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In the world’s biggest mistake, Sebastian says, “Hey,” circling his fingers around one of Emir’s thin wrists.

Emir freezes, glaring at Sebastian’s hand, then his eyes. An eerie hush falls around them.

Sebastian attempts to lock onto his bravery. He almost succeeds, but then Emir hisses “What?” in a hostile voice, and Sebastian falters.

He struggles against the boulder in his throat. “Um,” he tries with the entire team’s eyes on them.

He gets it. Willie, Mason, and he are pretty much the Three Amigos around here. It’s not an exclusive club. Zach and Sebastian have known each other all their lives. And Charlie and Mason have been terrors together since preschool. But there’s always room for more. Sebastian knows Emir. Well, hedid, so Emir can fit in too, right?

Sebastian sheepishly offers, “You can sit with us if you want,” when Emir’s face softens just a little. Foolishly, Sebastian takes that as the universe giving him a thumbs-up.

Emir, exploding Sebastian’s theory, whispers, “Not happening, dude.” He twists his arm free and stomps away.

“Burn,” someone hisses nearby.

Sebastian wipes the wounded expression off his face. But his heart hammers like a fifty-piece drum section at a parade as Emir sits at his table in the corner. Sebastian turns away and glares at his untouched food.

“What’s with him?”

“Does helovesoccer, like the rest of us?” Jack says to Gio.

Mason says, “I told you, bro. He doesn’t like us.”

Sebastian wants Mason to shut the hell up, but he forks at his food for something to do. It doesn’t hold his attention long. Since he’s an epic idiot, his eyes find Emir looking back at him. Tears sting his eyes from their staring contest, but Sebastian holds the stare until something calm replaces the anger in Emir’s face. It’s a start.

Emir looks down first. His spoon draws lazy circles in his cereal. He’s so tense and small. All their lives, Emir has been smaller but faster than Sebastian. He could outrun Sebastian any day of the week.

It’s as if they’re still running from something.

“Hurry up, slackers! Scrimmage on the field in fifteen!” Coach Patrick barks from the doorway. The collective groan only intensifies the glee in his eyes.

Mason clears his throat. He says, “I don’t think Shah is going to last long.”

Sebastian’s a total jerk for not saying anything back. He hopes this time Mason is wrong.

The rush of a sweaty,sunbaked scrimmage is just what Sebastian needs. His teammates show off their new skills, which are terrible imitations of footwork they’ve seen in the latest FIFA video game. It’s classic. Most of them fall on their faces.

The workouts afterward are worse. Once again, they are a disorganized pack of rabid cubs, and the coaching staff makes them suffer. This form of torture has to be illegal.

Coach O’Brien shouts at the defensive line: “Knees up! Eyes forward! How do you expect to beat those Spartans if you can’t keep up with the ball?”

“Vamos, hombre! Is that the best you’ve got?” Coach Rivera yells. “Want another thirty minutes of cardio added to tomorrow’s practice?” His dark eyes narrow at Smith, who is struggling to keep up. “Smith! Where’s your form?” he asks after a sip of his cinnamon coffee.

“At your wife’s house,” Smith mutters.

“I heard that! Myhusbandwould appreciate it if you picked your crap up one of these days.” Grins are rare for Rivera, but his lips twitch when Smith trips over his own feet. His nascent smile fades just as quickly as it came when he starts yapping at Jack and Robbie for falling behind.

Coach Patrick paces the field end to end. “You all play like you’ve never seen a soccer ball! This isn’t tryouts.” His feet leave tracks in the grass. “Less than two months,” he shouts. Without his hat, his scowl is visible and demands one thing of every player: gratitude. He expects nothing less than discipline on the field. “That’s all you’ve got ‘til we meet the Spartans at home. If we’re going to win any games, you better survive working as a unit. I don’t see any heroes around here.”

“Riley would disagree, sir,” Zach says, hacking. He’s still breathless from the suicide drills.

Mason counters with, “Just repeating what your girlfriend tells me.” He’s just as winded as Zach. They flip each other off, earning another lap from Coach.

Yep, they’re doomed. Might as well forfeit the trophy now.

The team scrambles through basic drills and ball control techniques. A zigzag of orange cones is set up for passing exercises. Upperclassmen practice block tackling midfield. On the sidelines, the freshmen compete for who can puke colorful streams of Gatorade the farthest. Sebastian doesn’t hoot at them as the other upperclassmen do. He was the same as a frosh and he made varsity. They can too!

His afternoon is spent in his home, the penalty box, fending off shots from the offensive line.