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“It’s not. You’ve got this, dude.” Waiting for Emir’s attack, Sebastian sways into position.

Emir dribbles the ball. He’s improved. He’s not starting player material, but he shows promise. And his confidence when he doesn’t lose control of the ball as often gives him presence. He’s a cub growing into a wolf.

“Shouldn’t I be practicing to be a midfielder?” he says, gaining range as he dribbles closer.

Sebastian vacates his box to scoop the ball away from Emir. “You’ll make a better sweeper.” Sebastian spins around Emir only to be caught mid-motion. He grins. “You remind me of Piqué.”

“Who?”

Sebastian zigzags, but Emir’s on his heels. The sky is a splash of Caribbean blue today; sparse clouds make room for the heavy gold sun. The scents of summer grass fill Sebastian’s nose, but, with Emir this close, musk and sweat and something spicy underlie everything.

“He’s a professional—you know what, never mind.” He backtracks, but Emir isn’t fooled and gets a foot inside to steal the ball. “We need a sweeper,” Sebastian says.

“Isn’t that what Will is?”

Sebastian pauses, resting his hands on his hips. “He’s out, bad knee.” They’ll be lucky if Willie has a handful of games in him. Nearly every doctor in the entire state has warned Willie that he risks blowing out his kneecap if he plays. Their eyes meet, and Sebastian says, “We need an alternate.”

Emir stops, resting his foot on the ball. “So, I’m a Plan B.” Out loud, it’s harsh, but Sebastian can’t argue with him.

“You’d be the most important player on the field.”

“That’syou,” Emir says with a corner of his mouth raised. It’s a clever diversion, giving Emir just enough time to maneuver the ball around Sebastian. The goal is a few feet away. But Emir gives himself away by leaning too far to his left.

Sebastian fakes with him before slipping a foot in to pop the ball away.

“Sucker.”

Emir has a frustrated hand in his hair. “I don’t know if I could do it.”

Sebastian does keepie-uppies midfield. His tongue hangs out of the side of his mouth. “Try,” he says, half to Emir but also to himself, because he wants to believe he can make Emir into the player he’s shown potential to be.

Emir exhales shakily, proving he’s not sold on the idea.

“Think about it. You could make a big difference and show your dad how incredible you are.”

Emir teeters from foot to foot. His tiny, pleased smile shocks Sebastian’s gut.

“Yeah?” Emir’s eyebrows and mouth inch higher. “Okay.”

“Okay, then let’s do this, dickhead.”

Sebastian waits until Emir is in a defensive crouch, leading the ball up the grass until they meet near the goal. Emir shoves. Sebastian pulls. Their feet fight over the ball. Soccer is a contact sport, so it’s not as though Sebastian is out of line for grabbing Emir’s shirt. Emir is so fast, he needs a way to counter.

“Mine!”

“Not so fast.”

The ball is knocking around like a pinball. Their contacts have become more aggressive. Emir cheats, grabbing the waistband of Sebastian’s shorts. Sebastian’s hand jerks Emir’s hip. They’re nearly nose to nose, struggling not to lose their balance.

“Loser,” Emir says, getting the ball away from Sebastian. He dribbles it upfield. Sweaty and gasping, he turns to wave a hand at Sebastian like Neo inThe Matrix. “C’mon,” he taunts.

Sebastian is enjoying Emir’s burst of ego. He won’t mind deflating it in a few seconds.

Emir fakes right. Sebastian charges forward to wrestle the ball away, but Emir is shoved bodily against Sebastian. He’s a torch against Sebastian’s exposed skin.

Sebastian trips on the ball, ready to eat grass on his way down. Emir catches his elbow. Sebastian cups a hand around Emir’s neck, pulling until they collide.

They burst into laughter. And then Sebastian kisses him.