the goal far too often has taught Sebastian that.

  “Eyes ahead of you, Shah!” Coach O’Brien snaps, while Hunter runs to help Emir up.

  “I’m fine,” Emir mumbles, getting to his feet without Hunter’s assistance.

  Hunter’s affronted expression lasts a bit too long before he shakes his head.

 
“C’mon kid,” Coach Patrick, stern but fatherly, says. “Shake it off, Shah. Don’t let it beat you.”

  Kyle babbles apologies, but Emir doesn’t make eye contact. He grabs his ribs and flinches before limping back into position. He doesn’t say a word, but glares at a ball.

  “Wow, dude, that’s uncool,” Zach says, stretched out a few bleachers below them. “He totally blew Hunter off, the dick.”

  Sebastian rubs his sweaty palm over his mouth, so he doesn’t say the wrong thing. Emir isn’t being an asshole on purpose. Putting his finger on why will take time.

  “Dunno, Bastian,” Willie says, their shoulders touching. “He doesn’t look much like Cameron to me, bro.”

  Sebastian ignores a hardcore desire to roll his eyes. Willie is cool, but sometimes he reminds Sebastian of Mason. Sebastian doesn’t want to be told he’s wrong yet again.

  Coach Patrick has an arm around Emir’s shoulders. He’s giving Emir an earful, one of Coach’s notorious fatherly talks, but Emir doesn’t seem all that interested. He’s glowering; his chest is heaving.

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to be here?” Grey suggests.

  “Huh, maybe.” Sebastian slumps; his throat holds in the words “He needs a friend” because he’s a major tool.

  “You’ll get it, Emir,” Grey shouts, clapping. She receives a hopeful nod from Emir, and suddenly Sebastian wants that for himself. There’s only one way to get it.

  6

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Well, it’s definitely not the reaction Sebastian anticipated, but he didn’t know what to expect when he found Emir.

  An early end to practice meant dinner was dull and noisy. Afterward, Sebastian dodged Willie and Hunter, who pleaded with him to hit the rec hall for root beer floats, Sebastian’s favorite, and some team bonding. He wasn’t in the mood for belching, corny jokes, and guys acting like kindergarteners. Sebastian doesn’t need the root beer float, anyway. But he regrets not hanging with Willie and Hunter, who remind him of the dudes from Wedding Crashers. It sure as hell would beat standing beside a cabin under Emir’s death glare.

  “Um, hello?” Sebastian tries.

  Emir narrows his eyes. He has this whole “being a prick” thing down to a science. “What are you doing here?” he repeats.

  “Okay.” Sebastian drags every letter out. “So, we’re not past that part yet?”

  A half-burnt cigarette hangs from Emir’s lips. His nose releases a plume of blue-gray smoke. “No,” he grunts, leaning his head back, eyes closed.

  Shadows bank the confined space between cabins here, an obvious spot for Emir to sneak a smoke. Sebastian lucked out catching him. Okay, he pulled a real stalker move, standing on his cabin’s porch to see if Emir would sneak off to the pitch to practice again.

  “Are you not going away, mate?” asks Emir, his index finger tapping ash off the end of his cigarette. Gray snowflakes catch on the breeze.

  “Not likely,” Sebastian says around a tight throat.

  He’s bold enough to move closer; fallen leaves crunch under his shoes. Carly smokes, so he’s accustomed to the stench, but it doesn’t stop his nose from wrinkling. “Gross,” he says.

  “Whatever.” Emir is unfazed.

  Sebastian’s satisfied that he received a response. The sky is pre-thunderstorm charcoal. It hides a full moon, which freaking bites, because it eliminates Sebastian’s one excuse for acting weird about this Emir situation.

  “So.” Sebastian stops when his voice cracks. Hello, puberty! He quickly pulls himself together. “Are you okay?”

  Emir snorts; smoke trails escape the corner of his mouth. “Sure. Now will you go away?”

  “Apparently not,” Sebastian teases, too hopeful Emir will crack a smile. He doesn’t, but his scowl softens, encouraging Sebastian. Emir is wearing a cutoff T-shirt that exposes his arms and the gnarly purple bruise from the hit he took during practice. “That looks painful.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Sebastian wants to call Emir on his bullshit. His thumb presses against the mark to prove his point. It’s the dumbest thing he could do. What kind of idiot provokes an already pissed-off bull?

  “Bloody hell, mate!” Emir hisses, jerking back. “Are you brain-dead?”

  Sebastian shrugs and leans lazily against the siding of the cabin. He likes Emir’s British accent. As a kid, annoyed with the teasing he received, Emir tried to hide it.

  “That’s pretty bad.”

  “Are you a bloody doctor now?”

  “You don’t have to play tough.”

  Emir takes another drag before he says, “It’s nothing, okay?” His voice is pleading, as if he already has enough of the world on his shoulders and Sebastian isn’t helping.

  “Okay,” Sebastian says.

  He turns and is greeted by the boy from his childhood, the one who hated losing to Sebastian at video games but could never stay angry. “Let’s play again and I’ll show you,” he’d demand until they were going at it again for hours. Sebastian hasn’t had a memory that amusing since he and Emir stopped being friends. It’s a punch to the throat.

  “Shit happens.” Emir stubs his cigarette in the pine needles under their feet. He sniffs, crossing his arms. “What’s it to you?”

  “It’s my job,” Sebastian feels compelled to say. Before he can explain, Emir snorts.

  “That’s right. Captain, yeah?” He’s mocking Sebastian. He’s reverted to whatever screwed-up version of Sebastian’s ex-best friend he’s become.

  “Teammates. And we take care of our own around here.”

  “I’m not anyone’s teammate.”

  Sebastian turns on the charm, smiling. “You could be.”

  Emir glares, taking them right back to zero. “Do you honestly believe they want me around? We’re not friends.”

  “I believe…” Sebastian takes his time because he’s walking a thin line. “You need to get to know them, and vice versa.”

  Emir says, “That’s hard to do when I’m too busy sucking on the pitch to pay attention to any of them.” He pushes his beanie back. Soft hair falls over his brow. “I’m rubbish.”

  “You’re not,” Sebastian says too quickly, caught staring at Emir’s pink, very kissable lips—

  Whoa. Hell no. Absolutely not in a million freaking years.

  “Mate?” Emir seems puzzled.

  Sebastian, blushing feverishly, turns away. Searching for words, he coughs into his hand. “We used to be friends,” comes out, because his timing is atrocious.

  “What?”

  Sebastian wants to veto any other form of speech. “Sorry, I meant,” he says and then heaves in a deep breath. “Do you want to leave?” Sebastian stares at his shoes. The old, discolored laces are a temporary distraction.

  Thick, sticky silence forces Sebastian to lift his chin. Around them, crickets sing an ode to his stupidity.

  Emir, chewing his lip, replies, “No.”

  Sebastian sags happily against the cabin. He blurts, “I can help,” like a teen excited over meeting Shawn Mendes. What the hell is he doing? “I mean, I’m not the best—”

  Emir guffaws. “Bullshit.”

  “I’d like to help you.”

  “What for?”

  Sebastian isn’t offended, especially since Emir’s eyes seem candid rather than agitated. “I dunno,” Sebastian replies. It’s obvious this isn’t like old times and Emir doesn’t want to rekindle their friendship. He’s doing this for the team.

  “I’m not a charity case, mate.” Emir starts to walk away.

  Sebastian should let him go. Common sense isn’t his strong suit, though, and he grabs Emir’s wrist before he can get too far. “I’m sorry,” falls out of his mouth. He’s thankful Emir doesn’t yank away. All he wants is thirty whole seconds of Emir’s trust instead of the glaring. Sebast
ian says, “I want to help, okay?”

  Emir’s throat makes a noise when he swallows. His eyes shine in the dark; his breaths are slow.

  Sebastian waits.

  “What if they don’t want me here?” Emir’s tone is hesitant; his eyes flit to the trees rather than Sebastian’s face.

  Sebastian could easily throw together a TV-dad speech about being a family, togetherness, and the beauty of team unity, but this is Emir. Sebastian unwraps his fingers from Emir’s wrist. He’s embarrassed by how long it takes Emir’s skin to return to its normal color.

  “You’ve gotta try,” he says, willing confidence into his voice. “I’m not giving you an option.”

  “Is that a threat?” One corner of Emir’s mouth lifts. “It won’t work.”

  Sebastian waves him off, chuckling. “See you in the morning!” He likes that, temporarily, Emir isn’t scowling or seemingly ready to punch him in the back of the head. He strides away exceptionally fast. Get out before you screw this up.

  “You’ll regret it!”

  “I doubt it!” Sebastian waits a whole five seconds before he twists his head around. A slight smile has graced Emir’s lips. Maybe this is the start of something amazing.

  7

  “Traitor!”

  Sebastian isn’t shocked that his cell’s only response to this accusation is to continue its shrieked alarm. He smacks it silent and is rewarded when the screen goes dark.

  Willie, immune to unwanted noises, continues to snore and mumble about Mason’s treacherous Mario Kart gameplay. “Kiss my ass, you cheater” is muffled by a pillow.

  Sebastian rolls out of bed. He stretches until his neck cracks. He goes through the motions of getting ready for another day: pulling on loose, comfy clothes, then his sneakers; dragging a hand through his gold-brown hair until it’s artfully messy; stealing Willie’s iPod.

  Yawning, he steps into a still-cool summer morning. The low sun creates a campfire effect across the sky: orange and yellow lick the indigo out of sight. “Good morning, Oakville,” he croaks, lips twitching as the birds chirp a response.