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Jack crows.

Emir’s eyebrows furrow. Exhausted, he scrunches his face. Tension keeps his shoulders tight as a wire hanger. He sets up the next ball. He scowls, breathing hard. He tries again. And misses.

Jack doesn’t put much effort into blocking because the ball never comes close. “Should I just take a nap?” he asks.

Sebastian folds his arms over his chest and tilts his head. Emir has too much force in his kicks. He’s way too focused; his motions are unnatural and erratic.

He’s got potential,Sebastian says to himself, as Emir grumbles at the next ball. “C’mon! Gointhis time.”

“Is this kid for real?” Smith asks.

“He’s gonna need a lot of help,” Hunter mumbles after a mouthful of water. “Any volunteers?”

“Count me out,” Zach says, long sweaty hair falling like a curtain over his eyes. “He acts like a jerk at school. We never got along.”

“Have you triedtalkingto him?” Hunter asks. “Or is that something you’re just sorry at, like picking up women?”

Zach drags Hunter into a headlock. Zach’s not a born asshole. His mom ditched him and his dad years ago. Since then, he doesn’t play nice with anyone he can’t guarantee will stick around.

Playing nice isn’t Emir’s thing either. He swears while stomping away.

“Hey! Shah! We’re not done.” Coach O’Brien’s voice booms like a megaphone. He’s the defensive coach and a stern, stocky man. He spent three years in a professional league before too many injuries sidelined him for good.

“I am.”

“Shah!”

Emir strides off like a man on a mission.

Sebastian ignores Mason’s whispered, “He kinda looks like he doesn’t want to be here, Bastian,” turns away, and gets in another lap. He tells himself it’s to loosen his muscles, but the truth is he wants a better view of Emir before he marches off to his cabin.

Emir’s “screw you” attitude simmers in defeat.

Sebastian quits halfway into his run. It’s merely first-day fatigue, that’s all. It hasnothingto do with Emir.

4

“Trade you peas for garlicbread,” Willie offers.

“Sure,” Sebastian says, passing the bread while Willie spoons his peas onto Sebastian’s plate. The peas are mushy, but the garlic bread is overbaked and greasy, so it’s a fair exchange. The food in the dining hall is either dry pieces of grilled chicken or pasta drenched in debatable “tomato sauce,” but it’s better than school cafeteria food.

Everyone sticks to the same people they talk to during school. Sebastian shares a table with Willie and Mason; usually Zach or Hunter or Charlie joins them. Spread around like lighthouses across the shore is the rest of the team. The coaching staff takes a table in the corner, where they talk between bites of food about strategy, their opponents, and the professional leagues.

“What about Montreal this year? Will they be any good?”

“Probably,” Kyle says to Charlie after swallowing a mouthful of chicken.

The guys always banter about the same things: their favorite teams, inappropriate jokes, and girls. Usually the last two go hand in hand. Sometimes, discussions turn to their first game of every season—a match against their rivals, St. Catherine’s.

“Dumb Spartans,” someone will say, and the whole team will grunt.

Tonight, the team is fairly quiet; their asses were handed to them during practice. Heads lowered, they mumble through their meal.

Charlie tosses Smith a dinner roll. He asks, “Who’s going to win the Western Conference?” and hoots when Smith catches the roll one-handed.

“My money’s on Seattle.”

“That’s ’cause you’re an idiot.” Zach grins smugly at Jack. They fist-bump across the table.