Running with Lions

by Julian Winters

  It’s so quick, their mouths just smack.

  Sebastian should write it off as a mistake; this isn’t a real kiss, where you’re lightheaded afterward or shoving your tongue down a hot guy’s mouth to taste the flavor of his gum.

  This is nothing at all.

  Sebastian barely keeps himself from falling on his ass. “Shit.” He meant to keep that in his mouth, the same mouth that’s currently buzzing with electricity.

  Emir is pale, blinking. Perfect. I accidentally, I repeat, accidentally, just kissed him and he’s ready to puke. He didn’t want it, not the way Sebastian did, according to his lower half.

  “Okay.” Emir pushes hair off his forehead and looks around.

  “Okay,” Sebastian repeats in a wobbly voice.

  If this is where Emir rejects him, Sebastian is completely cool with it. It was a mistake: no foul, no harm. He can live this down. He hopes.

  “So,” Emir whispers. He locates the ball and kicks it to Sebastian. “Good practice.”

  “Yeah,” Sebastian says, absently catching the ball with his foot.

  “But the whole sweeper thing,” Emir is waving a hand around; his face is scrunched, “I don’t know about that. Just—let’s focus on other stuff.” He shakes his head, then jogs away before Sebastian can swallow the massive lump clogging his throat.

  Should he apologize for kissing Emir? Ask him to keep practicing? Sebastian doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything, and that’s not the worst part. He grits his teeth and stares at the sun. He’s hoping for clarity, but the light just makes him see spots. Eventually, he dribbles the ball back to the Hot Box. He leans against it, face pinched. It’s hot, but Sebastian’s brain sticks on how much hotter it was with his fingers holding the back of Emir’s neck when they kissed.

  * * *

  By dinner, Sebastian is restless and not very hungry. He shows up in the dining hall, though. If he doesn’t, Willie or one of the guys will hound him until he does. Over the years, he’s become the “glue” for the team and, usually, that’s an amazing feeling. This evening, he can’t get out of his own head enough to savor his coolness.

  “Prom, yay or nay?” Jack, who has beady dirt-brown eyes, asks Gio while pointing a plastic knife at him. Dinner is dry chicken, again, and all Sebastian’s managed to do is hack it to shreds as if he’s Leatherface.

  Gio shrugs, munching on carrots. “If I can find the right girl—”

  “None of them want you.” Jack wheezes at his own joke.

  Gio flips him off, then says, “I could take your mom. She’s pretty hot.”

  “Christ, dude,” Kyle chokes, milk spluttering from his mouth. “The disrespect, man.”

  Gio chugs his Coke. Sebastian’s always surprised at how Gio owns his smugness without being an asshole. He reminds Sebastian of a super-young Benicio del Toro.

  Sebastian leans back in his chair, fascinated by how his teammates carry their own senses of self-awareness, as if life is so easy despite their setbacks. They’ve all had shit shoveled on their dreams. Some of them won’t have enough money to attend community college when they graduate. But none of it weighs them down. They carry on, cracking jokes and living each day as if they’re high in the clouds. Sebastian has no clue how to earn, let alone keep such impenetrable confidence in his future. Instead, a giant pile of choices waits at his feet.

  “Okay,” Mason says, stealing the cup of Jello from Sebastian’s tray and Willie’s too. He shoves a spoonful in his mouth. “Who wants to explain to me how junior made it to our table again?”

  Grey’s shoulders drop at Mason’s callous reference. “I invited myself.”

  “You’ve got balls,” Mason says, making a face. “Okay, maybe you don’t, but you know what I mean.”

  “Audacity,” Grey clarifies. “And yes, I do. Why, are you attracted to bold women?” She bats her eyelashes.

  “One,” Mason holds up a finger, “you’re a girl, not a woman. And two,” a second finger pops up, “I don’t understand you enough to be attracted to you.”

  “So, there’s hope?”

  Willie chokes on a laugh and thumps his chest repeatedly. This is all his fault.

  Mason glowers at him and then cocks his head at Grey. His glare is intense, as if he’s attempting to shoot lasers and evaporate her. “You think you’re cute, don’t you?”

  Grey’s mouth does this little quirk that’s more shy than confident. “Sometimes,” she says, barely lifting her shoulders.

  Mason ignores her to spoon Jello into his mouth before starting in on Willie about what he’s wearing: a neon-green Barbie tank top with a rainbow on it that says “California Dream,” simultaneously owning his sexuality and his awesomeness.

  Sebastian slouches, examining Grey. Soft, half-moon dimples form around her mouth. Her curls fall around her bright eyes, brown against green. It’s as if—

  “Are you wearing eyeliner?” He inspects her. She kicks his shin under the table and Sebastian jolts, almost knocking everything over.

  “Dude!” Mason scowls and protects his Jello. “You need to get whatever under control.”

  Sebastian frowns, rubbing his shin. Grey stares, slit eyes warning I will make sure you never have children as she pouts. Sebastian rolls his eyes. It was an observation, not an attempt to ruin her whole scheme to woo Mason. She wasn’t making much progress, but he doesn’t want to burst her bubble.

  “Okay,” Hunter says, plopping down next to Willie. He runs a hand through his hair. During the school year, he wears it close to his scalp in a fade, but he has naturally dark, springy curls for the summer. It looks good with his soft features. “Someone has to go sit with him.” Hunter is referring to the table in the corner.

  Sebastian doesn’t make eye contact with anyone, including Emir.

  Grey sits taller for a better view. “He might not want to be bothered.”

  “He never wants to be bothered,” Mason complains. He licks his spoon clean while maintaining a frown.

  “That’s the point!” Hunter says. “He needs a way in.”

  Sebastian tucks his chin. He can’t tell them that he is Emir’s way in, if Emir would quit acting as though he doesn’t exist when the team’s around. Also, if Sebastian ever gets over what happened earlier, which is impossible since he hasn’t stopped replaying it in his head.

  “I don’t think he likes me.” Willie pouts.

  “Everyone likes you, Willster,” Sebastian says.

  Hunter nods, shifting his hand from his own hair to Willie’s fluffy blond mop. Willie leans against Hunter like a pleased puppy.

  “Yeah,” Mason sighs, elbows on the table. “Somehow, I’ve got a weird boy-crush on you too.”

  Grey giggles. Willie flushes, sticking his tongue out at Mason. Something cold flicks over Hunter’s eyes but he hides it with a lazy laugh. That’s definitely new.

  “So.” Grey crouches, like she’s planning a big secret mission to help Emir. “Who’s gonna do it?”

  “Not me,” Mason insists.

  Willie shrugs. “I’m out.”

  Hunter’s frustrated groan prevents attention from falling on Sebastian. He’s grateful. He’s on the verge of a heart attack, sweating as though he’s just finished a lap around the pitch.

  “You all suck,” Hunter announces. His chair screeches as he grabs his plate of food.

  Sebastian’s still learning things about Hunter. His parents are intensely religious. He’s an AP student and sits with the geek squad during lunch. But he’s been friends with Willie since sophomore year. Also, he’s in good standing with Zach and his cronies. In fact, Hunter’s well-liked by a lot of students; he once got his name on the ballot for class president.

  Hunter is bold, too, a fact proven when he crosses the room and parks himself in an empty chair at Emir’s table.

  “Oh, shit,” whispers Mason. “
He’s gonna die.”

  “I truly liked him.” Grey sighs, as if she’s imagined a black ensemble to wear to Hunter’s funeral. She rests her cheek on her knuckles.

  Sebastian sits very quietly. He’s trying to maintain a blank face. This could go perfectly or end in blood. He doesn’t know. But he doesn’t want anyone connecting him and Emir.

  Emir startles, then frowns at Hunter’s presence. Hunter, with his winning smile and electric eyes, talks as if they’ve known each other for years. Maybe they share AP classes, since Emir’s a brainiac too. Maybe they just haven’t been project partners or discussed Big Bang Theory-genius stuff.

  “There it is,” Mason hisses.

  Emir squints at Hunter, then returns his attention to the book he was reading. Hunter’s face falls. Another person Emir’s shut out.

  “Okay, boys, wrap it up! Bright and early tomorrow!” Coach Patrick booms from the entryway and claps his hands.

  Grumbling, the team powers through their meals.

  At Emir’s table, Hunter sits alone, frowning. Sebastian can barely react when Mason whispers, “Total waste of time,” in a voice oddly similar to the one in Sebastian’s head.

  14

  Sebastian is in an epically sweet mood the next morning, despite aching like a tackle dummy after a college football practice. Last night, he raided the Hot Box for a spare ball, sandbags, and a few cones to spend hours running drills until his legs gave out on him. He needed the distraction, and now his body is paying for it.

  “You’re dead to me,” he mumbles to his cell as the alarm chirps. It’s mocking him, so he stuffs it under his pillow, hoping it suffocates. He considers sleeping in. The vicious orange sun is bursting through the window, and Sebastian just can’t do it.

  “Stupid sun and routines and life,” he says, hopping out of bed. He shivers—the floor is subzero this early—and dances around the room to find socks. He finds them on Willie’s side of the cabin.

  Then it hits him: No one is snoring or making out with a pillow or sleep-talking.

  Willie’s untouched bed indicates he crashed at Hunter’s. And then, another epiphany smacks Sebastian: Hunter is crushing on Willie. That would explain his I-will-destroy-you death stare when Mason implied liking Willie in a sexual way, as well as why he’s so clingy.

  Mason and Willie would make a horrible couple.

  Hunter hasn’t shown any interest in anyone. He’s always been single, and never talked about a girl or a guy he might have a thing for. Sebastian figured it was because Hunter’s parents were hardcore religious and constantly on him about his studies. But maybe it’s because he’s not quite comfortable in his sexuality?

  Sebastian taps his chin. He shouldn’t be so worried about his friends’ love lives when his own is screwed up. “Whatever,” he says with a sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. Hunter’s a cool guy and Willie’s earned “little brother” status in Sebastian’s book. He can only hope for the best.

  But for right now, Sebastian has an entire cabin to himself.

  What to do?

  He’s a teenager, so his options are always sleep, food, or sex. Sebastian’s leaning toward the last option, but he has one mission on his mind: Emir Shah.

  The moment doesn’t totally go to waste, though. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers, socks pulled up to his shins, and a pair of Willie’s cheap sunglasses. Sebastian skids across the hardwood floor to “Old Time Rock and Roll” blaring off his cell, à la Risky Business, like a big kid.

  Later, after he finds his sneakers under his bed and a pair of running shorts, he stands in the doorway of his cabin. The leaves are bright green; streams of sunshine break through the gaps. Morning breeze shakes the tree limbs. Sebastian has a clear view of Emir’s cabin at the end of a row. He’s stalling. Sebastian wants yesterday to be a blur, a bad dream, but it’s not. It’s vivid, in color, and it haunts him like a bad trip.

  I kissed Emir.

  He can’t forget the little things about Emir: his wide, clouded eyes, his stunned breathing, his tongue brushing his lips. Sebastian’s head is filled with happy Taylor Swift pop love songs instead of kickass rock anthems, songs that do not evoke magically falling in love.

  It’s not a big deal. He rubs his temples. Emir’s just a guy.

  He is so not just a guy. He’s Emir Shah, one-time best friend of Sebastian Hughes. Angry, gray-eyed, wickedly handsome when he scowls—

  Sebastian groans. “Oh, what the…” He’s doomed.

  Marching to Emir’s cabin with his hands stuffed in his pockets, Sebastian decides that if he doesn’t bring up the kiss, then it never happened. What he can’t decide is if he wants to forget it ever happened. But before he can work out how he’ll get over that part, he spots a Post-It stuck to Emir’s window: “Sleeping! Don’t wake me! —Em.”

  Sebastian glares. He rips it off, crumples it, and tosses it to the ground. Fine, whatever. He doesn’t have a single cell in his body that gives a shit if Emir improves or not. Emir’s frustrating. And he’s making Sebastian miserable.

  “Asshole.” Sebastian jogs toward the hiking trails. He doesn’t need Emir to have a good run. He’ll just slow Sebastian down, anyway.

  Sebastian stops a few feet from the trail. In a cloud of blue smoke, Emir paces a lazy circle. He’s wearing shorts, his BHS sweatshirt, and a beanie pulled close to his eyes. His long, thin fingers idly hold a cigarette with a mound of ash at the end as if he’s forgotten about it.

  A knot of confusion spreads from Sebastian’s chest to his limbs, like an infection. He clears his throat. Emir stops cold when Sebastian says, “What are you…?” but the rest of the question never makes it out of his mouth.

  “Morning,” Emir says, voice rough with fatigue and smoke.

  Sebastian crosses his arms over his chest. He’s trying hard not to lose his mind over how soft and pink Emir’s mouth is when it curls around the end of his cigarette.

  Jesus, I need professional help.

  “I couldn’t sleep.” Emir drops his cigarette and grinds it out. “I blame you for that.”

  “Happy to help.”

  “I’ve been waiting on you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Emir says.

  “That’s not an answer, Emi,” Sebastian says, faltering, because, shit, he didn’t want that silly, childhood nickname to slip out. He flinches when Emir’s eyes widen, only momentarily.

  “After I did my Fajr prayer—”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  A wrinkle appears between Emir’s eyebrows. He says, exasperated, “The Fajr, the dawn prayer we say as Muslims. You don’t remember?” He waits.

  Sebastian nods slowly because he does, vaguely. He’s only seen Emir’s parents praying on those mornings when he sneaked over to wake Emir. But they were so young, and Sebastian was clueless about the religious terms used by the Shahs.

  “I’m used to having to explain my religion to everyone,” Emir continues. “People talk about my skin color, my accent, my faith.” His cold and fragile tone shakes.

  Sebastian steps forward. He knocks their shoulders and raises his eyebrows. It’s a weak attempt to communicate that he remembers. He still likes Emir for who he is, every part.

  Emir sags. “Faith is a big thing for Abbu, so I try not to disappoint him.”

  “That’s cool,” Sebastian says, because he hasn’t thought of something better.

  His slight height advantage means Emir raises his chin to smile at him. It cracks open Sebastian’s brain; old memories flood out: playing video games, eating lunch side by side on the playground, backyard races, Sebastian’s constant attempts to impress because Emir was so epic.

  “We should, um,” Sebastian stutters, rubbing the heel of his hand over an eye.

  “Time for a run?”

  “Yes!”

  Sebastian could point
out that a run after smoking isn’t wise, but he’s not here to highlight Emir’s bad habits. Plus, he can totally use it later, when Emir is being a jerk because Sebastian wants to add an extra mile to their run.

  “Also,” Sebastian grabs Emir’s wrist, his thumb pressed to the pulse point on the inside. “Hunter’s a good guy.”

  “What’s that mean?” Emir asks, brow furrowed.

  Don’t be a dick to him, Sebastian wants to say. Instead he says, “I saw what happened yesterday. He’s a good guy, Emir.”

  Emir considers him through slit eyes. Then, after taking a deep breath, Emir nods. “Time to run,” he whispers, freeing his wrist from Sebastian’s grip.

  Sebastian doesn’t argue. He gives Emir a head start and catches up when the sting in his chest subsides. It’s a relief when neither of them mentions the stupid kiss or not being friends anymore.

  * * *

  The dining hall is empty after practice. It reminds Sebastian of a post-zombie apocalypse. Coach O’Brien confiscated half of the team, including Willie and Mason, to go replay footage of the St. Catherine’s boys in the rec room. Everyone acts as if the tension buzzing from the coaching staff about the Spartans game is normal.

  Sebastian fears that, this time, they’ll be in over their heads. He plays it cool, though, parking his exhausted body at their table by himself. Summer is at its height; a mild heat wave is only tolerable because they’re so close to the lake. He kicks a foot up on a chair, studying today’s lunch: yogurt, a granola bar, and an especially green protein shake.

  Is this what college is going to be like? Unless he’s willing to die a boring death by staying in Bloomington, he’ll be solo while Mason heads to Michigan, where his uncle is in good with a few of the coaches, and Willie does the local thing.

  Sebastian frowns at his yogurt.

  “You look funny when you’re thinking.”

  When Emir plops down on the tabletop, Sebastian’s eyes open wide.

  Emir says, “It’s disturbing.” He makes a face that Sebastian supposes is the one he was making a minute ago. It resembles a dog’s when the vacuum cleaner comes on.