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Sebastian rubs sweaty hands over his shorts. He usually wears gloves when he’s protecting the goal. He’s anticipating a shot attempt from Emir, but it never happens because Emir loses control of the ball.

“Bugger.” Emir makes a face. “See what you’ve gone and made me do.”

Sebastian snorts, flipping Emir the finger. “You just need more help.”

With total lack of common sense, Sebastian runs up to Emir, then comes around his backside to align his chest with Emir’s spine. He fits his arms around Emir’s lean frame; his hands smooth Emir’s waist. “Personal space” has vacated his vocabulary.

“This okay?” Sebastian asks.

Emir flinches, then nods.

In his head, Sebastian has ruled this a “teaching method,” though no one’s ever given himthisbrand of attention. “Follow me.” Emir’s muscles are coiled, but when Sebastian whispers, “I can help,” he leans into Sebastian’s chest.

Sebastian hooks his chin over Emir’s shoulder. “Less focus on what youwantthe ball to do,” he says, moving them in tandem toward the ball. “More on the way the ball wantsyouto move.”

Emir turns his head just a millimeter, and asks, “How do I do that?”

Sebastian clears his throat, his flow slightly disrupted by the brush of Emir’s soft but still stubbly cheek. “Stop forcing yourself.”

“It’s not that easy.”

Sebastian tightens his fingers on Emir’s hips. “Relax,” he says, his lips skimming Emir’s ear. Their feet guide the ball closer to the penalty box.

“I can’t relax with your,” Emir says, sounding smug, and with a deliberate arch in his spine, “junkagainst my bum, mate.”

Sebastian gasps and pulls away from Emir to chase down the ball that’s strayed from between them. His gnarly, cool-as-shit impersonation fails miserably. What did he expect? He wasn’tpurposefullytrying to do that.

“Shut up,” he says dejectedly.

“It’s cool, Bastian.”

No, it very well isnot,since Sebastian has to turn away and adjust everything under his shorts.

Sebastian is disarmed by Emir’s easy grin when they’re face to face again. Emir wiggles his eyebrows and says, “I don’t mind a guy’s…” He waves a hand at Sebastian’s waist. “On my bum, but I usually don’t mix stupid sports and sex. It’s a rule.”

“It’s not stupid,” Sebastian says, piqued. “Sports, I mean, okay? Don’t put down soccer, because it’s all I’ve got these days.”

Emir’s mouth droops. “I didn’t mean to…” He shoves a twitchy hand through his hair.

Sebastian shrugs. It’s not as though Emir knows or understands how big soccer has been for him, how it’s given him something to be proud of. It’s been a purpose. Which is hard to explain to anyone who acts as if high school is just a stepping stone. To what? Once soccer is over, Sebastian’s sure as hell his future is DOA.

“Maybe we should call it a night?” he suggests.

“Wait, can’t we, um…” Emir’s voice is broken and small when he says, “This is important to me, Bastian.”

Sebastian hates realizing he’s Emir’s last chance. “C’mon,” he says, waving Emir over. He’s in front of the posts and instinctively ducking into position. “Take a shot.”

“Yeah?” Emir doesn’t wait for Sebastian’s response; he lines up for a kick.

Sebastian swats the ball away. “Again.”

Emir’s next shot is easier to block; the one after is too. Sebastian tosses the ball right back at Emir. He’s pissed at the world, not Emir, and takes it out on the ball.

“Better.”

“I can’t tell.” Emir takes another rip at the ball.

Concentrating on Emir’s improved approach, Sebastian loses track of time. Emir’s stuttering shuffle toward the ball turns into a stiff glide. That encourages Sebastian to fight harder guarding the posts.