Sebastian (The Dumonts Book 1)

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Sebastian (The Dumonts Book 1) Page 5

by Mackenzie Gray


  I didn’t realize I’d stepped into his space. He stares into my eyes with intensity. “Do I make myself clear?” I say.

  His smile is blinding. “Crystal.”

  Chapter 8

  Aidan

  The following week, I sit at my desk at the end of a long day, waiting for Sebastian to show up to his tutoring session. I did my best to make room on my desk, but there’s nowhere to put things except on the floor. Hence, the huge stack of papers I graded earlier act as a prop for my feet. I’m almost finished imputing the grades.

  For whatever reason, my stomach has decided it’s going to clench and churn in anxiety. It hasn’t done this in a while. It’s not that I believe Sebastian will have a repeat performance from our first meeting. To be honest, I quite enjoyed the conversation we had at trivia. Instead of returning to the table, we remained at the bar and drank there. Well, he did. I stopped after my second beer. Sebastian kept going to five, six, seven drinks. It was a little concerning, but luckily his brother, I learned, came to pick him up and drive him home.

  I’m not letting down my guard completely, because he’s still full of himself and thinks he’s above doing the work, but I’m willing to give him another chance. If we can interact in a pleasant manner, the same way we did at trivia, this tutoring gig won’t be as bad as I anticipated.

  A few minutes later, Sebastian appears in the open doorway. His backpack is slung over one shoulder. He wears shorts that show off tanned, muscular legs, and a crisp, pristine button-down the color of the deep ocean. His Aviators block his eyes from me, reflecting back my startled reaction from seeing him appear. His hair is disheveled. I’m not sure if it’s purposeful or if he’s lucky enough to have great hair. Mine is dark, coarse, and wiry. It’s cut short because I don’t have time to worry about styling it, though I’m not someone who would put in the effort to do so anyway.

  “Hi, Sebastian.” Pushing my glasses up my nose, I wave him in with one hand and turn away from my computer.

  He hesitates only a moment before taking the seat on the other side of the desk. He drops his bag on the floor and looks around. “Didn’t get a good look last time,” he explains, studying the books shoved onto the small bookcase I managed to fit into my tiny cubicle-office. Seriously, it’s the size of a closet, if that. But it’s mine, so no complaints.

  “It’s not much, but it works for now.” Eventually, when I get a professorship, my office will be far larger than this.

  He nods at this. We stare at one another, neither making any move to speak. It’s my job as tutor to direct Sebastian in the topics he struggles with, and to help him with tips for studying, how to approach understanding a concept, and so forth. Most people I’ve met are either great at algebraic mathematics, or statistics, but it’s rarer for someone to understand both to their full extent. They use different parts of the brain.

  Since speaking with Dr. Jax yesterday, I’m up to date on what material they’re learning in Calculus 1. I pull over my textbook, since I’m assuming Sebastian either didn’t bring his or didn’t bother buying it—I would bet on the latter—and settle it between us. The only problem is it’s difficult reading the text when we’re on opposite sides of the desk, so I pull over my chair to sit next to him.

  “All right. Do you have something to take notes on?”

  He smiles and taps his temple. “Got it all up here.”

  I resist rolling my eyes. “That’s not going to cut it. Here.” I pull a sheet of printer paper from a stack of miscellaneous documents and set it in front of him with a pencil. “Copy down this problem,” I say, pointing to an example in the textbook.

  After a grimace, he does so without complaint. It’s progress. Sort of.

  Pulling his paper closer, I notice how neat his handwriting is. I begin to explain. “All right, so what we have here is called a differential equation.” After a pause, I look to see if Sebastian is following me. There’s a blank look on his face, and his lips are parted as if I’m speaking to him in a different language. I bite back my sigh. Time to start at the beginning.

  So I go back before that two chapters. It’s where you learn the fundamental basics, the foundation. He’ll have to master this before I let him touch the more advanced problems.

  We work for about forty minutes before I check his work. I’m nodding as I scan his pencil markings. “That’s correct. Great job!”

  He only shrugs. “Told you I’m smart.” But he smirks when he says it. He taps a finger against the page where I made him go through a few problems step-by-step. “My brother, Noah, is really good at this kind of stuff. He’s studying video game design.”

  “Oh. Does he go to Notre Dame?” I lean back in my chair. It’s probably time for a break anyway.

  “Yeah. All of my brothers do, actually.” He shrugs again, the tightness around his mouth easing into relaxation. “We’re close with one another. We lived in London for three years and all went to the same school. I guess I’m so used to having them around that it would be weird if they weren’t. Kellan is the one you saw at the pub. He and I play on the same team.”

  Talk turns to his family, then soccer. His face lights up when he tries to explain to me the rules of soccer, which I never learned. I’m not an athletic guy, in case it wasn’t obvious. But I enjoy listening to him talk about something he’s clearly passionate about. I feel the same way about math.

  He’s trying to explain the correct way to perform a throw-in when laughter catches in my throat. Sebastian shoots me a suspicious look. “What?” He pushes the curls hair out of his eyes, tilts his head. His forearm rests close enough to mine that I feel his arm hair brush my skin. The sensation sends bumps erupting up and down my arms. I jerk away, startled by the reaction my body has when he’s around. He sends me a confused look.

  Hurriedly, I answer his question to cover my fluster. “Nothing. Just, you were an ass to me and now you’re acting nice. It’s weird.”

  “I’m happy to be an asshole if that’s what you want.”

  “Who wants an asshole?” The banter is easy and helps me relax. I glance at my watch, realize we’ve spent the rest of our tutoring session talking. “Wow. I didn’t realize we talked for so long. I can finish up if you want to stay, or I’ll just see you next week.”

  He blinks as if he hadn’t realized either how long we were talking, how effortless the conversation had gone. “No, that’s cool. Ah.” He stands and grabs his things. “Next week is fine.”

  “Make sure you work on those practice problems.”

  That cocky smile makes a reappearance. “Yes, professor.”

  For some reason, the title sounds dirty. I act like nothing happened. “See you next week then.”

  He’s almost to the door when he turns back to me. “Aidan?”

  I lift my head from where I was busy writing a reminder in my planner, trying not to ogle his legs. He’s here for math help, and I’m here to teach him. That’s all.

  Besides, Sebastian said I wasn’t his type. And I said the same. My romantic relationships are few and far between. And anyway, I tend to go for the quiet, introverted guys. The ones who are nerds like me. It’s easy to build a relationship on common interests. Aside from math help, Sebastian and I have nothing in common. We come from completely different worlds. I’m happy to look at him all day, but that’s all.

  “Yeah?”

  He stares out my tiny window, thinking. My heart booms an obnoxious unsteady rhythm that migrates to my temples. I wait.

  “Our first game is this Friday. I was thinking maybe you’d like to come and watch.”

  At first, I think it’s a joke, but he waits for my answer, utterly patient and unfazed. Unlike me. “Why?” I can’t keep the disbelief off my face.

  He shrugs. “You’re helping me with tutoring. I figure this is one way I can return the favor.”

  I’m frowning. That’s tr
ue, but— “I’m being paid to tutor you, though.”

  He waves his hand, as if that doesn’t matter. To him, maybe it doesn’t. I don’t know if it matters to me. “I can get you good seats. So, is it a yes or no?”

  I’m blindsided by his offer. It’s generous, but also, I could care less about sports. What do I really know of the guy aside from his soccer talent? And that he has three brothers. And he’s filthy rich.

  All right, so maybe I know a little more about him than I thought.

  To lighten the mood, and to neutralize the odd tension in the room, I say, “Let me guess. You want to prove to me how good you are on the field.”

  My teasing catches him off guard, and his eyes brighten. “Sure.” A slow, easy grin takes up his face, his teeth beautifully white and straight. I realize I’m staring, so I turn to my computer to make it seem like I have something important to do.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  As he walks out the door, he calls back, “Game starts at seven. See you then.”

  Chapter 9

  Sebastian

  “Dumont!” Coach bellows my name just as I ram into the left mid-fielder, Jason, like a freight train.

  He stumbles, but doesn’t fall, and the ball that was intended for him keeps going, right into the other scrimmage team’s possession. His glare is hot enough to sear the skin off my face.

  Never taking my eyes off him and his beady little eyes, I slowly walk backward before turning and heading over to Coach, who stands near the bench with his clipboard, chewing a piece of gum. “Yeah, Coach?”

  He smacks his gum. Gives me a considering look. “You want to tell me what that was about?” He waves toward where Jason works the kinks out of his back.

  I shrug. “You saw it for yourself. Jason tried to steal the ball out from under me. I can’t help it if he plants himself directly in my path.” That’s not really what happened. Earlier in the scrimmage, Jason, who’s on the same team as me, tried to trip me because I got to a pass before him. He didn’t like that. So I decided to return the favor.

  “I see.” The pause stretches, and I shift my weight, feeling as if a storm is brewing on the horizon. “You want to know what I saw?”

  His tone makes me stop and consider my words before I speak. This isn’t my teammate. I can’t backtalk him unless I want to run circuits until my legs fall off. Either that, or I get benched. Coach Wheeler may be a hard ass, but there’s a reason he’s one of the most sought-after collegiate soccer coaches in the United States. Simply put, he’s one of the best.

  “What did you see?” I ask politely.

  He huffs a breath. “I saw you steal the ball from Jason when it was clearly intended for him. I saw your ego get too big for your head. In the process, you could have seriously injured teammate, and you stopped a potential goal from happening.” His eyes are cold as they rest on me. The hair on the back of my neck sticks straight up. Angry Coach is a scary motherfucker. I feel like a child.

  It’s probably safest to play dumb in this particular situation. Did I know the ball was intended for Jason? Yes. Did I care? No. You don’t get things in life by asking. You get things in life by taking. Do you think my father became a billionaire by spreading kindness? No. He saw weakness, and he exploited it.

  “Sorry, Coach. I guess I didn’t see Jason there.” That’s impossible, considering the guy is six and a half feet tall and built like a line-backer. My smile, however, is properly apologetic. “Can I get back to the scrimmage now?”

  He grunts. I take that as a yes.

  “It’s not about you, Sebastian,” Coach calls to my back as I jog to my placements on the field.

  Yes, I think. It is.

  Jason looks more than pleased when I return to center field. “Couch gave you a little scolding?”

  I snort a laugh, giving him my best yeah right look. “Dude, I was completely open. You just didn’t want me stealing your thunder.”

  A muscle jumps in my teammate’s jaw, and his eyes darken. We stare at one another for a stretch of time. I’m no longer aware of the field or my surroundings, or the rest of the guys as they gather around us. It’s only when I feel a hand on my arm jerking me back that I come to my senses. Meanwhile, Kellan hauls me a safe distance away, where I’m not in reach of Jason’s fists.

  “Why do you always do this?” he snaps, shoving me away and putting his hands on his hips. “Can’t you keep your dumb mouth shut for five seconds, or is that impossible?”

  “Jason was the one who tried to trip me earlier.”

  “Guess what, Seb? The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

  “It does on the soccer field.”

  He tosses up his hands and strides a few paces away before returning, jaw locked in obvious irritation. Out of all our siblings, I’m probably the most difficult to deal with. It’s nothing new, and usually I enjoy getting my brothers worked up, but this time it feels like I’m actually screwing up something major, and it creates a pit of fear in my gut. My teammates are huddled around Max, discussing something among themselves. The sight sends a twinge through me. They all work as a team, yet I’m apart. The only person willing to deal with me is my brother, and that’s just sad.

  The thought is like a mosquito that won’t mind its own fucking business. I brush the thought away, and after a few seconds, the feeling of unsatisfaction fades. I remind myself that I don’t need a team, but they need me. I’m the one who will lead them to the National Championship. I’m the one who has the news stations following our season before it’s even begun. Me. Sebastian Dumont. Not Max. Not even Kellan, as much as I love him. I’ve always been the top contender.

  My eyes return to the team again. Kellan cuts off my view, brushing sweat from his brow with his forearm, but before I can snap at him to move, I catch sight of his expression. It’s the worry that makes my words dry up. “What?”

  He rubs at the skin of his temples, then runs a rough hand through his hair. “You know, Seb, at some point you’re going to have to check your attitude. We’ve been here two weeks and you still haven’t apologized to the team for your rude behavior. It’s every practice. You treat them like they’re here to serve you. But guess what? We’re a team. That’s why we play soccer, right? To be a part of something bigger than ourselves?”

  Maybe Kellan does. I do it for the glory.

  He goes on, “But we won’t play like one unless we start getting along.”

  He speaks as if it’s my fault I don’t get along with the other guys. If they would pass me the ball and let me do my thing, I wouldn’t have a problem. It’s the jealousy I’m fighting. They want to be me, and who could blame them? Four pro teams have already offered me contracts for their starting offense. A few others have contracts as well, but it’s one, maybe two. They aren’t the best.

  “What do you want me to do, Kellan?” I drop my hands, feeling like I’m one slip away from reaching the end of my rope. Two weeks and I’m ready to walk off the field, walk away from this team. This has never happened before in all my years of competitive soccer. Ever. So is it me, or is it them, or a combination of both? Something has to give.

  As much as I hate to admit it, my brother is right. If we want to win championships, we need to start working as a team. If we don’t and our ranking slips, what then? Would the pro teams still want a starting striker from a second-rate team?

  The thought spears fear into my heart. I’m not going to let a bunch of assholes keep me from my career. For now, I push my anger and frustration aside and instead focus on a solution.

  Kellan looks exasperated. “Well, for one, you can stop acting like everyone on this team owes you something.”

  His words stop me. Those are the exact same words Aidan said to me at our tutoring session this week.

  I glance away. It’s sweltering. Soon though, the air will cool with the coming fall. It off
ers me a brief reprieve, yet the anger returns. Again, I shove it down. Now isn’t the time. “What else?” I say.

  “Er—” He sounds surprised, as if he didn’t expect me to concede that easily. Perhaps he’s right. “You can, you know, help break down practice. Usually you leave beforehand.”

  “No, I—”

  “Yes,” he says over my voice, “you do.”

  All right. Maybe I do, but it’s only because otherwise I’d be subjecting myself to more time being glared at or talked about behind my back.

  “And you can start to build trust with some of the guys.”

  “How the hell do I do that? They don’t trust me.”

  “You don’t trust them either,” he counters. “Come out with us after the game on Friday. Everyone is invited. We’ll drink and it might be easier talking with them when alcohol is involved.” Before I can respond, he claps me on the back. “No need to answer now. Just think about it.”

  Chapter 10

  Aidan

  I’ve decided I have a death wish. A more logical explanation is that I’m dreaming, trapped in a nightmare, most likely. A collegiate men’s soccer game is everything I hate rolled up into one monstrous event. Yet I’m here. Why? Was I compelled? Brainwashed? I don’t understand it.

  My ears feel like they’re bleeding as I ascend the steps to the bleachers, searching for my seat on my ticket. Thousands of people fill the stands, and they sport Notre Dame’s blue and gold spirit colors. Blazing gold shirts and vests. Sparkly blue hats and long socks. Checkered and striped pants. Bandanas and plenty of shirtless men—and even some women—sporting body paint with the words Go Team or Wreck Them. It’s hard for a guy like me, who has never attended a major sporting event in my life, to be swept up in the chaos of it all.

 

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