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“For what?”

“I don’t know.” Emir looks at his feet. “But thanks.”

Sebastian’s chest is rapidly filling with warmth. He hastily says, “Goodnight,” and turns away before he makes a complete ass of himself. Then he stumbles on a small rock. The temptation to peek over his shoulder, just in case Emir is watching him, is diluted by his surprisingly strong will—or his utter mortification.

Once he gets to his cabin, Sebastian’s smiling so dorkily, he’s considering facial reconstruction.

Willie is laid out like a lazy starfish, head tipped back, openmouthed and snoring with dried drool on his chin. Sebastian kicks off his shoes just as Willie mumbles, “You’ll always be my favorite, Bastian.”

That reminder from the bonfire reemerges—he was such a tool about Willie’s crush.

Willie turns away, hugging his pillow.How did I ignore him?Willie, the selfless, nonjudgmental idiot, didn’t give Sebastian crap about Emir. Willie kept his secret. He never pointed out Sebastian’s mistakes. And he did all of that while crushing on Sebastian from afar.

Willie is perfect. Perfect for Hunter, not Sebastian, but that’s great, too.

Sebastian whispers, “You’ll always be my favorite, too,” and something in his chest relaxes when Willie replies, “Mace says we can’t pick favorites.”

“That’s ’cause Mason is nobody’s favorite.”

“True that.”

Willie’s voice is dreamy instead of croaky, as if he is sleep-talking. It’s a good talk either way. Sebastian strips off his shirt, but leaves his shorts on. He climbs into bed.

It takes him a while to fall asleep, and that’s the one thing about tonight that is routine.

20

The next afternoon isn’t oneof Sebastian’s better moments. It’s notbad, but it’s not on his top ten either.

Training camp has its benefits. Extra practices produce wickedly defined calves. The sun leaves his skin more deeply tanned: not quite sun-kissed gold, but acceptable. He doesn’t have awkward shoulders anymore, either. There are honest, real moments when it seems as if he’s becoming someone.

But right now, Sebastian isn’t in love with his reflection. His cheeks are still full and round like a toddler’s. In the sun’s halo, the smudges under his eyes give him the look of a zombie. His jaw isn’t square or round, just odd. Oh, and his nose is awkwardly-shaped.

“You’re good enough for them.”

It’s his mantra, along with “You’re good enough for the team, for your peers, for him” and “Those days are gone.” It’s okay to give yourself a pep talk, for the sake of self-esteem. Also, it alleviates just enough pressure in his chest so that Sebastian can breathe.

Until, of course, his eyes spot how soft the skin around his belly is. His shaky hands grab at it.Christ. The familiar sting at the corner of his eyes only exacerbates his hyperventilating. A balloon is expanding in his chest.

Every word in his head is “Bastian the Trashcan” in those haunting bullies’ voices.Why?

“What are you doing?”

Sebastian freezes, mid-breath, with his hands on his belly. He thought he’d locked the door. Emir is staring at Sebastian—no, staring at Sebastian’s hands on his bare belly.

Sebastian says, “Nothing,” in a tight voice. He has no idea how long Emir has been standing there: what he’s seen, what he’sheard. Sebastian’s defenses are up; his body is half-tilted away from Emir’s view. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing,” Emir repeats. He steps inside, shutting the door.

Sweat builds across Sebastian’s brow. He’s scared. Sebastian is a million things, butscaredis the only label he can find.

“What’s wrong?” Emir steps closer, and Sebastian wants to retreat. But Emir’s dilated, concerned eyes force Sebastian to suck in a shaky breath and stay put.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” Sebastian twists a hand in his hair. “I shouldn’t have skipped our morning run to let you, um—”

“You mean when I—”

“Yes,” Sebastian cuts in, flinching. His eyes are watery, and he doesn’t get how Emir is so confident. He’s not cocky, but he acts as though he doesn’t give a shit. And Sebastian is just—he lacksthat.