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Leaning back, Sebastian bites his lip. Mason is territorial when it comes to friendships, but he’ll get over it. The thing about this team is, there’s always been a lovefest between the players. All the testosterone and machismo exists on the field and in the locker room, where they can grab their crotches and have pissing contests. But this team has a thing for waxing poetic about their undying love too.

Mason pushes hair off his forehead. “Get a room already.”

“You’re disgusting.” Sebastian shakes his head at him.

“And you’re just a boring virgin.”

Sebastian’s mouth tightens as he whispers, “I’m not a virgin, dickhead.”

“Oh, that’s right. Just with guys, correct?” Mason’s far too smug, as if he’s shut Sebastian down.

Sebastian sighs through his nose. This is an excellent time for him to reevaluate his reasons for being Mason Riley’s best friend.

The dining hall stinks of sweaty soccer players, but it’s the smell of all the foods Sebastian used to love that he’s struggling with: burnt bacon, fried eggs, stacks of rubbery pancakes. He frowns at his stomach. If it wasn’t for those chants in the back of his head, the echoing voices of his bullies, he’d be stuffing his face the way Charlie is.

Get a grip, come on. He cautiously glances around the room.

Grey smiles at him from the coaches’ table. It’s empty, though, like her eyes. She wants to belong among them, but no one is welcoming her.

“Are you going to bother speaking to her?” Willie asks Mason.

“Maybe.” Mason pauses dramatically. “I haven’t decided.”

“Wait, what? Dude, you’re such a dick to girls.”

“Shut up, Will,” Mason bites back.

Today, Sebastian’s not in the mood to play Dad and break them up. He waves to Grey—damn Mason—and she brightens up like the neon lights of Times Square.

“You’re full of shit, Riley,” Willie says, pointing his spoon at Mason.

“Because I don’t suck up to Coach’s daughter to get a better playing position?”

“I’m not friends with her because of that.”

“No?” Mason asks. “Oh, I forgot. You have to be friends witheveryone.”

It’s true. A world where Mason Riley is actually right is just ridiculous, but Willie has the heart of a damn puppy. Some people are assholes. They don’t deserve Willie.

“So that’s it?” Willie asks, incredulous at Mason’s careless shrug.

“I haven’t decided.”

“Asshole.”

Mason arrogantly says, “And proud,” just to rile Willie more.

They’ll be at it for hours. Sebastian turns to converse with his teammates. Between the repetitive “That’s what she said” jokes and boasting about a championship win, Sebastian manages to fit in. Guys argue over the best players in the league, the endless war of Seattle or Dallas. They laugh with Sebastian instead of staring at him when he talks.

Popularity isn’t his thing but, with these rowdy boys, it’s good to know he matters. It also scares him that life has become just two things for the past four years: graduating and soccer. Shouldn’t there be something else?

Emir walks into the dining hall, dragging his feet. He balances a tray in one hand and a can of Red Bull in the other. His appearance is sleepwalker-lite: hair spiked up, the sleeves of his shirt pulled over his knuckles, his scowl halfhearted. He’s almost soft and inviting.

That’s a bigalmost.

Sebastian wants to kick himself. He shouldn’t be staring at Emir. And he sure as hell isn’t going to admit to himself the reasons why.

Emir’s lost. His eyes scan the room for somewhere to sit. Just as with Grey, no one makes the effort to help.