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“It’s not far from Bloomington. Pops can visit, and music’s the perfect major for me.” Willie’s a music junkie; his weekends are spent playing bass in a punk cover band. Sebastian’s been to a few of their shows. Willie’s got skills. “Or I could just go to college in the city.”

Sebastian makes a face. They’ve agreed against one thing: State University. It’s either a specialty school or getting the hell out of Bloomington, starting fresh.

“What about New York?”

Willie, in a perfectly spot-on Brooklyn accent, repeats, “New Yawk?”

“They’ve got the Red Bulls professional team. And the schools are good. Sweet living, you know?”

“It could be, but what about being closer? Somewhere we both could go?”

Sebastian tosses an arm around Willie’s shoulder, pulling him in. “But imagine it: a crappy apartment in the city, cab rides every morning, making the team—”

Willie clears his throat. “Sorry to disappoint you, Bastian but…” He points at his knee. “I don’t envision taking this all the way like we planned.”

Willie is through after this season. He has two options: surgery or lifelong rehab. An operation before college is a death sentence for an athlete. Recruiters aren’t scouting injury cases.

“Yeah,” Sebastian mumbles. “Guess so.”

Willie smiles just enough to hide the mourning in his eyes.

“Bloomington’s cool,” Sebastian says with a shrug. “Mom wouldn’t complain.” But Sebastian’s daydreams about sharing a shithole dorm at Bloomington University with Willie and hitting the bars for weekend college games on a widescreen TV aren’t enticing enough. He wants out. Life after high school is a mystery, but Sebastian won’t solve it in Bloomington.

Hunter plops down next to Willie. He announces, “Pasta and salad for lunch today,” with all the dread of a prisoner about to be executed. “Have we not suffered enough?”

Willie chuckles. “Nope.”

“Well, then.” Hunter leans on Willie. “At least you have to die with me.”

Hunter and Willie slip into a private conversation. Sebastian doesn’t mind. He’s spaced out, anyway. On the pitch, Coach Patrick and O’Brien discuss strategy. The defensive line is coming together nicely, except for Emir.

He can’t pass accurately and has zero coordination. It’s as if his foot’s allergic to the ball. But he outruns all attackers, beating them to their next move. If he can just harness that, maybe Sebastian can work around the rest.

“Keep it up, Shah!” Coach Patrick yells, glancing at his clipboard.

When Emir stumbles again, Coach O’Brien tosses his hat on the green. His hair is thinning; sunlight glares off his skull. “Why do you have two left feet? Is that possible? Jesus, Mary, and have mercy, kid, where is your head?”

Carl shouts, “Up his ass!” while chasing a ball.

“Hey!” Gio yells, pointing at Carl. “Don’t screw up his concentration.”

But it’s too late. The ball’s rolled too far in front of Emir, allowing Kyle to sidestep him and make a play.

O’Brien fusses, “Carl, you wanna do some more laps? We can skip lunch if you’d like?”

“No, thank you!”

“Then give the lad a break,” O’Brien snaps. His scowl exaggerates his wrinkles. “Try again, Shah.”

Sebastian’s bony elbows rest on his knees. He’s drained his cup, but keeps it close to his mouth, hiding how intensely he’s studying Emir.

Emir’s expression reads as if he’ll march off the field and quit. Then, something flashes in his eyes, a reminder, before he marks another player to steal possession of the ball.

Yes!

Sebastian doesn’t scream but he might do a small fist pump out of view. He’s a dork, okay, but Emir did it. Of course, he doesn’t keep control of the ball. Robbie swoops in like a hired assassin to take it back, but it’s enough for Coach Patrick to nod his approval when Emir passes.

“What about fullback?”