Sebastian (The Dumonts Book 1) Read online

  The campus is huge. It’s nothing like Oxford, which had a smaller student population, less buildings, and an intimacy that I can tell I’m not going to get here. That was honestly what I liked most about European schooling. I liked that I knew many students by face, if not name. It’s a lot easier to make friends when you’re constantly passing the same people, going to the same coffee shop. Although I wasn’t friends with my teammates much, I managed to find a few friends through day-to-day routine activities. Hopefully my teammates are open to newcomers. Everything will be fine so long as they aren’t assholes.

  After parking in the students parking lot, I head to the field at a jog, trying to find the entrance. The bleachers rise up on one side, and the sun is hot as hell. Another thing I miss about England, and I haven’t even been gone for three days: less humidity.

  When I reach the field, everyone is already doing laps. It’s my first time at the field, and I have to say, I’m impressed. It’s a decent athletic facility for a top United States collegiate team. The smell of freshly cut grass fills my senses. Nice.

  My eyes seek out the coach. I can’t see him, but maybe he hasn’t shown up yet. Maybe he’s late. That would be convenient.

  After dropping my bag on one of the lower bleachers with the other bags and water bottles, I begin stretching on the sidelines, the earth soft and green and vibrant under my cleats, the smell of soil making my heart race with wanting to tear down the field and line up a shot. Before submitting my acceptance to Notre Dame, I did some research on the coach, the team. The players are excellent. The other forwards are some of the best I’ve seen, and I know many are heading off to the pros following graduation. They’ve already signed the contracts and everything. But none of them is as good as me.

  I say that as a fact. You can look up individual players’ stats online. It’s pretty convenient. I’ve scored more goals, had more assists, than any other player on this team, although the captain comes at a close second. When it comes to defense, Kellan is also number one. Just because we were born privileged, doesn’t mean we don’t know how to work our asses off. Kellan and I, we worked harder than anyone growing up. When everyone went home from the practice fields, we stayed hours longer, and it shows. Some people might find my attitude arrogant, but that’s only because I speak the truth.

  “Sebastian Dumont,” comes a deep voice from behind me.

  I turn. This is Coach Grant Wheeler. His tanned face bears many fine lines around his eyes and mouth from a lifetime spent in the sun. Pro defenseman for the US National Team for almost nine years before a slide tackle broke his leg in three places. A shitty hand to be dealt, as he was one of the best the world had ever seen. He retired after that. Never went back to playing, but I suspect that was partially due to the pain of injury. When something breaks, it can never be put together as it once was. There will always be a weakness to it.

  “Yes, sir.” I dip my head.

  “You’re late.”

  I open my mouth, close it. It’s true, but it’s only my first day. Can’t he cut a guy some slack?

  At Oxford, all my professors knew that when I decided to do my work, I worked hard. They let my lack of punctuality slide. For soccer practice, I showed up on time—most days. But sometimes I partied a little too hard and the effects lingered the next day, sometimes well into the afternoon. Our coach just rolled his eyes. My drinking wasn’t exactly a secret among them. Following the games we always went out for a drink at the local pub. For me, I could never stop with one beer. It was at least three in my case.

  “Nice to meet you too, Coach Wheeler,” I reply with a too-wide smile. It works on most people. My parents didn’t spend thousands of dollars on braces and teeth whitening for nothing. “Don’t worry about the lateness. It’s cool.”

  “It’s cool?” He says the words slow, like he doesn’t speak the language, and scrutinizes me with a careful eye. “Are you, a player, telling me, the coach, that it’s cool?”

  “It was ten minutes. Look they’re warming up anyway.” With a wave of my hand, I indicate where the guys start to set up for drills. Well, I technically missed the warm-up laps, but I figure I’ll make up for it during practice. A hot breeze briefly cools the sweat dotting on my brow.

  His eyes darken, and I realize my first mistake. I misread the man. Coach Wheeler is a scary motherfucker.

  “Coach.” A guy with shaggy brown hair pulled back with a headband jogs over, sweat dripping down his warm brown skin. His arms are bare and muscular, which I allow myself to appreciate for half a second before I take in the guy’s face. He has the brightest green eyes I’ve ever seen. I wipe my mouth to make sure I’m not drooling. This guy is stunning and it would be just my luck that he’s straight.

  He shoots me a curious glance before turning back to the coach. “You mentioned you wanted to switch things up today?”

  That’s when the guy glances down, and his eyebrows shoot upward, the ends of his mouth tugging upward. “Nice socks.”

  I give him my best shit-eating grin. “Thanks.”

  Did I mention that my lucky socks are bright yellow with penises on them?

  What can I say? I love cocks. Cocks on socks. Cock socks.

  It’s not something I hide from. I am who I am, and I love who I love. Actually, I was the first out of all my brothers to come out. At first, my parents had difficulties accepting my sexual orientation, but they eventually came around after Kellan came out. And then Noah. Maverick is straight as far as I know, but it’s a running joke among us that we’ll coax him over to the dark side eventually. Kellan was dating a guy in Oxford for a few months last year. The guy was cute, but not my type. Too quiet, too nerdy. A little on the skinny side, too.

  Despite this, when you’re in the minority, I like to stay cautious. Notre Dame is a new school, with new culture, and I don’t know how receptive my teammates would be learning that I swing for the other team. Back in England, my mates were pretty open about it. There was another player who was bi on the team, and we had a halfway decent friendship with that commonality. Indiana as a state leans pretty conservatively, so you never know. I’ll feel it out for how they act, and when the time is right, let them know. In the meantime, it’s none of their business who I date.

  Coach says, “Work on some passing drills, Max. I’ll be over in a minute.”

  When the beautiful man returns to the middle of the field, Coach Wheeler razes me with his cutting gaze. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

  He takes a step closer. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Dumont.” The man isn’t taller than me, but he’s wider, meaner, and he’s been coaching for a long time. This man, for better or worse, will guide me to a winning streak this season. “I’ve been coaching kids like you for over fifteen years. Kids who were born with silver spoons in their mouths, who have had everything given to them on a silver platter, who think their God-given talent means they’re irreplaceable. But here’s a secret you probably don’t know.” He leans closer conspiratorially and drops his voice to a whisper. “You’re all replaceable.”

  I stiffen at that. Out of the corner of my eye, the rest of the team works on passing drills. One of the guys stops and stares at me getting flayed alive. It’s Kellan. I can tell from his posture.

  “This is how it’s going to be,” he continues in that cold-as-ice tone. “You show up to practice on time. Every day. No excuses, no exceptions, unless you’re bleeding to death. You put in the work. You treat each player equally and with the same amount of decency and respect you expect from them. There are no favorites here. No one player is prioritized over the other. This is a team. Maybe you’ve forgotten what the definition means. But you’ll learn.”

  The longer he speaks, the hotter my face burns. Suddenly, it’s not just Kellan’s attention I fell, but the entire team as they pause their drills to watch Coach rip me a new one. It’s a bunch of bullshit. I didn’t
come here to be treated this way. With the rest of the team watching me, it will give them fodder to test my boundaries, as is the way of college soccer. They don’t realize it now, but they need me.

  I give a disbelieving, scathing laugh. The sun is baking me from head to toe. No way am I going to let someone talk to me this way. I don’t care if he is my coach. He’s an ass. “Are you serious right now? If I’m replaceable, then why the hell are you paying me in scholarship—which I don’t even need—to attend your stupid hick school?” Stepping forward, I crowd his space. He’s gone a step too far and pissed me off. “It’s because your team needs a miracle, and that miracle is named Sebastian Dumont.”

  I know I’ve gone too far when his face grows splotchy and he barks, “Ten circuits around the field. Now.”

  “What the fuck!” I shout, tossing up my hands. The entire team has abandoned practice. They all watch.

  His smile is cold. “On second thought, make it twenty.”

  Chapter 4

  Aidan

  It’s my first tutoring session with the soccer player, and he’s late. Five or ten minutes I can forgive, but thirty minutes? I’m sorry, but that’s just unacceptable in my book. Not only is it rude and disrespectable, but it wastes my time when I could have spent the last half hour working on next week’s lesson plans. My free time is slim enough. If I even have five minutes free I hoard it for all it’s worth.

  I’m about ready to leave my office, but before I do I begin drafting an email to Dr. Jax, explaining what happened with the student. Moments later, someone knocks on my open door, and I glance up, assuming it’s a student from class coming to ask me a question.

  It’s a guy I’ve never seen before. The first thing I notice is his height. Tall, but not as tall as me. Maybe a few inches under six feet. He’s tan with hazel eyes and light brown curly hair streaked with gold. He wears clean, ironed clothes that scream wealth. His backpack hangs over one shoulder.

  Admittedly, he’s very attractive. I know a good-looking man when I see one. This one has a soft mouth that makes me curious what it would look like curved into a smile.

  “Are y-you Sebastian?” I ask, standing behind my desk. I wince as my stutter comes to the surface. For the most part, I can hide it, but when in the presence of people with, well, presence, it sometimes makes an appearance. Added to the fact that I only have space enough to scoot my chair back a few inches before it hits the wall, the last thing I want to do is look a fool.

  “I assume I’m in the right place,” he says by way of answer in a deep, cultured voice. He strolls in like he owns the place and accepts the hand I offer. His are wide of palm, firm, and strong, with faint calluses that scrape against my skin as he pulls away. He takes the seat across from my desk, and I sit as well.

  Where first impressions are concerned, he looks every inch a soccer player. Broad shoulders. His movements smooth and full of ease and an athleticism that’s been honed his entire life, no doubt.

  “Thank you for meeting with me,” I say, deciding to overlook his tardiness. We’ve wasted enough time as it is. Anyway, maybe something happened that held him up. I try to give people the benefit of the doubt, especially when I’ve never met them. I’m pretty type A and I realize not everyone is. It’s something I’ve had to work on accepting since going into teaching. “I figure we’ll discuss your needs for your studies and then start from there, if that works?” Leaning over the bookshelf in the corner, I grab a textbook and a notebook flip to a blank page. “So—”

  “Here’s the thing.” Leaning back in his chair, he rests that piercing gaze on me like he’s the man of the hour and I’ve come to pay him dues. One of his fingers drums against the arm of the chair. “We both know I’m not here because I want to be. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be here at all, but unfortunately, my coach is big on his players having decent grades. But unlike you, I’m not going to sit in front of a computer screen or write notes on boring shit that means nothing to me and that I’ll never utilize.”

  It’s hard not to take offense at that. My research is important to me. It’s the farthest thing from sitting in front of a computer screen. This is work I’m hoping will eventually get me a professorship. I know his type. He takes one look at a person and immediately deems them a loser geek who lacks a social life. Well, he’d be wrong about, um, some of that. I could definitely have more of a social life. But I’m here to work, and to get my PhD. I’m working toward what I want, just as he’s working toward what he wants. My work just happens to take place inside an office or classroom instead of outside on a soccer field.

  The jerk goes on, ratcheting my fury higher. “I’m guessing you’re getting a stipend for tutoring, since grad school doesn’t pay shit.” His eyebrows lift, as if he’s waiting for me to confirm this, even though we both know it’s the truth. “Here’s the thing.” Sebastian leans forward with his hands on his knees. Only the desk separates us. “My time is important. I can’t waste hours at math tutoring every week when I need to be sharpening my skills on the field. I’m sure you understand.” He ends this with a condescending smile.

  It makes me want to smack him. And I’m not normally a violent person.

  “So I propose an arrangement. A win-win for both of us. You’re friends with my math professor, right? All you have to do is change my grades. No one ever has to know. I get my A, and you get your money and time not having spent dealing with me.”

  I stare at him, not sure if he’s kidding or not. But that arrogant, smug smile remains, and I realize he’s serious. I imagine he uses that smile a lot to charm people. I hate that I’m a little dumbstruck by how pretty that smile is.

  This guy wants me to pass him simply for being a star player. A full minute passes in silence before I manage to speak. “Excuse me?”

  “What?” Now it’s he who looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “How much do you want? Three thousand?” He takes out his wallet before I have a chance to speak. “You drive a hard bargain, but consider it done.”

  As he opens his checkbook, I stay his hand, feeling a dull buzzing in my ears. “Are you... trying to buy me off?”

  He looks amused at this. “I like to call it cooperation,” he whispers. His voice deepens. “But whatever helps you sleep at night.”

  The deep timbre of his voice feels like warm hands stroking up my arms and back. I sit back, partially in surprise by how nice his voice is, but mostly in disgust. He actually thinks he can get out of work by buying me off? If that’s the case, he has another thing coming.

  “So how much?” he says again. “Three grand? Is that fair? I figure if you’re to tutor me two hours every week for the entire semester, that amounts to almost two hundred an hour. Seems generous, honestly. I don’t think any other professor at Notre Dame makes even close to that.” The way he speaks makes it sound like he knows he’s doing me a favor, and I’d be an idiot not to take him up on it.

  I don’t say anything. My brain is struggling to catch up.

  He must interpret my silence negatively though, because he frowns, uncertain for the first time. “Not enough? You’re after the big money, is it?” He shrugs. “Fine.” Then he pulls out a pen, the nib hovering over the check. “Five grand?” A pause. “All right. Ten grand to make this all go away, but I’m not going any higher.”

  And you know what that bastard does? He writes out a check to me for ten grand and slaps it onto my desk.

  I stare at it. Is this real life? Ten grand to give him a passing grade in his math class? That’s over three times more than what the department is paying me to tutor him. With that amount of money, I could probably quit my part-time job to focus on my studies. Or I could keep the job and put it all into savings. Maybe I could even travel for a week somewhere. My financial struggles would cease.

  His hand pauses over the name line. “What’s your name again?”

  That’s when I snap out of it.<
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  What the hell am I doing? I am someone with decent morals, values. And one of those values is hard work. Work ethic. Here sits a guy who’s been given anything he’s ever wanted since birth, who knows how to schmooze his way out of whatever he wants, who expects people to cater to him simply because, what, he has money? Because he’s a hot shot? I’m sorry, but I worked my ass off to get into this PhD program. Researching budgeting, spreadsheets, what have you. Maybe I’m not a soccer star whose future is already cemented, but academia is all I have, all I’m good at. And I’m not going to give this guy a passing grade just because he wants it. If he wants it badly enough, he’ll work for it.

  Sitting up taller in my chair, I say, in my flattest, coldest voice, “No.”

  Hid head snaps up. “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re not paying me to give you a passing grade.” My incredulous laugh sounds scratchy to my ears. I’ve heard of student-teacher bribery from other faculty members, but never did I think I’d experience it myself. “Let me break it down to you: do your own work.”

  Sebastian eases back in the rickety chair. His hand still rests on my desk, the check beneath it. “You’re turning down ten thousand dollars... over your morals?”

  The comment stings, but I don’t let it show on my face. He can think whatever he wants about me. At the end of the day, it’s not me who needs a passing grade in math. “Money fades. Your values don’t.”

  He frowns a little at that, then gets up from his seat and stuffs his checkbook into his backpack. “Wow. Maybe it’s better this way. Who wants a moron for a math tutor?”

  All right, that’s crossing the line. Unnecessary and rude, that’s what he is. “Please leave my office.” I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, a nervous habit. Sebastian is too much of a person inside this tiny room, and I want to talk to Dr. Jax. The sooner he leaves, the better.

  “My pleasure,” he bites out.

  Once he’s gone, I take a breath, needing a moment to steady myself. All I can think of is this: what a total and complete jackass.