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Mason yells, “All the way, Hughes!”

Then Emir steps into his path.

Mason has a lot of tricks in his arsenal. He’s got sweet feet, but Emir’s high-speed. Mason spins. Emir counters. Mud and grass fly as they fight for the ball.

Kyle screams, “Get the damn ball, Shah!”

“Not happening.” Mason jerks left. Panting, Emir lurches with him. Sebastian bends into position. He’s prepared for anything. But Mason takes a fall to draw a foul against Emir. It’s a stunt he’s seen Neymar pull when stuck with a tough defense.

“Shit! Come on, Shah. Keep your hands and feet to yourself!” groans Mikey, knocking Emir’s shoulder when he passes.

Rivera stands over Mason. “Okay, Riley?”

Mason clutches his shin. He puts on a cheesy performance: groaning, rolling in the mud. His overdramatic stunt wins him sympathy points.

“I didn’t,” Emir says, then pauses, a hip cocked out, hands trembling as they rub across his face. He exhales. “It’s bullshit,” he says, glaring at Mason as if he might punch him.

Sebastian seconds that idea. He also wants to smooth a hand over Emir’s hair and tell him it’s nothing serious. He doesn’t.

“Boys, you know the drill.” Coach eases players away to help Mason up. “Penalty kick for Riley.”

“It’s cool, Shah,” Hunter says, softly, patting Emir’s ramrod-stiff shoulder.

Emir doesn’t jerk away. He nods with defeated eyes and his hands balled into fists.

Frustration contorts Sebastian’s face. His focus has gone haywire. He glares at Mason as Mason lines up with the ball. Mason raises his eyebrows. His mouth curves up smugly.

They lose because of Sebastian. One penalty kick, he missed one stupid penalty kick.

After the scrimmage, from the center of the bleachers, Willie yells, “Great plays, Hughes!”

Sebastian puts on a fake grin. He salutes Willie and Grey while stalking off. He’s soaked, mud squishes in uncomfortable places, and he was ridiculously sloppy. They’ll never beat the Spartans, or anyone in the conference, playing like that.

Zach reels an arm around his slumped shoulders. “You did good, Captain.” He’s smiling; his messy hair hangs in his eyes.

The rest of the guys shout their agreement, something Sebastian appreciates, but he’s not mentally ready to say anything back. He does, however, spy Mason limping off the field. A smug grin dominates his face; he doesn’t care how he got the win.

Sebastian’s had enough.

“What the hell, Mace?”

Mason turns, eyebrows lifted. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” Sebastian repeats, flustered. He pokes Mason’s chest with a dirty finger. “You pulled that shit on purpose.”

Mason sniffs, glaring at Sebastian’s finger. “It happens all the time, Bastian.”

Sebastian wants to punch him. He wants to punch his best friend. Because of Emir. “It doesn’t make it right.”

“And it doesn’t make it right that you’re all pro-Shah, either.”

Sebastian’s upper lip curls. “Are you serious?”

Mason replies, “Deadly, dude.”

“So that’s it? You’re jealous ofEmir?” Sebastian’s voice rises. He’s incredulous. His head throbs. “He’s scary-good, bro, how could Inotpick him?” He doesn’t care about Mason’s skeptical expression, because he’s wet and cold and so over this whole picking-Emir thing.

Mason’s dripping brown hair hangs in his eyes when he rolls them. “You’re being a douche, Bastian.”