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“Wait. I didn’t mean to be rude.” It’s been so long since Sebastian’s heard Emir speak in Urdu. The Shahs are British Pakistani. Sebastian’s forgotten most of the words he heard so often around Emir’s house. He says, “Abbu. That’sfatherin Urdu.”

“Yeah,” Emir says, fondly impressed. “I can’t turn it off sometimes.”

Sebastian admires Emir’s jaw and cheekbones. He resembles his mom, whom Sebastian remembers being lovely and smelling like summer. Emir’s nose and his quiet disposition come from his dad. Mr. Shah always said nice things to Sebastian.

“It sucks when it comes out at school. The stuff people say. They talk about my accent, my parents, my skin…” Emir’s voice trails off; his narrowed eyes stare at the ground. “Just because I speak funny or don’t look like them.”

“Yeah,” whispers Sebastian.

Emir twists the cap of his Gatorade back and forth. “Anyway, my dad is a huge soccer fan. Since forever, he’s spent Saturdays crashed on the couch with games on the telly. Premier League, the MLS, whatever he can find.”

Sebastian snorts. Oliver is the same. And Sebastian is always right next to him; they’re two couch potatoes arguing over their favorite players while Lily brings snacks and root beers. “Boys will be boys,” she’ll say before warning them to use coasters.

“I’m here because he loves the sport as much as he loves his family and,” Emir pauses for a deep breath, as though he’s about to reveal the secrets of his soul, “I want to impress him.”

Sebastian likes the range of pinks in Emir’s cheeks. Very irrational thoughts about howcuteEmir can be make his stomach queasy. Sebastian shouldn’t go there when Emir is being vulnerable.

“Is that stupid?” Emir asks, chewing his lip.

“No.”

“It’s my last year before college, and Abbu has done so much for my family that I feel like I owe him this.”

Emir walks as though the whole world is pushing on his shoulders. Sebastian gets that. The burden to make your parents proud while still feeling clueless about what you’re doing with your own life is a struggle.

“You’re not doing this for you?”

“No,” Emir hisses. “I’m here to make Abbu proud. I can do that without any pity, okay?”

Sebastian stops mid-step, stunned.

“Thanks for the run,” Emir spits. He tosses his Gatorade bottle and turns away. Over his shoulder he says, “How about we not do this anymore.”

“‘This’ what?”

It’s as if the sound of Sebastian’s voice makes Emir glower all the more. “You pretending to give a damn if I make it or not.”

Sebastian blinks hard, wanting to shout, “What the hell?” or punch Emir or walk away.

Emir leaves first.

And Sebastian has to question his own rationality, because he still wants to help Emir—if not for the team, for whatever he must have done to screw up what he and Emir had.

8

Late in the afternoon, CoachO’Brien’s whistle blows a final time.

Thank God, because Sebastian is exhausted and cardio sucks, especially in the dead heat of summer on an endless green field with no shade. Sebastian could definitely live without this. He jogs off the field, dodges other players to get to a paper cup of ice cold water, and then finds Willie.

“I was thinking,” Willie starts, and Sebastian’s lips quirk at the gleam in his eyes. Last year, when he shared a science class with Willie and Mason, all of their worst ideas started with, “So I was thinking,” or, “I promise it won’t get us arrested this time,” which was a clear indication that, yes, they would get arrested or at least serve detention. And yet Sebastian always went along with whatever ridiculous idea they suggested.

Willie says, “Jacobs’s School of Music.”

“For college?” asks Sebastian after a gulp of water.

Willie nods, adjusting the bag of ice on his knee. Sebastian drags a hand over his mouth. Willie’s blue eyes are spacey, like a child fantasizing about Christmas morning.

“Why?”