Page 14 of Running With Lions

“Love you, Bastian.”

“Love you too, you spoiled princess.” The corner of his mouth lifts when she scrunches her nose. He readjusts the equipment. “Now carry your own bags. I’ve got to finish this up and hit the sack because your dad—”

“Stepdad,” she corrects.

“—is going to go General Zod on our asses tomorrow if we don’t get it together.”

“General who?”

“Oh, my God.” Sebastian groans at the sky. “Never speak to me again.Ever.”

Grey’s cackling fades as he walks away. Leave it to her to get his mind off everything. As far as friends go, most days Grey is ranked right next to Willie. He forgets the weight of the equipment and the sweat dripping off his nose as he treks toward the Hot Box.

The few trees that surroundthe practice field allow an excellent view of blossoming stars. Sebastian’s found a spot near the edge of the field. The city’s smog and lights hide the stars in Bloomington. But out here? Stars are giant ivory beacons, casting their glow in a smear of indigo.

Sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, Sebastian gulps a healthy amount of borrowed Gatorade. Okay, hestoleit, but he’s earned it. Besides, no one will miss it. After moving the equipment, Sebastian’s muscles are numb. He has to wiggle his fingers and toes just to ensure they work. But mostly, his mind drains him.

When Sebastian first started playing, he pushed himself just to survive. Extra hours on the pitch before and after practice were a necessity. He did more reps in the weight room than anyone else. Cardio became his enemy and his friend. Whatever was needed to stay competitive, Sebastian did.

Sebastian’s determined to make this year memorable. It’s a craving, anaddiction. He carries the weight of being an anchor for the team, on and off the field. Who wants to have that responsibility at seventeen? It’s messed up, but the truth isn’t always a pretty, dreamy montage. Sometimes, Sebastian would rather life sold him a lie about his purpose.

Crawling out of his thoughts, he downs more Gatorade. His eyes focus straight ahead to the pitch. At this hour, it should be empty, but it isn’t. Sebastian has a clear view of drooping shoulders, a knit beanie, and a perpetual scowl.

It’shim.

Emir lines himself up before running toward one soccer ball in a row of them. His foot smashes a ball toward one of the posts. It misses, and Emir shouts, “Are you kidding me?” while marching to his next ball. Emir kicks up a clump of grass and misses the ball. His head bows as he says, “Stupid piece of…”

Sebastian winces.

Emir walks himself through all the steps, reciting tips the coaches give amateur players: “One foot in front of the other… See your target…” It doesn’t work, though. Emir stalks the balls as if he’s starring in aNational Geographicspecial on caged beasts let into the wild.

Sebastian says, “Calm down,” so softly he can hardly hear himself.

Emir chants, “Pull it together, Shah,” but all his motions are stiff.

“You’ve got it,” Sebastian says. Wait—this is a total out-of-body experience. Is he actuallyrootingfor Emir?

Emir’s fingers curl into fists by his sides as he glares at another ball. His beanie is pushed back, exposing sweaty hair stuck to his forehead. “Go in or die,” he growls at his mortal enemy: the ball. He races forward, catching the ball with the wrong side of his foot. It sails over the posts. “Bloody idiot!” he howls at the sky.

This is a massacre, and not in a hilarious way likeFunny or Dievideos on YouTube. But Sebastian can’t avert his eyes. Maybe it’s empathy? He’s not too sure.

Emir’s rubs his fists over his eyes. He stutters, “Can’t you do any better?” Smeared tears shine on his cheeks. He wipes them away. “Abbu would be so…” His words die in his throat.

“Shit.” Guilt sits heavy on Sebastian’s chest. Everyone’s hero, right?

Emir collapses in a pile of ragged exhaustion in the middle of the field near his discarded sweatshirt. Has he been out here since after dinner? He’s stretched out like a dead starfish, reciting, “Just give up, mate, this was a mistake,” to the stars.

Sebastian’s seen enough. He pushes to his feet and dusts prickly grass from his clothes. His stomach drops when Emir crosses his vision again; that voice in the back of his head needs to shut up. The point it’s trying to make is simple. They don’t quit on this team. Sebastian doesn’t quit at anything. “I wish I got a cool cape for this,” he grumbles, turning away. He walks toward his cabin. Briefly, he wishes he had Mason’s ability to walk away from people without guilt.

The last thing Sebastian needsis insomnia.Great, now my safe place is ruined!

Willie’s snoring roars like a jacked-up lawn mower, but that’s not what keeps Sebastian awake. Sweat clings to his brow, but it’s not the heat either. Nope, it’s his thoughts—and Emir’s defeated voice in his head, to be exact.

“Can’t you do any better?”

Sebastian’s quite intimate with that voice and those words. They’re the same words Sebastian heard when he was younger and the world gave up on him, back when he wasn’t good at anything, until soccer came along.

Maybe he can do for Emir what soccer did for him?

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