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Sebastian’s a tool. His face is hot; nerves prickle up his arms. Willie, his best friend who would fight an alien invasion for him, is staring at a mostly naked boy in Sebastian’s bed. Willie, who is much more level-headed than Mason, isn’t going to freak out. He’s just going to blink his eyes and stare.

“Will—” Sebastian chokes on the rest. What’s he going to say? That he wishes Mason had never blurted out Willie’s “thing” for him? That he just wants things to go back to normal? Sebastian has no clue what “normal” is supposed to be anymore.

Whatever is happening between Hunter and Willie now doesn’t eliminate what Willie felt for Sebastian, does it? Do people simply get over crushes on their best friends by snapping their fingers? It can’t be that easy.

Willie obliterates most of Sebastian’s anxiety by smiling. He says, “I’m gonna go stay at Hunter’s tonight. If that’s cool?”

Sebastian nods.

“Looks like you could use some privacy, bro.”

Next to Sebastian, Emir’s mouth is parted; little breaths come out. His fingers are curled against the sheets. Sebastian lifts his eyes. “Is that okay?”

“Definitely.”

Willie treads quietly around the room. He takes his laptop, leaves his iPod.

“So.” Sebastian’s being an idiot. He’s about to open a big, ugly book of topics they’ve been dancing around. “Are we good?” slips out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

Willie rotates on his heels. He strides to Sebastian’s bed. Dread wrecks Sebastian’s stomach. This is when Willie finally goes Incredible Hulk.

Instead, he ruffles Sebastian’s hair and says, “Absolutely, bro. I’m happy for you.”

Fighting off a need to puke, Sebastian whispers, “Good.”

Before he walks away, Willie flicks Sebastian’s forehead. “But next time, put a sock on the door. You know the rules, man.” He waves a hand at Emir. “Seriously, things could’ve gottenreallyweird if I walked in on that.”

Sebastian smiles so wide his vision goes blurry. Willie doesn’t hate him. They’re friends. No matter what outrageous decisions he makes in life, there are still people who will always accept him: ones that’ll punch him, hug him, and tell him corny jokes.

Willie salutes him at the door, then shrugs his bag higher on his shoulder.

The door shuts, and Sebastian whispers, “Thanks, Willster,” to the shadows.

24

Sebastian learned freshman year thatall the best trash talk doesn’t actually happen on the pitch.

It happens in the locker room.

The greatest shit-talking, towel-snapping, pranks, stories about getting laid, and bad jokes about a guy’s junk all go down around shower stalls and slamming lockers. Occasionally, one cerebral player gets in another player’s head, using words to knock him off his game in order to steal his starting spot. It’s a team sport, but everyone wants to be the star sometime.

Sebastian accepts this. But today, for whatever reason, he’s just not in the mood.

He yanks off his shirt. It’s soiled with grass, dirt, and sweat, a very rank combo. He pulls a new one from his locker and sniffs the underarm. Clean. He’s between practices, so he doesn’t bother with a shower. Coach Patrick is making them sleep, eat, and drink grass through their last days at camp.

“If you want to win a championship, you’ve got to sacrifice a nap or two,” Coach shouts every morning during laps. After lunch, it’s the same thing. He’s no Alex Fergusson, but he inspires most of the guys to power through drills.

Willie’s passing out chilled bottles of water. Sebastian snatches one with a nod of appreciation. Willie’s expression is easygoing. He says, “Don’t choke,” when Sebastian cracks the top and guzzles as if he’s been in the desert. He adds a rude gesture that Sebastian supposes is a reference to oral sex. Sebastian’s too zoned out to give a decent comeback, but Willie waves this off with disappointed eyes.

Sebastian can’t help it; he sucked today. He couldn’t block any of Mason’s shots. The freshmen are a bunch of uncoordinated minions and Gio’s passing is garbage. Sebastian’s blowing this whole “future captain” thing. He’s not bothered by that; nausea gurgles up any time he puts too much thought into it. Sebastian’s not ready.

To his left, the defenders are huddled around one of the benches. Sebastian sips his water. Carl, hard features accented by his crewcut, is leading the talk.

“With Will out for the season because of his knee, we’re screwed,” says Carl, hunched forward. He’s sweaty and sunburned on his nose.

“Shit.” Gio leans on a locker.

Rollins, a freshman winger, asks, “He can’t tough it out a few games?” He pushes damp black hair behind his ear.