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“Wow, dude, that’s uncool,” Zach says, stretched out a few bleachers below them. “He totally blew Hunter off, the dick.”

Sebastian rubs his sweaty palm over his mouth, so he doesn’t say the wrong thing. Emir isn’t being an asshole on purpose. Putting his finger on why will take time.

“Dunno, Bastian,” Willie says, their shoulders touching. “He doesn’t look much like Cameron to me, bro.”

Sebastian ignores a hardcore desire to roll his eyes. Willie is cool, but sometimes he reminds Sebastian of Mason. Sebastian doesn’t want to be told he’s wrong yet again.

Coach Patrick has an arm around Emir’s shoulders. He’s giving Emir an earful, one of Coach’s notorious fatherly talks, but Emir doesn’t seem all that interested. He’s glowering; his chest is heaving.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be here?” Grey suggests.

“Huh, maybe.” Sebastian slumps; his throat holds in the words “He needs a friend” because he’s a major tool.

“You’ll get it, Emir,” Grey shouts, clapping. She receives a hopeful nod from Emir, and suddenly Sebastian wants that for himself. There’s only one way to get it.

6

“What the hell are youdoing here?”

Well, it’s definitely not the reaction Sebastian anticipated, but he didn’t knowwhatto expect when he found Emir.

An early end to practice meant dinner was dull and noisy. Afterward, Sebastian dodged Willie and Hunter, who pleaded with him to hit the rec hall for root beer floats, Sebastian’s favorite, and some team bonding. He wasn’t in the mood for belching, corny jokes, and guys acting like kindergarteners. Sebastian doesn’t need the root beer float, anyway. But he regrets not hanging with Willie and Hunter, who remind him of the dudes fromWedding Crashers. It sure as hell would beat standing beside a cabin under Emir’s death glare.

“Um, hello?” Sebastian tries.

Emir narrows his eyes. He has this whole “being a prick” thing down to a science. “What are you doing here?” he repeats.

“Okay.” Sebastian drags every letter out. “So, we’re not past that part yet?”

A half-burnt cigarette hangs from Emir’s lips. His nose releases a plume of blue-gray smoke. “No,” he grunts, leaning his head back, eyes closed.

Shadows bank the confined space between cabins here, an obvious spot for Emir to sneak a smoke. Sebastian lucked out catching him. Okay, he pulled a real stalker move, standing on his cabin’s porch to see if Emir would sneak off to the pitch to practice again.

“Are you not going away, mate?” asks Emir, his index finger tapping ash off the end of his cigarette. Gray snowflakes catch on the breeze.

“Not likely,” Sebastian says around a tight throat.

He’s bold enough to move closer; fallen leaves crunch under his shoes. Carly smokes, so he’s accustomed to the stench, but it doesn’t stop his nose from wrinkling. “Gross,” he says.

“Whatever.” Emir is unfazed.

Sebastian’s satisfied that he received a response. The sky is pre-thunderstorm charcoal. It hides a full moon, which freakingbites, because it eliminates Sebastian’s one excuse for acting weird about this Emir situation.

“So.” Sebastian stops when his voice cracks.Hello, puberty!He quickly pulls himself together. “Are you okay?”

Emir snorts; smoke trails escape the corner of his mouth. “Sure. Now will you go away?”

“Apparently not,” Sebastian teases, too hopeful Emir will crack a smile. He doesn’t, but his scowl softens, encouraging Sebastian. Emir is wearing a cutoff T-shirt that exposes his arms and the gnarly purple bruise from the hit he took during practice. “That looks painful.”

“It’s nothing.”

Sebastian wants to call Emir on his bullshit. His thumb presses against the mark to prove his point. It’s the dumbest thing he could do. What kind of idiot provokes an already pissed-off bull?

“Bloody hell, mate!” Emir hisses, jerking back. “Are you brain-dead?”

Sebastian shrugs and leans lazily against the siding of the cabin. He likes Emir’s British accent. As a kid, annoyed with the teasing he received, Emir tried to hide it.

“That’s pretty bad.”