Running with Lions

by Julian Winters

  “Are you okay?”

  Emir turns enough for Sebastian to have a nice view of his elated eyes.

  Yeah, Sebastian feels like that too. Like someone just cracked open his whole world, poured a mountain of candy at his feet, and told him to have at it. He’s stoned on how great the last twenty minutes of his life were. He withholds that from Emir, though.

  “Stay here?”

  “Are you sure?” Emir’s eyes are hesitant.

  Sebastian clears his throat. “Positive.” When Emir’s lips open to protest, Sebastian says, firmer, “Emi, stay here.”

  Emir nods; his eyes begin to crinkle. He tentatively shifts closer. Sebastian yanks him the rest of the way. Emir’s face smooshes in his neck. Sebastian ignores his slight embarrassment and presses a kiss to the top of Emir’s head.

  It takes all of five minutes for Emir’s breaths to even out. Sebastian grins, smug; Emir has no problem falling asleep when he’s in Sebastian’s arms.

  A roaring yawn escapes Sebastian. Sleep doesn’t follow. His eyes follow the haunting shadows tree limbs create on his ceiling. Emir’s breath tickles his jaw. His mind is currently involved in a high-speed, Olympic-level ping pong game. How long has he wanted this: a guy to make his heart race and move slow tempo at the same time? Sex with Emir was—well, he just went with it. No overthinking involved. It’s a missing piece of himself finally shoved into place.

  Emir’s hazy in Sebastian’s peripheral vision: a mix of sepia skin and dark hair. Sebastian strains to get a better view. Emir’s eyelashes flutter every few breaths, but he’s mostly still and content. Obviously, Emir isn’t affected by the fact that they just had sex. So why is Sebastian sweating the small stuff?

  And just like that, apprehension subsides, and Sebastian’s okay. He’s more than okay. Emir is still here, in his arms. Sebastian might not be an authority on great acts of intimacy, but they did something pretty amazing tonight. So what if a tiny bit of vulnerability is scratching at his skin? He’s fine with panicking a little. Emir, who is major-league stubborn and a hair shy of being an asshole, panics sometimes too.

  It’s okay. He tightens his arms around Emir. It’s cool that everyone has their moments of overthinking.

  * * *

  Sebastian startles out of a dream about soccer balls and cookies having a dance-off to the music of Grease, sits up, and peers at the cabin doorway. Specifically, at Willie leaning there.

  The moon is barely a crescent tonight. Willie’s silhouette is bathed in silver starlight. Sebastian swallows; his mouth is cottony, and his throat is tight. Crossing his arms, he pulls his knees to his chest.

  Willie cocks his head just enough to highlight his blank expression. His curious blue eyes settle on Emir. He’s still unconscious, curled around one of Sebastian’s pillows.

  “I, uh…”

  Sebastian’s a tool. His face is hot; nerves prickle up his arms. Willie, his best friend who would fight an alien invasion for him, is staring at a mostly naked boy in Sebastian’s bed. Willie, who is much more level-headed than Mason, isn’t going to freak out. He’s just going to blink his eyes and stare.

  “Will—” Sebastian chokes on the rest. What’s he going to say? That he wishes Mason had never blurted out Willie’s “thing” for him? That he just wants things to go back to normal? Sebastian has no clue what “normal” is supposed to be anymore.

  Whatever is happening between Hunter and Willie now doesn’t eliminate what Willie felt for Sebastian, does it? Do people simply get over crushes on their best friends by snapping their fingers? It can’t be that easy.

  Willie obliterates most of Sebastian’s anxiety by smiling. He says, “I’m gonna go stay at Hunter’s tonight. If that’s cool?”

  Sebastian nods.

  “Looks like you could use some privacy, bro.”

  Next to Sebastian, Emir’s mouth is parted; little breaths come out. His fingers are curled against the sheets. Sebastian lifts his eyes. “Is that okay?”

  “Definitely.”

  Willie treads quietly around the room. He takes his laptop, leaves his iPod.

  “So.” Sebastian’s being an idiot. He’s about to open a big, ugly book of topics they’ve been dancing around. “Are we good?” slips out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

  Willie rotates on his heels. He strides to Sebastian’s bed. Dread wrecks Sebastian’s stomach. This is when Willie finally goes Incredible Hulk.

  Instead, he ruffles Sebastian’s hair and says, “Absolutely, bro. I’m happy for you.”

  Fighting off a need to puke, Sebastian whispers, “Good.”

  Before he walks away, Willie flicks Sebastian’s forehead. “But next time, put a sock on the door. You know the rules, man.” He waves a hand at Emir. “Seriously, things could’ve gotten really weird if I walked in on that.”

  Sebastian smiles so wide his vision goes blurry. Willie doesn’t hate him. They’re friends. No matter what outrageous decisions he makes in life, there are still people who will always accept him: ones that’ll punch him, hug him, and tell him corny jokes.

  Willie salutes him at the door, then shrugs his bag higher on his shoulder.

  The door shuts, and Sebastian whispers, “Thanks, Willster,” to the shadows.

  24

  Sebastian learned freshman year that all the best trash talk doesn’t actually happen on the pitch.

  It happens in the locker room.

  The greatest shit-talking, towel-snapping, pranks, stories about getting laid, and bad jokes about a guy’s junk all go down around shower stalls and slamming lockers. Occasionally, one cerebral player gets in another player’s head, using words to knock him off his game in order to steal his starting spot. It’s a team sport, but everyone wants to be the star sometime.

  Sebastian accepts this. But today, for whatever reason, he’s just not in the mood.

  He yanks off his shirt. It’s soiled with grass, dirt, and sweat, a very rank combo. He pulls a new one from his locker and sniffs the underarm. Clean. He’s between practices, so he doesn’t bother with a shower. Coach Patrick is making them sleep, eat, and drink grass through their last days at camp.

  “If you want to win a championship, you’ve got to sacrifice a nap or two,” Coach shouts every morning during laps. After lunch, it’s the same thing. He’s no Alex Fergusson, but he inspires most of the guys to power through drills.

  Willie’s passing out chilled bottles of water. Sebastian snatches one with a nod of appreciation. Willie’s expression is easygoing. He says, “Don’t choke,” when Sebastian cracks the top and guzzles as if he’s been in the desert. He adds a rude gesture that Sebastian supposes is a reference to oral sex. Sebastian’s too zoned out to give a decent comeback, but Willie waves this off with disappointed eyes.

  Sebastian can’t help it; he sucked today. He couldn’t block any of Mason’s shots. The freshmen are a bunch of uncoordinated minions and Gio’s passing is garbage. Sebastian’s blowing this whole “future captain” thing. He’s not bothered by that; nausea gurgles up any time he puts too much thought into it. Sebastian’s not ready.

  To his left, the defenders are huddled around one of the benches. Sebastian sips his water. Carl, hard features accented by his crewcut, is leading the talk.

  “With Will out for the season because of his knee, we’re screwed,” says Carl, hunched forward. He’s sweaty and sunburned on his nose.

  “Shit.” Gio leans on a locker.

  Rollins, a freshman winger, asks, “He can’t tough it out a few games?” He pushes damp black hair behind his ear.

  “No way.” Carl’s face is more pinched than usual. “Dude’s toast. Done for. The body’s gone cold, my brother.” The guy likes his hyperbole, something Sebastian learned in freshman gym when he nailed Carl during a friendly baseball game. Carl rolled around the field for half an hour, claiming a dislocated shoulder
.

  Rollins sighs. “Damn.”

  That’s the thing about Willie; he’s loved by the newbies, too.

  Pressing his brow on his forearm, Sebastian rests against a closed locker. Coach Rivera was the one who told him, not Willie. Sebastian doesn’t blame Willie, though. Being told your high school sports career and any future plans to play have gone up in smoke is pretty heavy. Sebastian would be in far worse shape; he commends Willie’s upbeat attitude.

  Hunter walks up, towel hanging from his neck. “We’ve got a good replacement,” he says.

  Carl growls under his breath. “You’re effin’ brain-dead.”

  “Who?”

  Hunter turns to Gio. “Emir.”

  “Shah,” Carl says, incredulous. “Can you believe that shit? You can’t replace Will with that guy.”

  “Why not? He’s got the skill.”

  Sebastian peeks over his shoulder. Carl’s upper lip is curled. He wants to put his fist through Carl’s face, but he’s staying out of it. Carl’s a jerk. At least the whole squad isn’t on his side.

  “I dunno,” Rollins says. “I saw him keeping up with Zach. He’s cool.”

  Carl points a thick finger in Rollins’ face. “No one asked you, frosh.” He turns to Hunter. “He’s a flake. Most of us don’t hang with him at school, anyway.”

  Sebastian’s left hand clenches into a fist. Carl’s still mouthing off, and Hunter is arguing back, but with less heat. Carl needs to shut his stupid mouth. And then it hits Sebastian: Carl’s second string, and the next in line for Willie’s position. Emir on the team means less playing time for him. And that’s so ugly, because they’re a team. One for all, and all that shit.

  “What about you, Hughes?” Carl sniffs; his face looks warped when Sebastian turns around. “We can survive without Shah, right?”

  Sebastian’s eyes narrow.

  And it’s as if Carl’s aware he hit a nerve, because he says, “Shah’s not my teammate,” with a venomous smirk.

  Heart hammering in his ears, Sebastian stalks up to Carl. He spits, “I think you should shut the hell up and quit badmouthing him.”

  “Why?” Carl’s not as tall as Sebastian. He has to tilt his chin up to stare Sebastian in the eyes. “Shah got you sweet on him or something?”

  “No, I stick up for my team. He’s one of us.”

  “Sounds like he’s got a stick up you.”

  It’s hard for Sebastian to ignore the catcalls around them. His nails are digging into his palm. He imagines his knuckles bloody and Carl laid out on the cement.

  Do it.

  Carl shows his teeth. “He’s not one of us, Hughes.” He takes one small step closer to Sebastian. “He’s never been like us.”

  To Lily’s utter delight, Sebastian’s never been in a real fight, just a few scuffs and scrapes like all kids, nothing serious. He’s willing to break her poor heart to fracture Carl’s jaw.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “He doesn’t get us, and we don’t get him. Two totally different sides of the world.”

  “So, being different isn’t allowed on this team anymore?” Sebastian says, glowering. “Because Hunter is black. Gio is Hispanic. Oh, and Emir is Pakistani.” He steps forward, leaning into Carl’s face. “And Willie is gay, if that’s a problem.”

  “Nope.”

  Sebastian nods, once. “Then shut the hell up, because this is a family. We’re not douchebags or superior to anyone, got it?”

  “I don’t want him in this family.”

  That voice in the back of Sebastian’s head grows louder: Do it. His hands are numb, white-knuckled. A few other players join the crowd around them. Mason’s pushing through the mass of bodies. To his right, Emir is rigid; his eyes are dark slits.

  Sebastian turns his glare back on Carl. “Screw you, Tiller,” he says, seething. “You don’t know him.”

  “What, you want us all to have a group hug and pretend this isn’t how it goes? Team sports doesn’t mean everyone makes it at the end of the day. So now we’re playing rookies as starters just because? I’m not down with that, Hughes.”

  Beating Carl up would be a mercy deal. The guy doesn’t have too many allies, and Sebastian can’t be the only one fed up with his tireless complaining. He has no sympathy for Carl, or his inability to lock down a starting position. That’s no excuse to be a dick.

  Not all of Sebastian’s anger is directed toward Carl or is about Emir. This is for all the guys who shoved Sebastian around. For the ones who made him dislike his appearance. The kids chanting “Bastian the Trashcan.” For every asshole who sneered self-righteously at him, at his friends.

  “Your friend,” Carl says, grinning, “can ride the bench by himself like he does during lunch.”

  The room’s attention falls on Emir now. He looks away. Sebastian’s rage finally hits a new peak.

  “Fuck you.”

  Sebastian doesn’t know where that came from. His chest cracks open with pride. It’s as if he spat those two words at everyone who’s a douche like Carl.

  “Yeah, fuck you too, Hughes. You’re not the captain,” Carl barks.

  Sebastian’s fists shake at his sides. Coach Patrick doesn’t tolerate violence, not unless it’s on the field. All’s fair on the green. Sebastian just needs something to put his fist to. A wall, a door, whatever.

  He’s giving in to the chant in his head: Do it, do it, do it…

  “Move!” Coach Patrick barks like a rabid dog. Players are shoved around. His hand presses flat against Sebastian’s chest. His other hand grabs Carl’s shirt. He shoots Sebastian a glare. “Since you half-wits want to forget we have a game in a few weeks, we’ll skip lunch for another round on the pitch! You want to fight? Fight exhaustion, because I’m going to wear your asses thin for this.” When no one moves, Coach barks, “Now! Gear up.”

  A mass exodus breaks out. Sebastian can’t identify who’s glaring at him and who’s looking at him with compassion. Breathing roughly, he slumps into a locker.

  Coach seethes. “I expect more, Hughes, a lot more.” He stalks off, and Sebastian nearly crumbles under the weight of that last glare.

  Sebastian drags a hand down his face. He tilts his head until fluorescent lights blur in his wet eyes. Coach hasn’t been this pissed in forever. Sebastian hasn’t let a guy get in his head like that since childhood. Dealing with bullies was easier back when he was undersized. He couldn’t fight back.

  Today, Sebastian was ready to crush Carl. What kind of candidate for captain is he?

  “Dude,” says Zach, patting Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian can’t look at him, but he sounds shocked. Join the club.

  “C’mon, Bastian,” Mason whispers. “Shake it off.”

  The scuff of cleats on the ground signals Mason’s exit. One by one, Sebastian’s failing his friends. When he finally raises his eyes, Emir is in front of him. His arms are folded and he’s not saying a word.

  “What?”

  Emir’s mouth parts, but he only sighs. His eyes are drained of brightness. Without a word, he stomps out of the locker room.

  Yeah, I had that one coming, too.

  When the room is empty, Sebastian pushes off his locker. He turns, rolls his shoulders, and then slams his fist into a locker door. His knuckles throb, but at least his anger is centered on the pain. It’s a shame, though. Relief doesn’t come.

  * * *

  “Is this who you are?”

  Nope.

  “Is this the type of player or person you want to be?”

  Not at all.

  “I don’t understand. Where’s the real Sebastian Hughes?”

  I have no idea.

  Sebastian’s not actually answering Coach O’Brien. He’s been letting O’Brien chew him out for ten minutes now. It’s hot, day-old vomit looks better than he does, and, to top it off,
they had another scrimmage. It was a repeat of Team Drews versus Team Hughes, but this time they lost epically. Hell, he let Robbie make two goals on him. Robbie. He never lets Robbie sink one in. Sebastian has no explanation.

  Their hard work over the summer is circling the drain.

  His brain can’t come up with a damn thing to say to O’Brien or Rivera to make himself look better.

  O’Brien sighs. “We can’t beat the Spartans like this.” He squeezes Sebastian’s shoulder, then says, carefully, “And you’re just—this isn’t good for you.”

  Obviously. Sebastian hardens the line of his mouth and stares at the pitch. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  “Okay.” O’Brien stares at him. “You’ve got this, Sebastian. You do.”

  Sebastian doesn’t agree. He feigns a smile and skulks off. Cement is in his shoes as he climbs the bleachers. Willie passes him a water. Sebastian collapses and tries to absorb Willie’s genuine positivity as their shoulders knock.

  “Feeling the burn yet?”

  Choking on his first gulp of water, Sebastian flips him off. Willie’s humor could cure the zombie plague. Sebastian wipes his mouth with his wrist. “How about you?” His eyes drop to Willie’s knee.

  “Best I can be.”

  Sebastian’s not going to pry, because it’s Willie’s business and because Sebastian hasn’t been the best at telling people his own secrets.

  Willie’s spine is curved on the empty bleachers behind him. “It’s bullshit, but I’m okay.” Oakville’s cloudless sky means the sun embellishes the blueness of his eyes, like the petals of forget-me-nots. “Coach says I can still suit up every game, cheer you guys on from the bench.”

  Sebastian squeezes Willie’s good knee.

  “It sucks,” Willie says, “but it’s not the end of the world.”

  Sebastian envies Willie’s confidence. It is the end of the world, to have something you love taken from you. Sebastian’s suffocating all the time, trying to get his head around what’ll happen in a couple of months when soccer’s over. He has no idea who he is without this sport.