A slip of tongue catches Sebastian off guard, but he goes with it. His palm is heated by Emir’s cheek.
Emir jerks back, mumbling, “What are you doing, Bastian?”
Rain sticks Sebastian’s eyelashes together when he blinks. He shrugs, hand still on Emir’s cheek. He says, softly, “What I want.”
It’s difficult to read Emir’s expression with their foreheads pressed together. Sebastian sees more shock than anger, but he’s prepared for Emir to push him away or punch him. His ego will be bruised, but Sebastian can take it.
Hell, what are the chances I’m Emir’s type?
“I…” Black pupils expand, shrinking gray irises. Emir surges forward, kissing Sebastian again.
“Okayyeah,” Sebastian mumbles against Emir’s mouth. He succumbs to the hunger in his belly. He grabs Emir’s hoodie and drags him closer. His thigh fits between them, and Emir uses it like a cat rubbing against a post to scratch an itch. Sebastian is okay with that.
Rain pounds over them. It mutes the weird noises Sebastian makes, sparing him embarrassment. He’ll revisit how whiny he is while kissing at a later date. Much later. Right now, Emir’s tongue explores his teeth, while his own hands examine the lean-meets-muscle of Emir’s body. Nothing will ever make him pull away.
Of course, he’s so wrong.
At first, it’s just a whoop. Then they hear a howl, voices getting louder and closer.
Emir jerks away, pushing Sebastian back with a newfound force.
“What the—” Sebastian stumbles; his eyes are moon-sized.
Emir scrubs the back of his hand over his mouth.
The team comes into focus. The rain turns to a light mist, but Sebastian’s certain no one saw them kissing. He swallows whatever lump is caught at the back of his throat when he spots Mason leading the charge.
Emir shifts farther away.
“Who doesn’t love a good practice in the rain?” Mason, with wolfish eyes, rubs his hands together.
Jack elbows him. “Let’s see what these freshmen are made of.”
“They’re all better than you,” Hunter says. The gray, overcast sky washes out his usually ochre skin. Behind him, the players crow.
The team’s arrival kicks Sebastian in the teeth. If he wants to be captain, he can’t go around making out with teammates.
“Boys, scrimmage!” Coach Patrick blows his whistle. “Hughes, Drews, pick your squads!”
Sebastian does a quick headcount. Willie’s missing. He’s sitting in the bleachers next to Grey.
“He’s resting his knee,” Hunter whispers.
Sebastian doesn’t tell Hunter he wasn’t looking for Willie. His eyes find Emir, who is glaring at the mud on his shoes rather than Sebastian.
“I want Riley,” Jack says, startling Sebastian.
“Shit,” Sebastian mouths. Picking Mason should’ve been automatic.
Mason stomps over to Jack’s side.
“Fine,” Sebastian says, glancing at the leftovers. And then he says, proudly, “I’ll take Emir.”
The gasps are audible. Emir stands wide-eyed, hands jammed in his pockets, eyebrows raised. He skulks over, shoulders tight.
Carl whispers, “This is going to be good,” too loudly.
“Shut up,” Sebastian says. “Face it, Mason’s our strongest attacker. If he’s on the other team, I want a good defender, like Emir. It’s called strategy.” He doesn’t flinch when Jack sucks air through his teeth as though Sebastian’s digging his own grave. Jack is an intolerable jerk, and his opinion doesn’t matter.
Coach clears his throat. “Enough,” he warns, when a few guys snicker. He doesn’t tolerate bullshit; he always preaches about every member of the team being invaluable. They all have a role to play. Sebastian’s not sure if that’s from Remember the Titans or Any Given Sunday, but he agrees. Emir is as important as Mason.
“Right on, Bastian,” Hunter says.
“Jesus freak,” Carl replies, chuckling.
Hunter peers at Carl. “Let’s hope God blesses me not to humiliate your sorry ass all over the field today.” He bows his head. “Amen.”
To the left of Sebastian, Coach smiles, as if he’s impressed with Sebastian’s speech or his decision-making skills, or maybe he’s just trying not to laugh at Sebastian for picking a very green Emir.
This could all go horribly wrong in about five minutes. But first, they finish divvying up the remaining players. Sebastian steals Hunter and Smith, because Jack is too egotistical about picking Mason to remember he needs to build an offense around him. Jack gets Gio and Zach too. Sebastian settles for two freshmen over a shivering Kyle.
“C’mon,” Coach barks. “If any of you catch the flu because picking sides took so long, Drews and Hughes will be cleaning up your puke.”
The field is a slick surface made for disaster. Jack has stacked his team offensively, but Sebastian’s squad is balanced with players interchangeable by position. It’s a small advantage. He won’t stop Mason, but he can slow him down.
“Hey,” he calls to a sulking Emir. “We’re gonna win.”
Emir tilts his head to the heavens. “We’ll lose,” he says weakly.
Sebastian says, “And if you’re wrong, we run an extra mile tomorrow,” before swatting Emir’s ass; he puts a hand over his own mouth to hold back a laugh.
Emir narrows his eyes as if unconvinced. At the last second, he smiles. Sebastian relaxes, content in his tiny victory.
Mason’s eyes are rimmed by hurt or anger. “Good luck,” he scoffs, and trudges to his end of the field.
Sebastian shrugs. His mind is on one thing: crushing Jack’s team.
They lose, one-zip, but to Sebastian’s holy grail of delight, it’s not because of Emir, who holds his own against Jack’s team. He defends Sebastian’s box the way a knight defends his castle. Midway into the game, Emir goes toe to toe with Mason, putting on an epic show of fast feet. His nerves are visible: stiff shoulders, shaky legs, a wan expression every time Mason isn’t looking.
Sebastian’s proud he survived.
Their downfall is their lack of offense. Smith’s way too cocky for a sophomore. Kyle is all over the place. And Mikey, a freshman who’s more bones than muscle, bombs a penalty kick in the first five minutes.
Coach, disgusted, shouts, “Who taught you how to play, son?” while tugging the brim of his beat-up BHS Lions snapback low enough to hide his scowl.
Gio steals the ball when something goes wrong on an easy passing play between Smith and Kyle and cracks the ball right into Mason’s path.
Sebastian isn’t embarrassed to admit he and Willie spent an entire winter break repeatedly viewing the original Star Wars trilogy. The team’s defense racing behind Mason is like a fleet of TIE fighters trying to chase down the Millennium Falcon; it’s not possible.
Mason yells, “All the way, Hughes!”
Then Emir steps into his path.
Mason has a lot of tricks in his arsenal. He’s got sweet feet, but Emir’s high-speed. Mason spins. Emir counters. Mud and grass fly as they fight for the ball.
Kyle screams, “Get the damn ball, Shah!”
“Not happening.” Mason jerks left. Panting, Emir lurches with him. Sebastian bends into position. He’s prepared for anything. But Mason takes a fall to draw a foul against Emir. It’s a stunt he’s seen Neymar pull when stuck with a tough defense.
“Shit! Come on, Shah. Keep your hands and feet to yourself!” groans Mikey, knocking Emir’s shoulder when he passes.
Rivera stands over Mason. “Okay, Riley?”
Mason clutches his shin. He puts on a cheesy performance: groaning, rolling in the mud. His overdramatic stunt wins him sympathy points.
“I didn’t,” Emir says, then pauses, a hip cocked out, hands trembling as they rub across his face. He exhales. “It’s bullshit,” he says, g
laring at Mason as if he might punch him.
Sebastian seconds that idea. He also wants to smooth a hand over Emir’s hair and tell him it’s nothing serious. He doesn’t.
“Boys, you know the drill.” Coach eases players away to help Mason up. “Penalty kick for Riley.”
“It’s cool, Shah,” Hunter says, softly, patting Emir’s ramrod-stiff shoulder.
Emir doesn’t jerk away. He nods with defeated eyes and his hands balled into fists.
Frustration contorts Sebastian’s face. His focus has gone haywire. He glares at Mason as Mason lines up with the ball. Mason raises his eyebrows. His mouth curves up smugly.
They lose because of Sebastian. One penalty kick, he missed one stupid penalty kick.
After the scrimmage, from the center of the bleachers, Willie yells, “Great plays, Hughes!”
Sebastian puts on a fake grin. He salutes Willie and Grey while stalking off. He’s soaked, mud squishes in uncomfortable places, and he was ridiculously sloppy. They’ll never beat the Spartans, or anyone in the conference, playing like that.
Zach reels an arm around his slumped shoulders. “You did good, Captain.” He’s smiling; his messy hair hangs in his eyes.
The rest of the guys shout their agreement, something Sebastian appreciates, but he’s not mentally ready to say anything back. He does, however, spy Mason limping off the field. A smug grin dominates his face; he doesn’t care how he got the win.
Sebastian’s had enough.
“What the hell, Mace?”
Mason turns, eyebrows lifted. “What’s up?”
“What’s up?” Sebastian repeats, flustered. He pokes Mason’s chest with a dirty finger. “You pulled that shit on purpose.”
Mason sniffs, glaring at Sebastian’s finger. “It happens all the time, Bastian.”
Sebastian wants to punch him. He wants to punch his best friend. Because of Emir. “It doesn’t make it right.”
“And it doesn’t make it right that you’re all pro-Shah, either.”
Sebastian’s upper lip curls. “Are you serious?”
Mason replies, “Deadly, dude.”
“So that’s it? You’re jealous of Emir?” Sebastian’s voice rises. He’s incredulous. His head throbs. “He’s scary-good, bro, how could I not pick him?” He doesn’t care about Mason’s skeptical expression, because he’s wet and cold and so over this whole picking-Emir thing.
Mason’s dripping brown hair hangs in his eyes when he rolls them. “You’re being a douche, Bastian.”
“You made Emir look bad back there.”
“So what?” Mason throws his arms up. “All of a sudden you care about Shah? People think he’s a joke.”
Sebastian says, “You’re the joke here, dude,” with more frustration than he’s ever directed at Mason. Their squabbles are brutally short, ending over pizza and laughs. After Mason’s dad left, Sebastian unconsciously adopted Mason into his life, and a reason to eject him has never existed.
“Don’t be a tool,” Mason says through his teeth. He blinks so much, Sebastian’s not sure if it’s rain or tears wetting his cheeks.
“You didn’t have to do that, Mace. He didn’t deserve that.”
“It is what it is. Get over it.” Mason’s neck is stretched; his repressed swallow is visible. Cold blue-green eyes match the stubborn jut of his chin. “I don’t get you, bro. Ever since he came around, you’ve been picking sides and… I just don’t get you.”
Me neither. If the roles had been reversed, Emir would’ve stood up for him if someone was being an ass. At least, the younger Emir would have.
“Not cool, Bastian.” Mason knocks his shoulder against Sebastian’s as he stomps away.
Sebastian doesn’t say a word to stop him.
When he turns, Sebastian catches Emir shivering and smiling sheepishly at Hunter’s reenactment of a big play Emir made during the game. “Dude, it was like, epic!” Hunter shouts, jumping up and down.
Emir lifts his chin higher. He bites his lip, turning it red and swollen, soft-looking.
Hunger that has absolutely nothing to do with food erupts in Sebastian’s stomach. It spreads to his chest. His heart slams into his ribs like a gorilla trying to break free of a cage. Emir looks just as hungry. “Holy shit,” Sebastian says under his breath.
Emir walks across the field toward his cabin quickly, as if he’s trying not to be caught.
And Sebastian, confused but excited, uses the returning storm as camouflage. He pulls up his hood and hugs himself against the pulsing downpour. He ducks between the trees like a special ops soldier. Nothing can get in the way of what he wants more than anything: Emir.
16
Emir is perched on the edge of the bed in the dark when Sebastian walks through the door. For once, it was slightly ajar, as if Emir was waiting for Sebastian. He’s not expecting candles and a killer Ed Sheeran love anthem when he closes the door. Things like that happen in Anne Hathaway movies. But he doesn’t know what to do because the shadows hide Emir’s expression.
“You’re thinking too hard.”
Maybe its Sebastian’s voice breaking the silence or being soaked to the bone in the aftermath of the scrimmage, but Emir says, “Now you know what I’m thinking?” with an accusatory tone.
“Possibly.” Sebastian flails his arms. “If you’d give me a chance to, I dunno, get to know you more.”
“You knew me once.”
Sebastian grinds his teeth. He gets it. He messed up a long time ago, but Emir did, too. This isn’t all on him. Sebastian was—Sebastian is a good friend, but Emir won’t give him a bloody chance…
Now the damn voices in his head have replicated Emir’s accent!
“I was just coming to tell you,” Sebastian sighs and runs a twitchy hand through his damp hair, “that you did great, Em.”
“Is that all?”
No. Sebastian doesn’t say it. He just doesn’t understand when simply talking to a friend, or whatever Emir is, became an exercise in ripping open his stitched-up heart to let his emotions bleed all over the place.
“I’m not the enemy,” he says, stepping forward. “I’m not.”
“No.” Emir’s mouth gradually twitches downward. “You’re just the guy who won’t leave me alone.”
Sebastian winces. Fury bubbles in his throat. Emir’s being an absolute asshole. So, no, Sebastian isn’t going to leave until he figures out what the hell’s going on inside him that draws him to someone who seems to hate his guts.
“So that’s it?” He’s shouting, but whatever. “You want me to back off?” Sebastian stalks over to Emir. “Just say something!”
Emir doesn’t, but he stands and closes the distance between them.
Sebastian’s ready for whatever Emir’s got. He is so exhausted, trying to fix busted-up relationships while other friendships circle the drain. He’s tired of trying to be this amazing version of a guy that everyone else sees but Sebastian can’t find when he stares in the mirror. If Emir punches him, he’ll knock Sebastian off this damn pedestal he never asked to be on in the first place.
“Just do it.” Emir grabs the front of Sebastian’s drenched hoodie and pulls at the fabric. “Do something,” he growls. Gray eyes dance in the dark, but Emir’s cheeks are red and his nose is scrunched.
“What?”
“Stop…” Emir’s voice dies off. Sebastian gazes at the wet corners of his eyes. Emir’s breath catches before he says, exasperated, “Stop, and do something to me.”
Sebastian’s reflexes work faster than his brain. He wants something, wants this. So he nuzzles Emir’s throat. He drops kisses under Emir’s jaw. Sebastian waits. Emir chokes back a gasp, and then Sebastian’s fingers dig roughly into Emir’s hips, lifting him up in one quick motion. He pushes Emir against the closest wall. His lips are near Emir’s, but never close the gap.
; “Bloody pain in the arse.”
Emir shoves his mouth over Sebastian’s. He trembles. His legs curl around Sebastian’s hips.
Sebastian’s strong enough to support him. “Is this good?” he asks, a little too happy, but also nervous.
Emir nods, still kissing.
A hand in Sebastian’s hair pulls sharply. Sebastian follows; tension seeps from his muscles. His fingers dig into Emir’s thighs. This will undoubtedly end in fire and desperation and—well, he’s not sure what else, or if he’s prepared for it.
Then again, Sebastian’s never prepared for Emir Shah.
A gasp turns into a chuckle. Emir nips at his jaw, then lower, toward sensitive skin along his neck. No one has ever done that. Sebastian’s high, breathing as if he’s run five miles.
“Holy shit.”
Nothing more creative comes out of Sebastian’s mouth. That’s mainly because his mind is on how he was certain Emir wanted to murder him five minutes ago. Maybe he will—after they’re through kissing, of course.
Their foreheads knock. Emir’s tongue meets the seam of Sebastian’s lips. “Shut up.”
“I can’t help it.”
The kisses, their hands scrambling for new areas to touch, Sebastian pinning Emir to a wall—it’s all ridiculous.
“Shut your bloody mouth, Bastian.”
Sebastian can’t take him seriously, not with the crinkled nose and the corners of his mouth quirked. He says, breath slowing, “Do you have something to shut me up with, Emi?”
Emir trembles; his pupils are blown into silver-lined black holes.
Sebastian wants to touch Emir’s swollen, red lower lip. He also wants to smooth that wrinkle between Emir’s eyebrows. “Stop thinking.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re a bad liar.”
Sebastian’s hips meet Emir’s. He worries Emir might not want that, but the soft hitch in Emir’s voice counters those concerns.
“This is a bad idea.” Emir’s fingers curl in Sebastian’s hair. His thumb rubs the skin behind Sebastian’s earlobe. “Whatever we’re about to do.”
Running with Lions Page 13