Running with Lions

by Julian Winters

  Sebastian tosses an arm around Willie’s shoulder, pulling him in. “But imagine it: a crappy apartment in the city, cab rides every morning, making the team—”

  Willie clears his throat. “Sorry to disappoint you, Bastian but…” He points at his knee. “I don’t envision taking this all the way like we planned.”

  Willie is through after this season. He has two options: surgery or lifelong rehab. An operation before college is a death sentence for an athlete. Recruiters aren’t scouting injury cases.

  “Yeah,” Sebastian mumbles. “Guess so.”

  Willie smiles just enough to hide the mourning in his eyes.

  “Bloomington’s cool,” Sebastian says with a shrug. “Mom wouldn’t complain.” But Sebastian’s daydreams about sharing a shithole dorm at Bloomington University with Willie and hitting the bars for weekend college games on a widescreen TV aren’t enticing enough. He wants out. Life after high school is a mystery, but Sebastian won’t solve it in Bloomington.

  Hunter plops down next to Willie. He announces, “Pasta and salad for lunch today,” with all the dread of a prisoner about to be executed. “Have we not suffered enough?”

  Willie chuckles. “Nope.”

  “Well, then.” Hunter leans on Willie. “At least you have to die with me.”

  Hunter and Willie slip into a private conversation. Sebastian doesn’t mind. He’s spaced out, anyway. On the pitch, Coach Patrick and O’Brien discuss strategy. The defensive line is coming together nicely, except for Emir.

  He can’t pass accurately and has zero coordination. It’s as if his foot’s allergic to the ball. But he outruns all attackers, beating them to their next move. If he can just harness that, maybe Sebastian can work around the rest.

  “Keep it up, Shah!” Coach Patrick yells, glancing at his clipboard.

  When Emir stumbles again, Coach O’Brien tosses his hat on the green. His hair is thinning; sunlight glares off his skull. “Why do you have two left feet? Is that possible? Jesus, Mary, and have mercy, kid, where is your head?”

  Carl shouts, “Up his ass!” while chasing a ball.

  “Hey!” Gio yells, pointing at Carl. “Don’t screw up his concentration.”

  But it’s too late. The ball’s rolled too far in front of Emir, allowing Kyle to sidestep him and make a play.

  O’Brien fusses, “Carl, you wanna do some more laps? We can skip lunch if you’d like?”

  “No, thank you!”

  “Then give the lad a break,” O’Brien snaps. His scowl exaggerates his wrinkles. “Try again, Shah.”

  Sebastian’s bony elbows rest on his knees. He’s drained his cup, but keeps it close to his mouth, hiding how intensely he’s studying Emir.

  Emir’s expression reads as if he’ll march off the field and quit. Then, something flashes in his eyes, a reminder, before he marks another player to steal possession of the ball.

  Yes!

  Sebastian doesn’t scream but he might do a small fist pump out of view. He’s a dork, okay, but Emir did it. Of course, he doesn’t keep control of the ball. Robbie swoops in like a hired assassin to take it back, but it’s enough for Coach Patrick to nod his approval when Emir passes.

  “What about fullback?”

  Sebastian startles. Hunter and Willie have stopped their random geeky ranting to turn their attention back on him. Willie’s expectant face means the question was obviously for Sebastian.

  “Emir?”

  Willie rolls his eyes. “Well, not for them.” He points to the gaggle of freshmen doing passing drills—badly. They are no doubt headed for the reserve team at the end of camp. Or, as Mason appropriately calls it, soccer limbo.

  Hunter says, “I don’t know if he has it in him. But defense is definitely his strong point.”

  “Yeah,” Willie concedes. “Definitely defense.”

  Sebastian can teach Emir to be a great defender. I’m the team goalie; defense is in my blood. And he trusts Willie and Hunter’s judgment, even if they’re now arguing about who’d be the better soccer player, Mario or Luigi. At least they’re interested in Emir’s success. Now, if Sebastian can convince Emir that he isn’t helping because Emir’s a charity case.

  On the sidelines, Coach Patrick is talking to Emir; his thick hand squeezes Emir’s bony shoulder. Judging by his stance, Coach’s giving one of his famous pick-me-up speeches, something he doesn’t often do publicly. When a player is struggling, Coach pulls him into the office, shuts the door, and recites every Rocky quote possible. It’s repetitious, but Coach never lets anyone feel like a failure.

  When Coach walks away, Emir kicks at the grass and mumbles. Most of the guys steer clear of him. His tightly-wound shoulders don’t invite company; nor does his otherworldly frown.

  Sebastian bounds down the squeaky bleachers. His heart hammers triple-time; a black hole gapes in his stomach. Willie calls after him, but Sebastian’s feet keep pounding on wood that’s sure to snap. The other guys might crack on him later, but he doesn’t stop.

  “Wait up.”

  Emir spins around with an annoyed sigh. “Please, don’t do this.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t.”

  Sebastian shakes off the chill spreading through his body. He rubs Emir’s shoulder; the sweat makes Emir’s shirt stick to his skin. Oddly, it’s not gross.

  Emir lowers his eyes. “You don’t have to—”

  Sebastian cuts him off with, “Meet me here after dinner,” as if Emir wasn’t speaking.

  “What for?”

  Sebastian raises his brow. “Do me a favor and meet me here, okay?”

  Emir nods, whispering, “Okay” with little fight in his voice. It’s progress.

  The sun, warm and bright, beats relentlessly. Emir’s a siren drawing Sebastian in with his face rather than his voice. Sebastian, realizing he’s doomed, snatches his hand away to shake off whatever that was.

  Emir’s mouth goes soft. Sebastian is hit with the thought of kissing Emir, which is just horrible. It’s difficult to resent someone while wanting something more.

  “Hughes, lunch! I’m starved, bro!”

  Sebastian’s appreciation for Mason’s whiny voice is immeasurable. He steps back, still breathless, needing to get away from Emir and unsure he’s cool with that. “Okay,” he says, too low, then jogs toward his friends. They’ve lagged just enough that Sebastian doesn’t have to run.

  “Pasta time,” Hunter says, piggybacking Willie with Mason to his left. Sebastian flanks Mason’s other side, keeping his head lowered. He doesn’t say anything.

  At least in the dining hall, Sebastian can escape Emir. Too bad there’s nowhere in his head to retreat from the thought of sliding his mouth over Emir’s.

  A true tragedy.

  9

  From the edge of the pitch, the sun skids across the sky like a red cannonball rolling toward nothing. It leaves only purple and orange bruises from a war between light and dark. In the evening glow, Emir is soft, approachable. Without a beanie, his hair is fluffy. A thrift-store T-shirt and loose sweatpants compliment his cozy appearance. Granted, Sebastian’s view of Emir lately has been nothing but rough, so maybe he’s simply appreciating the moment.

  Emir, humming to himself, juggles a ball between his feet. It escapes, but he chases it down, finally moving freely. When no one’s watching, pressure doesn’t exist; it’s like dancing in the dark. But Emir can’t control the ball for long.

  Cicadas hum their nightly hymns, but underneath them Emir sings Michael Jackson. Music was always like magic for Emir. Eight years ago, it was all Emir needed to be himself around Sebastian.

  “Shit.”

  The ball wobbles from between Emir’s feet. In the middle of the pitch, Sebastian effortlessly stops it with one foot. He says, “That was good,” with too much glee in his voice.

  Emir flinches
at being caught. “It was okay.”

  “Give yourself some credit,” Sebastian says, using the toe of his foot to scoop the ball into the air and then bouncing it off a knee. “Just keep going.”

  “What if I quit first?”

  “Is that the plan?”

  Emir’s shrug is about as convincing as a puppy’s growl. “I haven’t decided,” he says when Sebastian passes the ball back to him. He fakes left, goes right, but Sebastian’s right in his face, grinning.

  “Waiting for me to convince you?”

  Emir says, “Waiting for you to fail,” but his lips twitch upward.

  “That won’t happen.”

  Emir rolls his eyes, trying to work around Sebastian. He sweeps the ball past Sebastian, making a run for it. Sebastian catches him, but barely.

  “Not bad,” he says, spinning around Emir.

  “I’m barely trying,” Emir says, breathless.

  Sebastian relaxes. Well, he tries to relax, but his pulse pounds in his ears. They’re face to face, waiting for the next move. And Sebastian, having another idiot moment of epic proportions, brushes sweaty hair off Emir’s forehead with his fingers.

  Emir, who is an inch or two shorter than Sebastian, peers through his eyelashes. He doesn’t say anything, but he looks ready to speak.

  “Um, yeah.” Sebastian overheats.

  Emir says, “Sure,” and leaves it at that.

  They pass the ball back and forth; the sun sinks behind the trees. At five minutes to eight, the halogen floodlights that surround the pitch click on, illuminating the greens in lustered silver.

  “What’re we here for?” Emir asks.

  “To make you better.” Sebastian is trying to remain focused on the benefits to the team, not on his hormones.

  Emir mumbles, “Horrible plan, mate.”

  “Just give me a chance,” Sebastian insists.

  Emir chews his lip. He reaches to brush the hair off his forehead, but Sebastian’s already done that. Emir’s hand dangles mid-air; a blush overtakes his face. “So,” he starts and then pauses, as if the world anchors him to the ground when he wants to fly. “Let’s do this, then?”

  Under the hazy, firestorm sky, they practice. Sebastian teaches Emir passing first. “That’s better.” He applauds Emir’s ability to control possession of the ball for more than ten feet. Of course, Emir still keeps his head low, glaring at the ball as if he’s willing it to follow his commands. But Sebastian is content with his growing coordination.

  Eventually, he’ll advance their training to marking an attacker, slide tackles, and complicated tricks, like hitting a header so the ball flies to your teammate.

  The sky spits out stars as time slips between them.

  Sebastian pushes hair off his brow and says, “Do you think you can get it back here to me?”

  Emir groans softly, spinning in the grass. “Demanding asshole.” He clumsily works the ball back upfield.

  “I heard that!”

  “Good!” Emir gripes, but his laughter betrays him.

  Sebastian rubs sweaty hands over his shorts. He usually wears gloves when he’s protecting the goal. He’s anticipating a shot attempt from Emir, but it never happens because Emir loses control of the ball.

  “Bugger.” Emir makes a face. “See what you’ve gone and made me do.”

  Sebastian snorts, flipping Emir the finger. “You just need more help.”

  With total lack of common sense, Sebastian runs up to Emir, then comes around his backside to align his chest with Emir’s spine. He fits his arms around Emir’s lean frame; his hands smooth Emir’s waist. “Personal space” has vacated his vocabulary.

  “This okay?” Sebastian asks.

  Emir flinches, then nods.

  In his head, Sebastian has ruled this a “teaching method,” though no one’s ever given him this brand of attention. “Follow me.” Emir’s muscles are coiled, but when Sebastian whispers, “I can help,” he leans into Sebastian’s chest.

  Sebastian hooks his chin over Emir’s shoulder. “Less focus on what you want the ball to do,” he says, moving them in tandem toward the ball. “More on the way the ball wants you to move.”

  Emir turns his head just a millimeter, and asks, “How do I do that?”

  Sebastian clears his throat, his flow slightly disrupted by the brush of Emir’s soft but still stubbly cheek. “Stop forcing yourself.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  Sebastian tightens his fingers on Emir’s hips. “Relax,” he says, his lips skimming Emir’s ear. Their feet guide the ball closer to the penalty box.

  “I can’t relax with your,” Emir says, sounding smug, and with a deliberate arch in his spine, “junk against my bum, mate.”

  Sebastian gasps and pulls away from Emir to chase down the ball that’s strayed from between them. His gnarly, cool-as-shit impersonation fails miserably. What did he expect? He wasn’t purposefully trying to do that.

  “Shut up,” he says dejectedly.

  “It’s cool, Bastian.”

  No, it very well is not, since Sebastian has to turn away and adjust everything under his shorts.

  Sebastian is disarmed by Emir’s easy grin when they’re face to face again. Emir wiggles his eyebrows and says, “I don’t mind a guy’s…” He waves a hand at Sebastian’s waist. “On my bum, but I usually don’t mix stupid sports and sex. It’s a rule.”

  “It’s not stupid,” Sebastian says, piqued. “Sports, I mean, okay? Don’t put down soccer, because it’s all I’ve got these days.”

  Emir’s mouth droops. “I didn’t mean to…” He shoves a twitchy hand through his hair.

  Sebastian shrugs. It’s not as though Emir knows or understands how big soccer has been for him, how it’s given him something to be proud of. It’s been a purpose. Which is hard to explain to anyone who acts as if high school is just a stepping stone. To what? Once soccer is over, Sebastian’s sure as hell his future is DOA.

  “Maybe we should call it a night?” he suggests.

  “Wait, can’t we, um…” Emir’s voice is broken and small when he says, “This is important to me, Bastian.”

  Sebastian hates realizing he’s Emir’s last chance. “C’mon,” he says, waving Emir over. He’s in front of the posts and instinctively ducking into position. “Take a shot.”

  “Yeah?” Emir doesn’t wait for Sebastian’s response; he lines up for a kick.

  Sebastian swats the ball away. “Again.”

  Emir’s next shot is easier to block; the one after is too. Sebastian tosses the ball right back at Emir. He’s pissed at the world, not Emir, and takes it out on the ball.

  “Better.”

  “I can’t tell.” Emir takes another rip at the ball.

  Concentrating on Emir’s improved approach, Sebastian loses track of time. Emir’s stuttering shuffle toward the ball turns into a stiff glide. That encourages Sebastian to fight harder guarding the posts.

  He hasn’t had this much fun since he was a rookie.

  “Why goalie?” Emir asks.

  Sebastian chest-bumps the ball away. He’s impressed when Emir uses the inside of his foot to catch it. “You don’t want to know,” he tells Emir.

  “I do,” Emir argues.

  “I tried every position my freshman year. The glory is in being an attacker,” Sebastian explains, leaning over to catch his breath. “It’s why everyone loves Mason.”

  Emir’s mouth twists, but he keeps quiet.

  “I’m not as good as him,” Sebastian says.

  This time, Emir snorts his disapproval.

  Sebastian pinches his sweat-soaked shirt to pull it away from his skin. “I wasn’t quite the defender, like Willie,” he continues. He jumps to stop the ball, then tuck-and-rolls with it wrapped in his arms. “I was a certified benchwarmer.”

 
“A water boy?”

  Sebastian tosses the ball back, amused. “I wasn’t cool enough for that.”

  He is mesmerized by Emir’s new ability to maintain focus and dribble the ball. Emir’s face is shining with sweat, his eyebrows are lowered, and his mouth is pinched. But he’s into this.

  “I was bad.” Sebastian laughs, self-deprecating.

  “Ha! Couldn’t be worse than me.”

  “Anyways,” Sebastian says, rubbing his finger over an eyebrow sticky with perspiration. “At the end of the first season, our goalie graduated. I went out for goalkeeper because, well, why not? Jack was a whiny brat. I figured I could be as good as him.”

  The ball soars high, and Sebastian meets it midair with both hands. Emir grumbles, “Thanks, asshole,” when Sebastian tosses it back.

  Sebastian falls back into place. “I did all I could to get better. Extra time at home or camp, wherever.”

  “And?”

  Sebastian waves his arms around in a “here we are” gesture. “My first game was against the Spartans,” says Sebastian, looking into the distance.

  It took an overtime period before they dragged those pretentious assholes to the ground. The score was two to zero, and the crowd went bananas when Mason scored the winning goal. But Coach Patrick dug his fingers into the collar of Sebastian’s jersey and hauled him to the front of the team so he could soak in the fact that he shut out their rivals. That feeling still hits him with shuddering waves of warmth.

  Emir stares at him as if Sebastian’s just had a war flashback. Sebastian doesn’t care. Memories like that are hard to come by. Most of the time, it’s school or relationships or trying not to screw up and get grounded before the next party—and the endless awkwardness.

  Sebastian is determined to hold on to those memories.

  Emir says, “I’ll never be like you.”

  Sebastian blindly catches the ball Emir pelts at him. “Hey, are you trying to quit again, Shah? Save it, I’m not interested.”

  Emir laughs, then licks his dry lips.

  Sebastian gets stuck on how he’d really like to suck Emir’s lower lip, winces, and leans over to conceal his excitement.