Your Tutor

Chapter Seventeen

—
Forest Brooks
—

I'm watching number forty-two skate across the ice, headed straight towards Seb. Before what's happening is even processing through my head, I'm chasing after him.

Their team made none of their penalty shots—thanks to my amazing goalie, Sebastian—and by now, they're all pretty pissed. He shoves Seb, knocking him straight to the ground before gripping his stick and skating away.

I'm instantly on it, though. I have a role as a captain and centerman, and nobody is going to fuck with my team.

"Brooks! Brooks!"

That was Mackai's voice, but I'd already slammed the guy on his ass. "What the fuck!" I shout, hovering over him. "It doesn't feel good does it, fucker?"

Most everyone, both my team and the opposing team, are crowded around number forty-two. I'm being pushed, Mackai is being pushed, Xavier, too. I'm shoving back roughly, but once I catch a glimpse of Seb, I'm switching gears.

I'm sliding out of the group and over to Sebastian.

He's laying flat on his back, shifting uncomfortably as he grunts and groans.

I kneel next to him, look at his closed eyes through his shield. "You okay?" I ask, scanning the rest of his body. Physically, he looks fine.

"Yeah," he mumbles, voice strained. "Knocked the wind out of me. Holy fuck."

Coach finally makes it over, while the refs rush to the violent huddle. "You alright?" he asks, getting the same position as me. "Where does it hurt?"

Seb rolls onto his right hand, propping himself up. "No, it doesn't hurt." His breathing is still ragged, and he's hunched over. "Damn. He should be a fucking linebacker," he chuckles breathlessly. "Playing the wrong sport, dude."

I push a hand on his back, prompting him to straighten up. "Breathe deep and slow. Sitting up makes it easier," I say.

I've been checked my fair share of times. At this point, I know all the steps to breathe right.

He listens, straightening up. And after a while, he's being pulled from the floor by Coach and I. "You good?" I ask, one more time.

Seb nods. "Yeah. Better than fuckin' ever."

—
Maylee Lych
—

A hand brushes my cheek, horrifying me out of my slumber. It was gentle, so gentle, but I was in the midst of a dream about my dad, and the touch ended up resembling his.

My eyes snap open, and I shy away. "What are you doing here?" I ask, rolling over onto my stomach and shutting my eyes again. That scared the living hell out of me.

Ja'lyn climbs over me, laying on my right side. "You're sleeping," he says.

"I was."

"It's only six." He lays his head on my back.

I groan. "You can tell time—good for you."

He rolls closer to me, popping my personal bubble. "What's wrong, B?" He asks. Ja'lyn kisses my temple, pushing his face to mine. "I want you to talk to me."

"I'm tired."

"Can I bribe you with food?" he asks, his tone lightening.

"I'm not hungry."

Ja'lyn sighs, sitting up. "Maylee. Are you okay?"

The question was genuine, coming off with the most caring tone. I realize I'm probably scaring him. Lack of appetite, drowsiness, moodiness. All my tell-tell signs that I'm slipping back into that depression hole again. But I'm just tired. When I'm tired and just wake up, I'm not hungry. And since I'm so sleepy, I have an attitude. I hate being woken up, whether he had good intentions or not.