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It might not be theonlyreason, since Val is gorgeous too. She walked into Mason’s life wearing denim shorts, wavy brown hair in a ponytail, and a cherry lollipop between her pouty pink lips. She was supposed to be a summer crush, but turned into four years of confusion.

Why doesn’t anyone ever get over a summer crush?

Willie daydreams while Sebastian pulls out a change of clothes. Silence with Willie is never awkward. Mason talks a lot, but Willie coolly observes the rest of the world.

“Can’t wait for the weekends around here,” Willie says.

Yeah, the weekends are great. Almost forty-eight hours of freedom from soccer, discipline, and all of Coach Patrick’s movie quotes about teamwork. Is there a universal coaching rule that every life lesson must come fromRudyorHoosiersorRemember the Titans?

Sebastian anticipates swims at the lake, and crackling bonfires where they’ll talk about how the team will finally earn a “W” over all their opponents this season. Bloomington High’s a middle-of-the-road school when it comes to sports: Football sucks. Basketball is hot and cold. The swim team is good when they’re on. Soccer draws the biggest crowd, being the only sport that’s come close to putting a trophy in the barren case in the entrance hall of the school. “What about you?” Sebastian turns the topic back to Willie. “Gonna finally land a boyfriend?”

Of the three of them, Willie avoids relationships the most. He hasn’t given a real reason. Bloomington isn’t the easiest place to be an out-of-the-closet teen.

“You mean besides my hand?” Willie says, his lips teased by a smile.

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Yeah, dude. Though that’s been a pretty solid relationship, right?”

Willie wiggles his eyebrows. “I dunno. With you and Mace around, I’m good. Right?”

“Yeah, you’ve got us, man. Who needs anything else?”

“Exactly!” Willie walks toward the door. “Now get your lazy ass up before we’re late,” he says as he goes.

He’s right; they can’t be late for practice. Sebastian gets off the bed and stretches his arms over his head until he hears something crack satisfyingly. He changes clothes, missing the softness of his old uniform that’s been stuffed in his closet at home for too long.

When they step outside, sun haloes the entire camp, making it a golden dream. Willie mumbles, “Time to die,” and that means one thing: Practice is going to suck.

* * *

After thirty minutes of practice,Sebastian’s muscles throb, and his skin drips layers of sweat. He hasn’t ached with this much life since spring training. The dizzying sun pounds on him as the team jogs laps. Their feet dragged during basic foot drills. This is their punishment.

“How does one pack of lions suck this bad?” Coach Patrick barks. He has a perpetual love for hats. They hide some of his face, but Sebastian can imagine those thoughtful, deep-brown eyes staring them down. Summer sun has given him a slight tan, but his cheeks are red with frustration. He’s menacing enough at nearly six-foot-five with a brawny build, but the stiffness of his round jaw adds to the effect. “What did you all do during the off-season?”

“Well, I didn’tsuckanyone.” Mason’s been wheezing for air since halfway into practice.

“Dude, uncalled for.” Sebastian uses his collar to hide a grin from the coaches.

“Another one down!” Zach announces, cackling as a green-faced freshman runs past him to bend over a trashcan. Most of the frosh players barely survived the first hour, either collapsing on the sidelines or puking Gatorade behind the bleachers. The upperclassmen pick them apart like scavengers and earn extra laps for their lack of sympathy.

“Patético,” Gio says. He’s developed a habit of switching between languages since his parents, originally from Puebla, speak exclusively in Spanish at home. His insult draws Coach Patrick’s attention. Gio scrambles to catch the rest of the pack.

“Don’t think I don’t know what that means, Sanchez!” Coach yells.

Sebastian has studied every player; he can predict the survivors. Gio will make it. Hunter, a defender whose skin tone is mellow ochre, like an acorn, will too. He’s not sure about Charlie, who’s more out of shape than anyone, or Smith, whose sweaty, tie-dyed hair lies flat against his forehead.

“Kyle,” Sebastian says, huffing. “Try harder.”

Kyle’s blond hair flops into oceanic blue eyes. His fatigue diminishes his all-American build; his creamy skin has been replaced by a blistering sunburn. Still, he pushes himself a little more.

All of them are lumps of hard clay, waiting to be softened, then molded.

“You’ll suffer later, Hughes!” Mason cries as Sebastian passes him for the second time today. He’s balancing a ball between his feet, never missing a beat, even when Mason flips him off.

“Bite me!”

“You’re a prick.”

Sebastian shrugs. He says, “You taught me,” before going for another lap.