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“Too much force!” He smacks away another ball from Kyle. He’s a transfer from Bloomington West with way too much confidence in his kicks. Every shot is predictable, and Sebastian barely puts forth effort.

Kyle replies, “Screw you,” but Sebastian shrugs it off. In time, Kyle will find his bearings.

It doesn’t help that Willie’s crowing from the sidelines. He shouts, “Bombs away!” when another guy misses.

Sebastian ignores his friend’s manic sense of humor to observe the obvious: Willie’s bad knee, bandaged and iced, is propped on a bleacher below him. It’s a sure sign he’s already overdone it.

Sebastian tries to sound admonishing when he says, “Willster,” but it doesn’t work.

“You can’t beat Hughes! He’s like the Eyrie castle onGame of Thrones!” Willie yells. He’s an invaluable asset, as much the team’s cheerleader as their best defenseman.

“William!” Coach Rivera barks from midfield. “Hughes doesn’t need an ego, quit it!”

Willie shrinks from Rivera. The roguish glint in his eyes indicates this silence is temporary.

Grey, next to him with her clipboard in her lap, chews the top of her pen mercilessly. She takes notes on every player as if she expects there will be a quiz. Sebastian likes that she’s got a good head on her shoulders. He could encourage her to pursue the coaching thing if she can get her mind off Mason, the reason behind her lip-biting and her stone-cold posture.

Mason sinks ball after ball into the goal Jack’s protecting on the other side of the field. “Ding-dong!” he howls, grinning wolfishly at Jack’s pathetic defense.

Grey pumps a fist in the air, screeching, “Yes!” She cringes, red as a ripe strawberry, as the other guys hoot at her.

Mason groans, “Christ,” and gives her a dirty look. Zach is blowing him kisses from the sidelines, so Mason mouths, “Eat shit,” but Coach Patrick catches him. He slinks back into position to prepare for his next kick.

Sebastian has no interest in getting involved in that love boat. He stumbles off the field to flop next to Willie in the bleachers, where Willie brandishes a Gatorade. “Anything good happen?” Sebastian asks once he’s cracked the Gatorade and had a sip.

Willie points toward Jack’s side of the field. “Emir has potential.” Sebastian shrugs slightly and stays quiet. Willie continues, “He’d make a good wingback.”

Sebastian studies the pitch; his eyebrows furrow at how scattered Emir is. He seems determined, but nothing else.

“We need one,” Grey chimes in. “To replace Kendrick.” She is nothing but positive about the team’s prospects.

Sebastian shrugs again. Kendrick was decent, but completely replaceable, last season. Emir is faster and has the potential to be better. “Sweeper,” he suggests, tapping a finger on his chin. Willie gapes at him. “With practice, I mean. Reminds me of Cameron.”

“Geoff Cameron?” Grey asks.

“Wait,the Geoff Cameron,” says Willie, way too skeptically.

Sebastian nods. “Potential, right?”

Willie goes paler, as if he can’t tell if Sebastian’s finally taken one too many soccer balls to the head, but Emirisfast. He steals the ball without sweating. It’s the lack of coordination afterward that does him in.

Willie rants, damning Sebastian’s very existence. That’s no surprise. Geoff Cameron is a legend to Willie, and Sebastian said it mostly to piss him off.

He ignores Willie to observe Emir scooping the ball away to win another one-versus-one battle against Smith. He’s fascinating. His prideful stance is maintained the entire time Coach O’Brien barks at him for sloppy footwork or while Carl points and laughs.

Tipping his Gatorade for another sip, Sebastian whispers, “Awesome.” He almost chokes while swallowing, though. Emir is eyeing him. Busted! Wait—did Emir just smile? Nope. Sebastian must have a concussion. Emir’s turned away, so he’ll never know.

“Watch out!” Grey yells. Kyle is coming upfield too fast.Wham!Emir’s folded up on the grass. Shit, that’ll leave a mark. Being laid out protecting the goal far too often has taught Sebastian that.

“Eyes ahead of you, Shah!” Coach O’Brien snaps, while Hunter runs to help Emir up.

“I’m fine,” Emir mumbles, getting to his feet without Hunter’s assistance.

Hunter’s affronted expression lasts a bit too long before he shakes his head.

“C’mon kid,” Coach Patrick, stern but fatherly, says. “Shake it off, Shah. Don’t let it beat you.”

Kyle babbles apologies, but Emir doesn’t make eye contact. He grabs his ribs and flinches before limping back into position. He doesn’t say a word, but glares at a ball.