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Mirrors aren’t the friendliest ofobjects. Sebastian decided that years ago, but it’s inescapably clear now that he’s standing shirtless, inspecting his body.

In his head, on repeat, he hears it: “Bastian the Trashcan, Bastian the Trashcan…”

Behind him, Willie and Hunter are bundled under an afghan on Willie’s bed, snoring and dead to the world. Willie’s face is mashed in Hunter’s neck. Hunter’s fingers are twisted in Willie’s hair; their lower halves are tangled. A pair of cuddling bros.

Sebastian figured they’d be like that for another hour, which was all the encouragement he needed to change clothes for a late run. Then he caught a sideways glimpse of himself. Now, he can’t move his feet.

He’s repositioning his body to appearnormal. Yes, he likes some things about himself: his skin has a natural, creamy tan and he has a broad chest and narrow hips. But the flaws stick out. He’s lost definition in his arms. His metabolism finally caught up with his growth spurts, so his belly is softer. He pulls at the extra tissue above his hip and hisses, “What the hell,” when it stretches painfully.

Sebastian’s tried changing his diet, more time in the weight room, counting calories, anything to make a difference, to end those taunts in his brain. But in the reflection, an older version of that bullied kid glares at him.

“Shit.”

The knot in his chest expands. Emir would never go for him. Not that Emirwantshim, but why would he? Sebastian’s not in Emir’s league, at least, not physically.

“And these are the days of our lives…” Willie mumbles in his sleep; one leg hangs off the bed. Hunter is squeezing an arm around him so they both don’t roll off. It would be a viral hit if Sebastian recorded it on his phone, but he decides not to.

Bro code.

Sebastian eyes his reflection one last time. “Screw you, evil mirror” is implied when he flips himself the bird. He tugs on a tank top, steals Willie’s iPod, and heads for the door.

He can still squeeze in a run before lunch if he hurries.

12

“Beckham is a legend.”

Jack is pointing an accusing plastic fork at Gio. He’s got a pale, freckled rat-face that’s slowly turning red as Gio scoffs. His eyes are bloodshot, adding to his deranged look.

Gio says, “He’s got nothing on Ryan Giggs, amigo.”

Groaning, Jack drops his fork and throws his hands up.

It’s late afternoon, and the team has finally spun into the dining hall like a category five tornado. This argument, and a few others, is prominent between soccer players at Bloomington High. Sebastian skipped the lunch line after his jog and plops down at their table with a protein shake for a front-row seat.

He’s betting on Kyle’s usual Ronaldo favoritism or—

“What about Rooney?”

Bingo!Sebastian chuckles to himself. He turns back to Mason, who seems to have a kickass hangover and is poring over a cup of coffee.

“That looks gross,” Mason says, eyes barely open. Sebastian takes a huge slug of his shake. Mason’s still wearing pajama bottoms and his hair is floppy, as if it took an army just to get him out of bed.

Sebastian wipes his mouth with his hand. “So does your face,” he says, and is rewarded with a middle finger salute. He slouches in his chair. It’s plastic and uncomfortable, but he makes do by propping his feet on an empty seat next to Willie.

Willie and Hunter are leaning into each other. They whisper as if they’re plotting a bank robbery. That wouldn’t end prettily.

“What’s in there?” Mason waves a hand at Sebastian’s drink.

“Whey, green stuff, bananas, more green stuff.”

Mason shudders. “I’m gonna puke in your mouth, man.”

Sebastian shies away from Mason. Projectile vomit wasn’t on today’s lunch menu.

“Here.”

Sebastian isn’t always the most observant person. He is, however, frozen in shock at the sight of Grey sitting across from them at their table. She waves dainty fingers; her curls are tied in a ponytail. Sebastian curves up an eyebrow.