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He hasn’t had this much fun since he was a rookie.

“Why goalie?” Emir asks.

Sebastian chest-bumps the ball away. He’s impressed when Emir uses the inside of his foot to catch it. “You don’t want to know,” he tells Emir.

“I do,” Emir argues.

“I tried every position my freshman year. The glory is in being an attacker,” Sebastian explains, leaning over to catch his breath. “It’s why everyone loves Mason.”

Emir’s mouth twists, but he keeps quiet.

“I’m not as good as him,” Sebastian says.

This time, Emir snorts his disapproval.

Sebastian pinches his sweat-soaked shirt to pull it away from his skin. “I wasn’t quite the defender, like Willie,” he continues. He jumps to stop the ball, then tuck-and-rolls with it wrapped in his arms. “I was a certified benchwarmer.”

“A water boy?”

Sebastian tosses the ball back, amused. “I wasn’t cool enough for that.”

He is mesmerized by Emir’s new ability to maintain focus and dribble the ball. Emir’s face is shining with sweat, his eyebrows are lowered, and his mouth is pinched. But he’s into this.

“I was bad.” Sebastian laughs, self-deprecating.

“Ha! Couldn’t be worse than me.”

“Anyways,” Sebastian says, rubbing his finger over an eyebrow sticky with perspiration. “At the end of the first season, our goalie graduated. I went out for goalkeeper because, well, why not? Jack was a whiny brat. I figured I could be as good as him.”

The ball soars high, and Sebastian meets it midair with both hands. Emir grumbles, “Thanks, asshole,” when Sebastian tosses it back.

Sebastian falls back into place. “I did all I could to get better. Extra time at home or camp, wherever.”

“And?”

Sebastian waves his arms around in a “here we are” gesture. “My first game was against the Spartans,” says Sebastian, looking into the distance.

It took an overtime period before they dragged those pretentious assholes to the ground. The score was two to zero, and the crowd went bananas when Mason scored the winning goal. But Coach Patrick dug his fingers into the collar of Sebastian’s jersey and hauled him to the front of the team so he could soak in the fact that he shut out their rivals. That feeling still hits him with shuddering waves of warmth.

Emir stares at him as if Sebastian’s just had a war flashback. Sebastian doesn’t care. Memories like that are hard to come by. Most of the time, it’s school or relationships or trying not to screw up and get grounded before the next party—and the endless awkwardness.

Sebastian is determined to hold on to those memories.

Emir says, “I’ll never be like you.”

Sebastian blindly catches the ball Emir pelts at him. “Hey, are you trying to quit again, Shah? Save it, I’m not interested.”

Emir laughs, then licks his dry lips.

Sebastian gets stuck on how he’d really like to suck Emir’s lower lip, winces, and leans over to conceal his excitement.

“Thanks, Captain.”

Sebastian is so completely thrown by Emir’s words that he doesn’t pay any attention until—the ball zooms right past the side of Sebastian’s head.

“Goooal!” Emir howls like a Telemundo announcer. He runs around maniacally, cheering and high-fiving imaginary teammates. If he doesn’t quiet down, he’ll wake a coach, but Sebastian lets him have this moment. Maybe he’ll reflect fondly on this in a few years.

Sebastian’s happiness, for Emir, for the night, for the small victories, is unexpected. He waits until Emir slows down, breathless, before tossing another ball at him. “Again?” he says.