You need a tutor

The silence after Carlos’s announcement stretched for what felt like forever. My fork hovered above my plate as the words sank in. Hawthorne. The rival school. Brad’s domain.

“What do you mean by Hawthorne?” I asked slowly, my voice low but steady. “Staying at Westfield has always been the plan. I can’t just change schools just because you want me to.”

Carlos’s face darkened instantly. He slammed his hands on the table, the silverware rattling loudly. The sound echoed through the dining room like a gunshot.

“What do you mean by that?” he growled. “I am your Father.”

I corrected him coolly, “Stepfather.”

Carlos’s eyes narrowed. He pointed sharply at my mother, his voice rising. “Just look at the son you’ve raised.”

“Sebastian, please calm down,” Mom tried to soothe, her hand reaching for mine across the table. Her voice trembled slightly, caught between us.

But Carlos wasn’t done. “Have you seen your grades lately? They’re slipping. I’m planning to bench you from the team if things don’t improve. And if you think hockey alone is going to get you that scholarship, you are damn wrong.” He gestured toward Brad with a proud tilt of his chin. “Just look at Brad. He balances everything perfectly—academics, sports, leadership. That’s what real excellence looks like.”

I laughed. It came out bitter and sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. This wasn’t about my grades or the scholarship. This was Carlos trying to prop Brad up and shove me into his mold. Make me another version of his perfect son.

“I don’t want to go to Hawthorne,” I said, enunciating each word slowly and deliberately. “I’ve built something real at Westfield. The team relies on me. I’m their captain.”

Carlos laughed too, but his was laced with anger and disbelief. “You have to go. Unless I cut your tuition support completely.”

I met his gaze without flinching. “I have a trust fund.”

Carlos leaned forward, a smug smile creeping onto his face. “A trust fund that is controlled by your mother—who supports my decision about Hawthorne. Right, dear?”

He turned to Mom, widening his eyes in expectation. She looked at him weakly, then shifted her gaze to me. Those familiar sorry eyes—eyes I’d seen too many times when she chose stability over standing up for us. My stomach twisted.

“Yeah… so I’m sorry, son,” she said softly, looking down at her plate, not daring to meet my eyes. “You have to go to Hawthorne. And it’s final.”

last. Even from the hallway, I could still hear Brad’s condescending voice drifting up from the dining room, laughing about something with his father, probably mocking the game or me. My blood boiled. The moment I closed my room door behind me, the full weight of the evening crashed down.

I wanted to punch something. Scream. Break the fancy lamp Mom had picked out for my “new beginning.” But I couldn’t vent.

Not in this house that still didn’t feel like mine. So I swallowed it all down, the bitterness burning like acid in my throat, and headed straight for the shower.

The hot water did little to wash away the frustration. I stood there, letting it pound against my shoulders until my skin turned red. When I finally stepped out and collapsed onto my bed in fresh clothes, I grabbed my phone and started scrolling mindlessly through I*******m, anything to distract myself. That’s when Mom opened the door again, slipping inside quietly.

“Honey,” she called out softly, her voice hesitant.

“What do you want, Mom?” I didn’t look up from my phone.

“I’m sorry. You know how Carlos can be sometimes.”

I finally lifted my gaze. She looked tired, standing there in the doorway with her arms wrapped around herself. For a second, guilt flickered in my chest, but it was quickly swallowed by anger.

“So, sacrificing my own happiness just to be your stepson’s rag doll is better?” I asked in a low voice “You always ask me to think about your happiness. How many times have you actually thought about mine? I don’t like it here, Mom. I don’t like living with that egoistic man.”

“Watch your tone, Sebastian,” she said, a hint of warning creeping in. “Carlos is trying to be a good dad.”

“A good dad to his own son,” I shot back. “Not to me.”

“Because you’re making it difficult.” She sighed, stepping closer. “And I know you’ve always longed for fatherly love. So please… just give him a chance.”

I remained quiet for a few long seconds, staring at the blue walls that still felt foreign.

“Mom… please leave me alone for a while.”

She exhaled heavily, looking like she wanted to say more, but eventually nodded and slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.

I slumped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. How do I even tell the team I’m leaving?

. Westfield had been my home, my battlefield, my escape. Now I was being shipped off to enemy territory.

Monday Morning

The weekend had passed in a blur of pap and avoiding Brad as much as possible. I’d finished the transfer procedures faster than expected. The last step was meeting the principal to get the final signature.

So here I was.

I stood at the entrance of Hawthorne High, backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at the impressive building that now felt like a lion’s den. Students streamed past me, some casting curious glances, others openly staring. Well, I knew I was decent-looking, but that wasn’t why they were looking. News traveled fast in high school circles—especially when it involved the rivalry between Hawthorne and Westfield captains suddenly becoming schoolmates.

I took a deep breath and walked in, head high. The hallways were alive with chatter, lockers slamming, and the usual Monday morning energy. A few girls smiled as I passed. Some guys sized me up, probably wondering if I’d cause drama. I ignored it all and made my way to the principal’s office, knocking firmly on the door.

“Come in,” a deep voice called from inside.

I opened the door and stepped into a neatly organized office. A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair sat behind a large desk, reviewing some documents. The nameplate confirmed it: Principal Hargrove.

“Hello, Mr. Principal,” I said politely.

“Ah, Sebastian Hale!” He looked up with a broad smile, standing to shake my hand. “The pride of Westfield finally joins Hawthorne. I’ve heard nothing but impressive things about your performance on the ice. Have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.” I pulled out the chair and sat down, trying to appear more confident than I felt.

Principal Hargrove leaned back, studying me with keen interest. “Your transfer was quite sudden, but we’re thrilled to have you. Hawthorne’s hockey program is one of the best in the state, as you know. With you and Brad Walker on the same side now… well, the sky’s the limit.”

I offered a small, tight smile. “I’m here to play my best and focus on my future, sir.”

"But we have just one problem, your grades are quite bad. You need a tutor."