Page 67 of Running With Lions

Sebastian is trying to processhis incredibly bad skill in dissolving the awkwardness between them in a poetic or romantic way, proving he learnednothingfrom Sam’s insufferable love forThe Notebook. Their hands swing between them as if this isn’t weird, as if they weren’t at each other’s throats that first morning in Emir’s cabin. He’s afraid to get too comfortable.

“You’re quiet,” says Emir.

Crickets chirp their nightly hymns. An owl hoots at the stars. Sebastian is leading them through the dark toward Emir’s cabin. He wants to say something impressive.

Emir whispers, “Shit,” and, well, that’s definitely not a good start, but—

Sebastian squints at a flashlight flickering up ahead. Someone fumbles through the trees and bushes, moving in their direction. He can make out just enough of the man’s shape; it’s Coach Rivera.

Sebastian’s heart is trying to make out with his trachea. He forgets Emir’s holding his hand until Emir’s fingers squeeze uncomfortably around his own. Emir’s having a quiet panic attack, but Sebastian can handle this. It’s like being on the pitch, anticipating the other player’s next move.

“We’re gonna die.”

“Emir,” Sebastian says.

But Emir’s already mumbling, “We’re gonna get kicked out of camp, off the team, I can’t bloody believe it.”

The light is getting closer.

Sebastian whispers, “Look, go behind those trees. You’re skinny enough; he won’t see you.”

“Hey, I’m not—”

“Dude.” Sebastian is already turning Emir with one hand and has his other on the small of Emir’s back, pushing. “Now is not the time to argue.” Rivera’s rooting through bushes. He hasn’t pinpointed them yet, but Sebastian doesn’t like to gamble. “Go,” he says with a hiss.

Emir trips over a few rocks on his way to the trees.

Sebastian should be worried about Emir’s safety, but he’s on the verge of his own mini-avalanche of anxiety. So, he squares his shoulders, shields his eyes against the shine of Rivera’s flashlight, and accepts that he’s gone from “responsible one” to complete delinquent.

“Hughes?” Rivera pauses mid-step, then shouts, “Hughes!” while stumbling up to him.

Sebastian gives a carefree wave; his other hand is trembling. He smiles his bestI’m innocentsmile for Rivera. “What’s up, Coach?” he says around the lump in his throat. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

Rivera’s thick eyebrows descend. “It’s past curfew, Hughes.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“What’re you doing out this way?” Rivera sniffs, as if he’s going to catch alcohol on Sebastian’s breath or, worse, a hint of weed. Sebastian isn’t offended; he’s flattered that Rivera categorizes him asthat guy. He sticks his chin out proudly when Rivera takes a step back.

“It’s late, Hughes.”

Sebastian nods.

“Why are you, out of all the chicos, out past curfew?” When Rivera’s tired or exasperated, his words drift between English and Spanish.

Sebastian rubs at his abdomen. “Had a big dinner tonight, so I needed a run to burn off the calories.” He’s amazed at how well he’s done keeping his voice casual, especially since his stomach’s doing back handsprings.

“Sí,” says Rivera, nodding, “Entiendo.”

Sebastian slouches, relief giving him a reason to smile genuinely. That is, of course, until Rivera drops a heavy hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“It’s tough, mijo, being as good as you are,” he says, gruff and serious, but also kind. “I hate to be the bad guy, but we depend on you. Your teammates, the coaches, all of us. You’re our rock.”

Sebastian knows. “Yeah.” He scuffs one of his Converse on a nearby pebble. A running list of people who depend on Sebastian Hughes exists somewhere. It’s made up of Willie, Mason, his sister Carly, Emir, and his teammates.

At least Rivera doesn’t sugarcoat it, unlike everyone else. But no pressure, right?

“Hey,” Rivera says, still squeezing Sebastian’s shoulder, “Have you seen Shah anywhere? We’re doing bed checks, making sure you guys aren’t getting out of hand.”

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