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“Shit.”

The ball wobbles from between Emir’s feet. In the middle of the pitch, Sebastian effortlessly stops it with one foot. He says, “That was good,” with too much glee in his voice.

Emir flinches at being caught. “It wasokay.”

“Give yourself some credit,” Sebastian says, using the toe of his foot to scoop the ball into the air and then bouncing it off a knee. “Just keep going.”

“What if I quit first?”

“Is that the plan?”

Emir’s shrug is about as convincing as a puppy’s growl. “I haven’t decided,” he says when Sebastian passes the ball back to him. He fakes left, goes right, but Sebastian’s right in his face, grinning.

“Waiting for me to convince you?”

Emir says, “Waiting for you to fail,” but his lips twitch upward.

“That won’t happen.”

Emir rolls his eyes, trying to work around Sebastian. He sweeps the ball past Sebastian, making a run for it. Sebastian catches him, but barely.

“Not bad,” he says, spinning around Emir.

“I’m barely trying,” Emir says, breathless.

Sebastian relaxes. Well, he tries to relax, but his pulse pounds in his ears. They’re face to face, waiting for the next move. And Sebastian, having another idiot moment of epic proportions, brushes sweaty hair off Emir’s forehead with his fingers.

Emir, who is an inch or two shorter than Sebastian, peers through his eyelashes. He doesn’t say anything, but he looks ready to speak.

“Um, yeah.” Sebastian overheats.

Emir says, “Sure,” and leaves it at that.

They pass the ball back and forth; the sun sinks behind the trees. At five minutes to eight, the halogen floodlights that surround the pitch click on, illuminating the greens in lustered silver.

“What’re we here for?” Emir asks.

“To make you better.” Sebastian is trying to remain focused on the benefits tothe team, not on his hormones.

Emir mumbles, “Horrible plan, mate.”

“Just give me a chance,” Sebastian insists.

Emir chews his lip. He reaches to brush the hair off his forehead, but Sebastian’s already done that. Emir’s hand dangles mid-air; a blush overtakes his face. “So,” he starts and then pauses, as if the world anchors him to the ground when he wants to fly. “Let’s do this, then?”

Under the hazy, firestorm sky, they practice. Sebastian teaches Emir passing first. “That’s better.” He applauds Emir’s ability to control possession of the ball for more than ten feet. Of course, Emir still keeps his head low, glaring at the ball as if he’s willing it to follow his commands. But Sebastian is content with his growing coordination.

Eventually, he’ll advance their training to marking an attacker, slide tackles, and complicated tricks, like hitting a header so the ball flies to your teammate.

The sky spits out stars as time slips between them.

Sebastian pushes hair off his brow and says, “Do you think you can get it back here to me?”

Emir groans softly, spinning in the grass. “Demanding asshole.” He clumsily works the ball back upfield.

“I heard that!”

“Good!” Emir gripes, but his laughter betrays him.