Sebastian (The Dumonts Book 1)

by Mackenzie Gray

  Without realizing it, I peek again at the soccer player. He’s standing near the table with his teammates, yet they aren’t making any effort to welcome him. Statistically, the likelihood of him having offended them based on what I now know of his personality is pretty high.

  “All right everyone, we’re going to start tonight’s trivia,” the host announces over the microphone, the guy’s deep voice booming against the forest green walls and ringing against the glass light fixtures. The other groups talk excitedly or getting their papers and pencils organized. Some trivia teams are regulars, hitting up all the trivia spots in town. They win multiple times a week. It’s irritating, to be honest. Trivia isn’t fun if you never get to win or feel like you don’t have the chance.

  Just as the host asks the first question, I watch Sebastian turn and stride toward our table with a determined stride. And now I can’t help but watch him, wondering why he’s approaching. Is he trying to sway my opinion on his dirty under-the-table deal? Maybe he thinks he can buy me off by increasing the price. Will he offer me fifteen thousand dollars for a passing grade? Twenty? Hm. I mean, twenty grand is a lot of money. Would it be worth the risk of expulsion from Notre Dame, the stripping of my titles, for a little extra cash? Probably not. My career is too important for me to risk. I’ll just continue on as a starving grad student.

  When he reaches our table, my friends study him, some hostile, some with keen interest. I keep my expression aloof.

  The uncertainty I saw in him when he walked into the room is gone. He flashes his teeth at me in a roguish grin. “Hey, Tutor.”

  Clary snorts into her drink. Michael bares his teeth in warning, which Sebastian fully ignores. Lila stares at his ass. I suspect she has tunnel vision, as my exasperated look doesn’t register with her.

  “Hi,” I say warily. From over his shoulder, I notice his teammates observing our meeting with loose grins and too-loud laughter. It feels like a joke. A dirty prank. I’m not falling for it.

  “Got room for one more?” he asks, slipping his hands into his short pockets.

  “Sure,” Lila chirps before I can respond, snagging a nearby chair and dragging it over so it’s placed between her and me.

  I’m still gaping when he sits down. He’s so close that I smell his woodsy aftershave and feel the heat of his muscular thigh as it touches mine through my jeans. “Actually,” I stammer out, “I think y-your teammates are wondering where you are. It’s probably best if y-you go back to their table.” Ugh. The stammer is back. The guy makes me nervous. I’m starting to sweat.

  Bless his heart, but Michael nods along. He was the first person I told the dirty dealings story to. “That’s probably for the best,” he agrees in a hard voice. His stony expression doesn’t waver, even when Clary elbows him in the side, telling him to be nice.

  Sebastian doesn’t pay Michael any attention. This doesn’t surprise me. Instead, he keeps his gaze steady on me. This close, I realize his eyes aren’t quite hazel-brown as I first thought, but edging on a pale green color that reminds me of spring. He waits, then says, “I’m more interested in what Aidan has to say.”

  That he remembered my name is another surprise. I assumed he hadn’t retained it, didn’t care enough to. “Sorry,” I say. “We’re full.” And anyway, I doubt Sebastian would be able to help us with any of the questions anyway. We purposely come to trivia at Mulligan’s because they’re on the more difficult side.

  The host’s voice fills the room again. “Second question. In what city was the 1976 Summer Olympics held?”

  The other three confer for a few seconds before writing it down on the piece of paper. Sebastian casually glances over at the answer, and Michaels scowls as he covers it with his hand. “That’s cheating.”

  Sebastian looks amused. “I’m not playing for their team. And anyway, the answer is wrong.”

  Michaels, on the other hand, looks like he’s going to burst a blood vessel in his eye. “It damn well is right. Anyway, what would you know?” He chuckles as he sips from his beer. “The only thing you know how to do is buy off your professors and kick a ball down a field.”

  Next to me, I feel Sebastian shift. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on the table, his eyes cold, his face perfectly carved in profile, and says in an icy tone, “And I’m damn good at it, too.”

  The two stare down one another.

  With an uncertain look at the paper slip, Clary says, “Maybe we should go with his answer. He plays a sport—”

  “It’s not the right answer,” Michael snaps with a glare at Sebastian. There’s no point in telling my friend he’s wasting his ire. Nothing seems to faze Sebastian. If anything, the fact that Michael is getting so worked up amuses him greatly. “The 1976 Summer Olympic Games were held in Munich.” He stomps over to hand the answer to the host.

  Sebastian’s chest pushes against the cotton of his shirt as he sighs. “Your friend got the answer wrong.”

  “What is the answer?” I ask.

  He lowers his voice so the other tables can’t hear. “Montreal.”

  Sure enough, the host says, right as Michael returns to his seat, “The 1976 Summer Olympic Games were held in… Montreal, Canada.”

  With a smug look, Sebastian shrugs and pushes away from the table. “The 1972 Summer Olympics took place in Munich, just an FYI. This is probably for the best. I like playing for the winning team anyway.”

  He takes a step away before I grab his arm. “Wait.”

  At my touch, he lifts his eyebrows. I hold his gaze even though I feel a really strong urge to look elsewhere. His gaze is too keen, dripping in arrogance. He’s too attractive to look at without wanting to turn away for a reprieve.

  But I don’t say anything. Instead, I give a questioning glance to the rest of the table. We came here to win because we’ve never actually won a game of trivia before. We’re all wearing our lucky shirts, but the thing is, statistically, luck doesn’t come out of nowhere. It’s made by using the best odds possible. Seems to me that adding Sebastian to our team increases those odds.

  Both Clary and Lila are interested in him joining us. There’s no need to ask. I can tell by their lingering eyes. It’s Michael who appears as if he’s swallowed a bowl of lemons.

  He jerks his chin. “Whatever,” he mutters.

  The announcer says, “Third question. In what year was the World Cup expanded to 32 teams?”

  Sebastian watches Lila and Clary, who are whispering furiously under their breath. Clary, I know, played soccer as a kid, but I’m not sure how much she knows about its history. I’m at a loss. I know nothing about sports. Michael, I suspect, knows nothing either but doesn’t want to show he’s clueless in front of Sebastian.

  After a few tense seconds, everyone looks at Sebastian in barely veiled hope. He only smiles and returns to his seat. “Let’s go, team. We’ve got a game to win.”

  Chapter 7

  Sebastian

  Fifteen rounds later, The Limit Does Not Exist trails in second place by only one point. Sebastian, surprisingly, is a useful person to have on our team. His knowledge of sports comes in handy the most, but he also knows a fair amount about current events, history, and classic literature. Michael, who was caustic toward him an hour ago, has softened and now looks to him first for answers. The last time got this far was last semester, and I think that was because there were only two other teams and they were too drunk to pay much attention to the questions. In the end, we still lost.

  Now Sebastian chats with Clary about Europe. I half listen to their conversation as I nurse my beer. I’m due for a second one soon. Everyone else is already on their third tankard, but I’m not much of a drinker. I do it to socialize, but very rarely do I get multiple drinks because drinking is expensive and my budget is minimal.

  The trivia host announces, “Next question folks. What is the scientific name for the American black bear?
”

  I look to Sebastian first, as does everyone else. He breaks off his conversation with Clary to think. Color rises high in his cheeks, and his eyes are bright with drink. He’s on his fourth tankard, I believe. He offers a slow smile of beautiful, straight white teeth. I try not to stare. It’s unfair how attractive he is.

  “I’m not certain of this one,” he says, a line forming between his eyebrows. “Give me another minute to think.”

  With that, I finish the last of my drink. “Going to get another beer,” I tell the table. “Anyone want anything?”

  “I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay,” Lila says with a loopy smile.

  I smile at her and head for the bar.

  With the sheer number of people squeezed into the establishment, it takes a while for a spot to open up at the bar. I snag an empty stool before anyone else can and wait for the bartender to finish pouring drinks.

  Let me tell you, grad students really know how to cut loose. Sitting in front of our computers all day, going through research papers, dealing with undergrads who care nothing for the material we give them, all working overtime for a stipend that barely covers our bills—we are saints. I’m a member of the Graduated Assistant Council, where we fight for rights and fair pay. Last year Notre Dame agreed to increase the semester stipend, but barely. The school can afford it. They rake in billions of dollars, especially where the sports teams are concerned. But do you see that money trickling down? No. It stays with sports. That’s how it’s always been. And yet other people are doing cutting-edge research for the good of humanity. It’s extremely unbalanced.

  I glance at the TV briefly. A game is on, so I turn my attention elsewhere. Sometimes Mulligan plays black and white movies, but not tonight.

  “Hey.”

  Turning, I see Sebastian has placed himself at my side, staring at the soccer game playing on the TV screen. I offer him a brief nod. “Who’s playing?” Not that I care. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m being so polite after he tried to take advantage of my goodwill.

  “UCLA and Washington State.” The light highlights the tips of his curly hair and bleaches his white shirt even whiter. “UCLA just lost their first-string goalie due to injury, so everyone is curious as to how the back-up goalie will do. So far so good. Burns will be out for six months at least. Broken leg.”

  “Ah.” That was a vague enough response, I decided. Could be interpreted as interested. Or not. I’m only here because I’m waiting to order my drink, not to make small talk. I’m still unsure if I’m going to be tutoring him. It’s not up to me. He has to decide if he wants to move forward with making decent grades in an honest way. But maybe he won’t show and I’ll be let off the hook. I get paid whether he shows up or not. It’s in my contract.

  The bartender is busy mixing drinks for a group at the end of the bar. They arrived before me, so I figure it will be another few minutes. I focus on watching the bartender work and try to ignore the heat from where Sebastian’s arm presses against mine. I know he can’t help it—the place is stuffed to the rafters. But it’s still uncomfortable.

  “Your girlfriend is pretty chill,” Sebastian says, lifting a hand to wave the bartender over. And even though other people have been waiting before him, the man comes over to get Sebastian’s order. My best guess is that he smells of money so is likely to give a larger tip. Everyone else will have to wait.

  It must be the alcohol, because it takes a moment before his words sink in. “My girlfriend?”

  He turns toward me, his posture relaxed, one arm resting on the bar as he takes me in, searching my face. “Yeah. Lila.”

  Oh. Amusement makes my mouth curl, a small laugh slipping out. “No.” I wave my hand as if batting away a fly. “She’s not my girlfriend. I’m gay.”

  His eyes sharpen on my face. It’s a subtle thing, but my body takes notice, and I go still beneath the warm hazel-brown of his eyes. “Really? I wouldn’t have pinned you as gay.”

  “Are you supposed to look a certain way to be attracted to men?” I counter, unsure as to why that annoys me. Maybe the man in general annoys me. He could afford to learn more tact where his conversational skills are concerned.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Are you?” He gestures to himself. “Is this what a gay man looks like?”

  The comment puts my back up. It feels like he’s mocking me. “Real mature, shitting on other peoples’ sexuality.” I turn my body so I won’t have to look at him. At least trivia is almost over so it won’t be long before I don’t have to see him ever again. I’ll have a talk with Dr. Jax. I said before I would be willing to continue the tutoring, but not if Sebastian’s a homophobic asshole.

  His hand claps onto my shoulder, and he bodily turns me around. I feel the strength in his hand and arm. At first glance, I would say Sebastian weighs around one hundred and eighty pounds. I weigh one fifty on a good day. Same height, different builds.

  “That wasn’t a slur,” he says, a frown pushing his eyebrows together as the bartender sets down his drink and gets to work on mine. “I said that because I’m gay, too.”

  If he’d told me aliens were invading Earth tomorrow, I might have believed that more than his statement. This lethally attractive soccer star is attracted to men?

  “Okay, now you’re just being an asshole,” I say. “A bigger asshole,” I commend, considering he was already an asshole in my book.

  He shrugs. “It’s the truth.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” That cocky smile makes an appearance. “But don’t worry. You’re not my type. Not even close.”

  I’m not even mad about that. “That’s a relief. You’re not my type either.”

  “Tall, well-groomed, talented, attractive?” He downs half his drink in one gulp, and I can’t help but watch his strong throat work. I wait for the spark of heat in my belly. Nope. Nothing.

  “Arrogant, self-absorbed, entitled,” I toss back, not breaking a sweat.

  He gives me a closed-mouthed smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course.”

  “Well, if this conversation is over—” I start to move away from the bar with my drinks when he snags my arm. When I look back at him with a flat gaze, I find remorse in his eyes.

  “Wait,” he says, taking a breath. “I came over here because I wanted to apologize.”

  All I do is stare. I’m almost positive that’s a joke. Maybe he told his team about our tutoring encounter and they’re waiting for him to trick me in a horrible prank. A glance at his teammates show they’re lost in their own conversations. No one even glances our way.

  “You want to apologize,” I repeat, to make sure I heard him right.

  Sebastian nods, for the first time looking uncomfortable. “About the other day—I’m sorry for the things I said, and for what I did. You were right to judge me. But you were wrong about the reason. It’s not because I’m lazy. It’s because—” His mouth flattens. “It’s because I don’t understand math. I never have, especially calculus. The private tutors I had in the past were tempted enough by money to give me the grades and let it slide.”

  What he’s telling me is rather frightening. “Are you saying you’ve never done any math work?”

  “Not since middle school probably. In high school, I was already on track to go pro. I didn’t have time for homework since most of my free time was spent practicing.” He shrugs. “The tutors did my work for me.”

  For someone whose future relies on academic output, the thought of Sebastian squeezing by without having to worry about that really grates me. It’s not his fault, I know. His path is soccer, athletics. Notre Dame pays him to play, and in the process, he leaves with a degree. On the other hand, for my undergrad degree, I had to pay to attend school like the majority of the student population. I’m getting paid now for research, but it’s not even close to the value the school gets from him.

/>   I say, “You were assigned a tutor to help you, you know.” By which I mean me.

  “I know.” He doesn’t meet my eye.

  After a moment of thought, I ask, “Do you want a tutor? If you don’t then that’s fine. If you still want me to help you, I will, but I’m not going to put up with your attitude, and I’m not going to be bought out. You have to earn the grades like everyone else. You have to put in the work.”

  Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Right, and I’m going to do that with what time? If I’m not in class, I’m at practice. If I’m not at practice, I’m eating or sleeping.”

  “Sounds like a bunch of excuses to me.”

  His jaw works. He glowers at me. “You don’t understand. I’m sure your schedule is a breeze.”

  Oh, that makes me laugh. This guy thinks too highly of himself. I’m already rethinking the decision to tutor him. What will most likely happen is that I slam my computer over his head. That wouldn’t be great for school publicity.

  “Let me tell you something, Mr. Dumont.” His eyebrows lift at my use of his last name. “You know nothing about what it takes to succeed in academia. My schedule is twice as hectic as yours—on a good day. Not only am I acting as a teacher to students like you who want to slide by in life, but I have to take time out of my day to grade papers, outline lesson plans, conduct my own research, write papers or publications, travel to conventions. I eat in the fifteen minutes I have between classes. I sleep less than four hours a night because I have deadlines to make and there’s no time in the normal day to work on my thesis. As such, I have no patience for people like you.”

  “People like me?”

  “People who don’t care.” It’s a relief to get this off my chest. To his credit, he listens the entire time, albeit with an insufferable smirk. “If you want me to tutor you, you will do as I say. You will show up on time to every session. You will work outside of our sessions to improve. If you don’t understand something, I expect you to ask. But most of all, I expect you to treat me with respect. Because the next time you shit on me or my work or try to take advantage of me, you’re out. You can flunk your class. Get kicked off the team. But you will not be my problem anymore.”